"Roger Taylor - Hawklan 1 - Call of the sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

humblest apologies. I was overwhelmed by the sight of you. May I ask to what do we owe the pleasure
of your august presence at our repast?’

Gavor maintained his hauteur. ‘You sighed, dear boy. You sighed.’

Hawklan looked at the bird quizzically and suspiciously.

Gavor shrugged. ‘You sighed,’ he repeated. ‘There I was. Up in the rafters. Brooding, as it were.
Contemplating the mysteries of the universe. When my reverie was shattered by this heart-rending sigh
soaring up through the hall. “Ah, such pain,” I thought. “My friend and saviour is being crushed under
some unbearable burden. I must help him.” And down I come. And what do I get? Sarcasm – base
ingratitude. There’s friendship for you.’

‘I’m touched by your concern, Gavor,’ said Hawklan. ‘But I didn’t sigh.’

Gavor turned away and started clunking up and down the table, pecking at various morsels left in the
silver dishes. He paused to swallow something.

‘Ah yes you did, my friend. Most distinctly. Mind you, I will admit I’ve never actually heard anyone sigh
before, but I know what one sounds like. I’ve read about them on the Gate.’ He levelled a wing at
Hawklan. ‘And what you produced was a sigh. Quite unequivocally. A sigh.’
He paused and rooted out a piece of meat.

‘Mm. Delicious,’ he said. ‘My compliments to the cook. Loman’s cooking is improving noticeably – for
a castellan.’

‘If Loman hears you calling him a cook, we’ll be eating raven pie for a week,’ said Hawklan.

Gavor ignored the comment. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued. ‘You sighed, Hawklan. A great heaving
outpouring of despair. Almost knocked me off my perch. So I’ve come to see what’s wrong, dear boy.
If I allow you to get away with sighing, you’ll be groaning next, and you’ve no idea how it echoes up
there. I really can’t preen myself if you’re going to assail me with such a tragic cacophony.’

Hawklan laughed. ‘I may concede that perhaps I breathed out rather heavily, but I give you my solemn
promise that I will not allow it to degenerate into groaning. I’ve far too much respect for your feathers.’

‘Huh,’ Gavor grunted, cracking a nut with a shuddering blow of his great black beak. ‘You’ve been very
quiet recently. Not that you were ever particularly raucous. But you’ve been . . . solemn. Sad almost.’
Gavor’s tone had changed. ‘What’s the matter, Hawklan?’ he asked suddenly, with concern.

Hawklan stood up, pushing the heavy chair back as he did. He was a tall man, but lean and spare. His
face looked weathered, yet ageless and relaxed, its dominant feature being bright green penetrating eyes.
It was the combination of these eyes with the angular, high cheek-boned face and prominent nose that
had prompted Gavor to call him ‘Hawklan’ when they first met, twenty years ago, in the snow-filled
valleys to the north. He, Gavor, dying, with his leg caught in an old, forgotten trap, and the strange quiet
man with no memory, who freed him and nursed him to health with magical hands.

Hawklan shrugged his shoulders as he walked away from the table. Gavor, partly mistaking the gesture
and partly to be nearer his friend, glided after him with an imperceptible movement of his wings. There
was no graceless landing here, as his good foot closed gently on Hawklan’s shoulder and his wings