"Joan D. Vinge & Vernor Vinge - The Peddler's Apprentice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vinge Joan D)

THE PEDDLER’S APPRENTICE
By Joan D. Vinge & Vernor Vinge
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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Lord Buckry I of Fyffe lounged on his throne, watching his two youngest sons
engaged in mock battle in the empty Audience Hall. The daggers were wooden but
the rivalry was real, and the smaller boy was at a disadvantage. Lord Buckry tugged
on a heavy gold earring. Thin, brown-haired Hanaban was his private favorite; the
boy took after his father both in appearance and turn of mind.

The lord of the Flatlands was a tall man, his own unkempt brown hair graying
now at the temples. The blue eyes in his lean, foxlike face still perceived with
disconcerting sharp-ness, though years of experience kept his own thoughts hid-den.
More than twenty years had passed since he had won control of his lands; he had
not kept his precarious place as lord so long without good reason.

Now his eyes flashed rare approval as Hanaban cried, “Trace, look there!”
and, as his brother turned, distracted, whacked him soundly on the chest.

“Gotcha!” Hanaban shrieked delightedly. Trace grimaced with disgust.

Their father chuckled, but his face changed suddenly as the sound of a
commotion outside the chamber reached him. The heavy, windowed doors at the far
end of the room burst open; the Flatlander courier shook off guards, crossed the
high-ceilinged, echoing chamber and flung himself into a bow, his rifle clattering on
the floor. “Your Lordship!”

Lord Buckry snapped his fingers; his gaping children si-lently fled the room.
“Get up,” he said impatiently. “What in tarnation is this?”

“Your Lordship.” The courier raised a dusty face, wincing mentally at his
lord’s Highland drawl. “There’s word the sea kingdoms have raised another army.
They’re crossing the coast mountains, and—”

“That ain’t possible. We cleaned them out not half a year since.”

“They’ve a lot of folk along the coast, Your Lordship.” The horseman stood
apologetically. “And Jayley Sharkstooth’s made a pact this time with the
Southlands.”

Lord Buckry stiffened. “They’ve been at each other’s throats long as I can
remember.” He frowned, pulling at his earring. “Only thing they’ve got in common
is—me. Damn!”

He listened distractedly to the rider’s report, then stood abruptly, dismissing
the man as an afterthought. As the heavy doors of the hall slid shut he was already
striding toward the elevator, past the shaft of the ballistic vehicle exit, unused for
more than thirty years. His soft-soled Highlander boots made no sound on the cold