"Recluce - 09 - Colors Of Chaos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

I
 
Cerryl shifted his weight. He stood in the west corner of the small
second-level rampart of the guardhouse before the north gates to the
White City of Fairhaven. That was the only corner where the sun touched.
His white leather jacket was fastened all the way up to his neck, and
even with the heavy shirt and white wool tunic of a full mage underneath,
he was cold.
   He glanced out at the white granite highway that stretched north and,
just beyond where he could see, curved eastward toward Lydiar. As the day
had passed, it had warmed enough that his breath no longer formed a white
cloud, but the north wind still cut through his white woolen trousers.
His eyes went down to the armsmen in red-trimmed white tunics who stamped
their boots and walked back and forth in front of the gates, waiting for
travelers.
   The rumbling of another set of wheels-iron ones-on the stone alerted
Cerryl, and he looked up and out along the highway to study the
approaching vehicle, a high-sided wagon painted cyan and cream, escorted
by a full score of lancers in cyan livery, ten preceding and ten
following the wagon. Cyan was the color of the Duke of Lydiar.
   Cerryl couldn't help but wonder what was being conveyed to Fairhaven
with so many lancers: Chests of golds owed for road taxes? Trade goods
from the port at Lydiar as some sort of repayment? The ponderous approach
of the wagon and the four horses indicated the load was heavy.
   Slowly, slowly, the teamster in cyan eased the wagon up to the gates
and the White armsmen. The Lydian lancers reined up on each side of the
wagon and behind.
   "Tariffs and goods for Fairhaven. Bound for the Wizards' Square,"
announced the captain of the Lydians, a squarish black-haired and bearded
figure. He extended a scroll to the man in charge of the inspection and
guard detail.
   Cerryl took a deep breath and let his order/chaos senses study the
wagon. Metal-coins in chests, as he had suspected, although there were
but three chests. Under the dark gray canvas were also a dozen small
barrels, more like quarter-barrels. Salt perhaps. Most salt came from
Lydiar, the closest port, for all that it was two long days or three
short ones.
   The head gate guard glanced up at Cerryl, his eyes questioning the
mage. Two of the lancers behind the Lydian officer followed his eyes. One
swallowed as his eyes took in Cerryl's whites.
   "That's what the scroll says, ser!" the detail leader called up to
Cerryl.
   "It's as they say, Diborl," Cerryl answered.
   "You may pass," the head guard announced.
   The wagon rolled past the guardhouse, and Cerryl listened. Listening
was the most interesting part of the duty, at least usually.
   "... always have a mage here?"
   "Always ... Sometimes you see someone get turned to ashes ..."
   "... you're jesting ..."
   "No ... not something to jest at."