"Michelle West - Sacred Hunt 1 - Hunter's Oath" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

really diminish, and Soredon sighed, shaking the purse he carried with renewed vigor
in an attempt to drown out Maritt's voice. It was his own fault, and he knew it. Maritt
was his prize bitch, and he coddled her overmuch.
Ah, well. At least Corwel was behaving. Absently, he dropped one gloved hand to
rest upon the alaunt's broad head. Corwel was young yet, but still the best dog that
Elseth had ever produced. He tousled those flopped ears with genuine pride and
pleasure.
Good. The boy was behind him, sauntering gently forward. Lord Elseth carefully
positioned his broad back and began the inner search for the Hunter's trance. He
was experienced enough to have earned the rank of Master Hunter at the King's
pleasure. The trance came quickly and easily, fitting him better than these awkward,
fine clothes. The crisp bite of the air grew keener still; the colors of the street faded
into sharp, clean outlines. Everywhere, life ground to a slower, subtler movement.
He reached out from the trance, found Maritt's eyes, and looked carefully through
them, feeling the back-ground thrum of her deep-throated growl as if it came from
his own chest.
The boy approached his back slowly. Through Maritt's vision, he examined the
young thief. The boy was all bones and sallow skin, with a thatch of pale hair that
might be paler still when less filthy. Lack of height and weight made his age hard to
guess, but Lord Elseth was certain he was somewhere between seven and nine. A
good age; one that suited the Hunter Lord's purpose fully. But would the little thief
continue to linger in the half-melted, filthy snow, or would he at last make his move?
Please, Lady Luck, smile on me now. I've seen enough of your frowns for this
ten-day.
Her answer was beneficent and sudden.
The boy darted, like a pale shadow, flickering at his side. He saw the gray flash of
what once might have passed for a dagger and lifted his wrist in a snap of motion,
carrying the purse strings easily out of the boy's reach. His turn was so smooth and
deft that the child's knife didn't have time to stop its motion.
With a smile that was all white teeth, Lord Elseth grabbed the boy's wrist and
hauled him off his feet.
“What have we here?”
He'd moved so quickly that Stephen still wasn't sure when the broad, fur-covered
back had suddenly changed into the man's front—but he didn't like it. Thievery had
its own penalty in the King's City—and the punishment was far worse when the
victim was one of the Hunter Lords or Ladies. Hunger and fear were forgotten now,
as was breathing; he saw instead the shadow of the knife at his thumbs. If he'd had
the chance, he might have taken a swing with his dagger—but it was the dagger hand
that the Lord held, and the Lord showed no signs of loosing his grip.
He swallowed a deep breath, lost it to coughing, and choked. His wrist was firmly
trapped in the larger man's hand. Think, damn it. Think. He cleared his throat.
“You've got no call to hold me, sir. I was just—”
“I know well what you were doing, whelp. And it has its price. Come along; your
thieving days are over.”
Stephen struggled as the tips of his toes brushed the ground. He kicked out with
his feet and found the ribs of the large black-and-white dog. It snarled and snapped
to the side, avoiding its target by turning at the last second.
“That's enough,” Lord Elseth said, his voice remark-ably similar in tone to that of
the dog's. “You will be still.”
Gulping, Stephen nodded, and found the flat of his feet. What he did next was