"Joel Rosenberg - Hidden Ways 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenberg Joel C)

Rodic-of-the-second-generation. It's possible you could be replaced."

Rodic had to smile. There were few blades as good as he, and most of those were heavily tied to the Sky, not available to the lesser
houses. "With whom would you replace me, Your Warmth? Thorian del Thorian, perhaps?"

It was intended as a jape, only. But the Fire Duke's face was too still, too emotionless, too suddenly. "That would hardly be
possible, would it?" he said, the question clearly intended to sound rhetorical only. "There may come a time," the Fire Duke said,
then stopped himself. "There will come a time, I hope, when I shall find you expendable, when I will represent my house myself."

No. The attempt to cover himself would not work. The Fire Duke knew something, and he had let it slip. But old nobility always
tended to assume they were wiser than the new, and for once Rodic didn't resent it.

Thorian, he thought, as an attendant in fiery livery let him out of His Warmth's office, and down the unreasonably high-ceilinged
corridor.

Thorian the Traitor.

Was it possible that Thorian was alive? And if so, where could he possibly be? Certainly not within the Dominion.

The duelmaster would have to be told.




Part One

HARDWOOD, NORTH DAKOTA


CHAPTER ONE


The Fencing Team
Torrie had long since shut off the tape player by the time they turned off I-29 at Thompson; there was only so much Van Halen he
could stand. The floor of the car was littered—with McDonald's burger wrappers, still sticky and greasy in places; with empty
Coke cans, drained and crumpled; and even with the Baggies that had contained the crudités that Maggie had insisted on buying at
the SuperValu outside Minneapolis.

Being a veggie didn't make her a neat freak, Torrie Thorsen had decided. Or maybe it was just that Ian's bad habits were rubbing off
on the two of them. Ian Silverstein wasn't really unclean, just messy; Ian would never hang up a damp towel on a rack or over a
sink if a chair or a floor was handy.

"Hmmm . . . there's a gas station—hell, it's a real service station—in Hatton," Torrie said, winding down the window of the old
Rambler so that he could hang his left elbow out. "We could stop off there and clean up a bit. Dump the trash out of the car, at
least."

Maryanne Christensen partly hid a smile behind her hand, but Ian chuckled out loud.

"Mommie doesn't like a messy car?" Ian gave out a few more chortles.