"Vance, Jack - Alastor 2 - Trullion-2262" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

refreshment," said Vang Drosset. "We will discuss our leaving." Glinnes smiled and shook his
head. "I must stand." If he sat and drank their tea he became beholden, and they then could ask
for favors. He glanced past Vang Drosset to the boy turning the spit, and now he saw that it was
not a boy but a slender, shapely girl of seventeen or eighteen. Vang Drosset spoke a syllable over
his shoulder; the girl rose to her feet and went to the dull red tent. As she entered, she turned
a glance back over her shoulder. Glinnes glimpsed a pretty face, with eyes naturally golden, and
golden-red curls that clung about her head and dangled past her ears to her neck.
Vang Drosset grinned, showing a set of gleaming white teeth. "As to moving camp, I beg that you
give us leave to remain. We do no harm here." "I'm not so sure. Trevanyi make uncomfortable
neighbors. Beasts and fowl disappear, and other items as well." "We have stolen neither beast nor
fowl" Vang Drossefs voice was gentle. "You have just destroyed a grand tree, and only to pick the
nuts more easily." "The forest is full of trees. We needed firewood. Surely it is no great
matter."
"Not to you. Do you know I played in that tree when I was a boy? Look! See where I carved my
mark! In that crotch I built an eyrie, where sometimes I slept at nights. That tree I loved!"
Vang Drosset gave a delicate grimace at the idea of a man loving a tree. His two sons laughed
contemptuously, and turning away, began to throw knives at a target. Glinnes continued.
"Firewood? The forrest is full of dead wood. You need only carry it here." "A very long distance
for folk with sore backs." Glinnes pointed to the spit. "Those fowl only half grown; none have
raised a brood. We hunt only the three-year birds, which no doubt you've already killed and eaten,
and probably the two-year birds as well, and after you devour the yearlings none will be left. And

there, on that platter-the ground fruit. You've pulled up entire clumps, roots and all; you've
destroyed our future crop! You say you do no harm? You brutalize the land; it won't be the same
for ten years. Strike your tents, load your wagons* and go." Vang spoke in a subdued voice. "This
is not gracious language, Squire Hulden."
"How does one graciously order a man off his property?" asked Glinnes. "It can't be done. You
require too much." Vang Drosset swung away with a hiss of exasperation and stared off across the
meadow. Ashmor and Harving were now engaged in a startling Trevanyi exercise that Glinnes had
never before witnessed. They stood about thirty feet apart
* Trevanyi wagons are ponderous boats with wheels, capable on either land or water.
and each in turn threw a knife at the other's head. He toward whom the knife was aimed nicked up
his own knife to catch the hurled knife in some miraculous manner and send it spinning into the
air.
"Trevanyi make good friends but bad enemies," said Vang Drosset in a soft voice. Glinnes
replied, "Perhaps you have heard the proverb: East of Zanzamar* live the friendly Trevanyi." Vang
Drosset spoke in a voice of spurious humility. "But we are not all that baneful! We add to the
pleaures of Raben-dary Island! We will play music at your feasts; we are adepts at the knife
dances . . ." He twitched his fingers at his two sons, who hopped and jerked and swung their
knives hi shivering arcs.
By accident, by jocular or murderous design, a knife darted at Glinnes' head. Vang Drosset
cawed, in either warning or exultation. Glinnes had been expecting some such demonstration. He
ducked; the knife struck into a target behind him. Glinnes' gun jerked out and spat blue plasma.
The end of the spit flared and the birds dropped into the coals. From the tent darted the girl
Duissane, her eyes projecting a dazzle as fierce as that of the gun. She snatched at the spit and
burned her hand; she rolled the birds out on the ground with a stick, all the time crying out
curses and invective" "Oh you wicked urush,** you've spoiled our meal! May your tongue grow a
beard. And you with your vile paunch full of dog-guts, get away from the place before we name you
a stiff-leg Fanscher. We know you, never fear! You're a worse spageen*** than your horn of a
brother; there were few like him."