"L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 05 - The Towers of the Sunset" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Creslin shrugs. "Given the Marshall, and given my sister Llyse, there probably isn't one. But
the succession isn't automatically hereditary. The guard captains can theoretically chose another
Marshall."
"Is that likely?"
"Now? Hardly. I suppose the tradition is a protection in case there should be a weak Marshall.
Those who live by the Legend hold to their strength."
Thrumm. A single note hums from the platform to the side of the high table, where sit three
musicians in bright-blue tunics and trousers. Two are men, one a woman. Each cradles a guitar, but
the three instruments vary in size and shape.
Creslin can see the faint golden-silver of that single note as it ascends toward the high, dark-
timbered ceiling.
"The guitarists from Sligo are supposed to be rather good," he ventures.
"Yes. Although that is like saying that Werlynn was good."
"Werlynn?"
"The music-master of South wind. Did you ever hear him? He spent some time at Westwind, they
say."
"More than one musician has spent time at Westwind. The Marshall is fond of music. I do not
recall a man named Werlynn."
"You might not. He disappeared somewhere in the snows of the Westhorns years ago. But the older
folk still mention him. He had silver hair like yours, and not many people do."
"That is true," Creslin responds, "and I may have heard him if he had silver hair. His notes
were true."
"True? That's an odd comment. Some time, perhaps you could explain."
While her words invite a comment, their tone is perfunctory and vaguely threatening, as if
discussing the trueness of notes were a subject better not mentioned at table. Creslin takes the
hint gratefully, for to explain would reveal too much, and to lie would hurt even more. Instead he
shifts his eyes to the guitarists as they begin to play.


V

AFTER WHAT SEEMS the hundredth look out the open casement windows at the formal gardens below
since his breakfast, Creslin snorts. "Enough is enough."
"Enough what?" asks Galen.
"I'm going out."
"Creslin! But the Marshall-"
"She didn't say I had to stay in one room. She said I had to stay out of trouble. Walking in
that garden down there isn't going to get me in trouble. It's entirely inside the palace."
"Let me at least get you a guide."
"I don't need a guide."
"Not for that reason. A guide will signify that you're a visitor."
"I'm leaving."
"It will take only a moment."
"A moment's about what you've got."
Galen scurries through the connecting door to the Marshall's suite, returning even before
Creslin finishes adjusting the formal sword-belt over the silksheen trousers that slither against


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