"S. M. Stirling and Holly Lisle - The Rose Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

Three Above.

Sleep, he told himself. The work of the day won't wait on your dreams.

"Twenty-two hundred forty-six silver crowns, drawn on Bemmah and Daughters of Derkin," the Imperial agent said, handing over
the elaborately sealed parchment.

Karah Grenlaarin snatched the rolled document from him and looked at it closely. The stamp on the seal read "Shemro IV, of the
Strekkhylfa line, Emperor by Grace of the Three" with the signature of the fisc's agent beneath it. Good as a bag of silver coins,
she thought. Better, since it's easier to carry and harder to steal.

"Done," she said.

Godsall, but that was a lot of money. She'd gotten better than seven crowns per horse for the whole herd—and back home on the
ranch in Farbluffs County, one crown was a good price for a saddle-broken four-year-old. Cash money especially. Prices had gone
completely crazy with the war coming on.

Best go before the fisc comes to his senses, she told herself. Get out of this office and out of this city. Great-Uncle Jaiwan, the
busybody, would get his report on conditions down here in Derkin, for what it was worth… and Ma and Pa would get the bankers
draft. The Grenlaarins could finally get that dam built on Sungren Creek and refinish the roof—and pay off the back taxes besides.

"Father, Mother and Child witness it," she said, spitting on her hand and holding it out in the traditional deal-sealing gesture of the
horse trade.

She grinned when she saw the clerk swallow—Derkin bankers were a citified bunch. Fit to be geldings, she thought. Not much else.

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The clerk slapped palms with her, then surreptitiously wiped his hand on the hem of his frippish overtunic. Karah pressed her lips
together to keep from laughing out loud, tucked the document into an inside pocket of her jacket and clattered out the door.

Konzin wasn't waiting where he said he'd be. Karah frowned. That wasn't like him at all. She unhitched her horse, swung into her
saddle and looked over the heads of the crowd for him. She thought she saw him and his horse partly hidden down a side alley, but
there was no sense yelling—or chasing after him, either. A military unit of some sort was thundering toward her down the narrow
street, drums and pipes making a terrible racket, and everyone around her clambered up onto the raised walks and against the walls
to get out of the way.

Karah urged Glorylad onto the walk, then watched with interest as ten hitch of big platter-hoofed draught horses lugged a cannon
down the cobblestone streets. The gun was a breechloader—a fancy new bit of craftwork her uncle had told her about. The big gun
rumbled between the high, whitewashed walls on its way to the docks. The huge northern horses dripped sweat and tossed their
heads as they bent to the traces, and the nail-studded wheels of the field carriage clattered counterpoint to the drums.

Karah squinted into the glare. Behind the cannon, pikemen marched five abreast, heads straight forward and chins jutting; sweat
ran off their noses and flushed faces and matted their hair to their heads. They looked almost as uncomfortable as the horses.
Krevaulti yokels from up around Dire, she judged. She counted rows and guessed the length of the line; her estimate put their
numbers at five-hundred strong. All in steel back-and-breastplates, helmets slung to their belts beside their swords, heavy packs on
their backs.