"L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 06 - The White Order" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

He lifted the heavy bucket and turned back downhill, bare feet sure on the beaten clay path.
Once he slipped past the juniper barely his own height at the base of the trail, his eyes went
toward the south path.
A deep breath followed when he saw the distant figure of Syodor, still more than a kay away on
the lower part of the south path. Cerryl stepped up his pace, but slowly, so that the water
wouldn't slosh out of the bucket.
"Uncle Syodor's on the bottom of the south path now," he announced as he stepped into the
house.
"Cerryl... you took a time. Be not good woolgathering out in the twilight. The demons abide
then."
"I am sorry, Aunt Nail," he said dutifully, lugging the pail across the room to the hearth.
Without looking at Cerryl, she checked the biscuits in the baking tin before replacing the tin
sheet that served as a cover. "Bein' sorry like as not save you from bein' carried off."
"I got back before full dark."
"See as you do." She lifted the bucket and poured water into the gray crockery pitcher, then
set the bucket on the floor to the right of the hearth.
"Put the pitcher on the table."
Cerryl carried the pitcher from the worktable to the eating table.
Behind him, Nail lifted the lid on the cookpot, stirring the heavy soup with the long-handled
wooden spoon.
"Yes, Aunt Nail." Cerryl glanced at the corner where he had been sitting before he'd gotten the
water. Then he waited.
Shortly, the heavyset woman turned as the door squeaked.
"Evening, woman." The one-eyed and gray-haired man set the heavy iron hammer on the rough, one-
plank table inside the door and the patched canvas pack beside the table on the floor with a thud.
Dust puffed from the fabric, settling slowly toward the polished floor stones that had come from
an abandoned grinding mill.
"How was the day?" Nail replaced the tin cover on the ancient iron cookpot and stepped away
from the hearth composed of battered yellow and brown bricks.
"Better since I'm seeing you." Syodor laughed, moving toward his consort. He hugged Nail, the
gnarled and stubby fingers of his hands meeting for a moment before releasing her.
"Supper be a-waiting. The day?" Nail smiled, then bent and swung the iron arm and the cook pot
back out over the coals, ignoring the squeal of the ancient iron swivel bracket.
"The day be fine. One bit of malachite, looks to be solid, and mayhap Gister will pay a copper
for it. A fine pendant it would make for a lady, ground and polished."
"Aye, and he'll cut it and wrap it in two silvers and then sell it for a gold." Nail checked
the biscuit tin once more. "Best you wash up."
"Wash up ... that be all you think of, woman?"
"After all your grubbing through tailings and tunnels? Should I be thinking of aught else?"
Syodor turned and walked toward the pitcher and wash table in the corner on the far side of the
room from the hearth. "You as well, Cerryl."
"Right, lad," added Syodor with a grin.
Cerryl waited for Syodor, then washed his own hands with the heavy fat - and - ash soap,
rinsing them with the clean water from the pitcher.
His hands still damp, Cerryl sat down on the bench across from Syodor, his left side to the
fire.
Syodor lifted the crockery mug. "What have you done here?"
"Little enough," said Nail. "Arelta had some of the bitter brew. She said it wouldn't last. So
I brought it home."