"Moon, Elizabeth - Gird 02 - Liar's Oath E-Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

and ends of folktales that now colored every conversation. He was lucky to have
his work indoors, in this heat, or in winter’s cold. He was lucky to have Gird’s
understanding, if he could not have his indulgence.
He had just pulled another clean sheet toward him when he heard the old lady’s
voice all the way up the staircase. He covered his inkwell; perhaps he would be
needed. With that accent, she had to be mageborn, and with the quaver in it, she
had to be old. The young guards, he suspected, would have no experience with her
sort.
“I don’t care what you say, young man.” A pause, during which some male voice
rumbled below his hearing. “I must see your Marshal-General, and I must see him
now.”
Luap rolled his eyes up and wondered how far the respect for age would get her.
Her voice came nearer, punctuated by puffs and wheezes as she came up the
stairs.
“Yes, it is important. It is always important to do things right. If your
Marshal-General had had the advantages of good education, he would know that
already, but since he has not—” A shocked interruption, from what Luap judged to
be a very young yeoman, whose words fell all over each other in disarray. He
grinned, anticipating the old lady’s response. She did not disappoint him. “You
see, young man, what I’m talking about. You’re very earnest, I’m sure, and very
dedicated to your Marshal-General, but you cannot express yourself in plain
language with any grace…”
Just as he realized that she would inevitably end up in his office, the yeoman’s
apologetic cough at the door brought his eyes to the spectacle. She was,
undoubtedly, mageborn: a determinedly upright lady with snowy hair and slightly
faded blue eyes, who dressed as if the former king were still ruling. A pouf of
lace at the throat, a snug bodice with flaring skirt and puffed sleeves, all in
brilliant reds and blues and greens: he had not seen such clothes since
childhood. Luap wondered how that gorgeous robe had survived the looting. Then,
with the appearance at her back of a stout, redfaced servant in blue and brown,
he realized she must have impressed her staff with more than her money. The
younger woman gave him look for look, challenging and defensive both.
“This is the Marshal-General’s luap,” the yeoman said. He was sweating, his eyes
wide. “He’ll be able to help you.”
“I want the Marshal-General,” the old lady said. Then, as Luap rose and came
toward her, she raked him with a measuring glare, and her voice changed. “Ohh…
you’ll understand. Perhaps you can help me.” Whatever she had seen convinced her
he was one of her kind. Behind her, the peasant woman smirked, and Luap felt his
ears redden. Of course everyone knew about him—at least that he had mageborn
blood on his father’s side, which was not that uncommon. But the way this woman
said it, she might have known who his father was.
The old lady favored him with a surprisingly sweet smile, and laid a long
fingered hand on her chest. “Could I perhaps sit down?” Luap found himself
bowing. “Of course… here…” His own chair, onto which he threw a pillow. She
rested on it with the weightless grace of dandelion fluff, her rich brocaded
robe falling into elegant folds. The peasant woman handed her a tapestry bag,
then settled herself against the wall. The old lady rummaged in the bag, her
lips pursed, and finally drew out a strip of blue gorgeously embroidered in gold
and silver; it glittered even in the dim indoor light.
“You will understand,” she began, peering up at Luap with a smile she might have