Angus Wells - Lords of the Sky
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- Название:Lords of the Sky
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There was no beach here, but a stone-walled anchorage, fishing craft bobbing on the tide, moored neat along the harbor. Nimbly (my racing blood and the wind had dispelled the effects of the ale) I sprang to the stone, tying the painter to a metal ring. Then I stood, staring inland.
The cliffs that flanked the river were low, and about the harbor there was a wide cleft, gently sloped and covered at the foot with cottages akin to those I had left behind. Higher, I saw what seemed to me very grand houses, with tiled roofs that glittered in the moonlight, some even sporting balconies about their upper stories. They were set about either side of a broad avenue that ran up to the clifftop, ending at a structure that trapped and held my eyes.
The keep, from this low angle, seemed a single vast column rising atop the ridge, a great stone cylinder set all around with bright-lit windows, a beacon blazing in the night. I stood gape-mouthed, a country bumpkin confronted with a dream. The houses along the avenue were dwarfed, dismissed into insignificance by this wondrous tower. This was the home hold of the aeldor Bardan: this was the gateway to my future.
I started as Andyrt thrust my bundle at me and clapped a cheerful hand to my shoulder. “Save you’d spend the night here, do we go on?” he chuckled. “The sea edges my appetite, and all well dinner will be served soon.”
I nodded, still staring upward, and fell into step, Rekyn on my left. She said mildly, “This is not so great a hold, Daviot. Wait until you see the towers of Durbrecht.”
I nodded again, lost for words; it seemed to me no place could possibly be grander than this. I shouldered my bundle and went with them across the cobbles of the harbor to the avenue. Now I tore my eyes from the great keep and stared instead at the marvelous houses, their windows paned with clear glass, not the yellow membrane of sheepgut, their woodwork carved and painted for no reason other than decoration. Robus and the mantis had sometimes been persuaded to speak of Cambar-as best I knew then, they were the only men in our village who ever came here-and I had wondered at their tales, but they did nothing to prepare me for this fabulous place, and I walked with eyes and mouth wide, dumbstruck.
And then the avenue ended at a wall, and I saw that the keep was not a single column but was surrounded by this dry-stone barrier, and through the open wooden gate that lesser buildings huddled about its foot.
I thought there should be guards there, but I was wrong. The only sentries were three enormous gray hounds, all shaggy hair and flashing fangs, they seemed to me, that came barking up, to be rebuffed by Andyrt with a shouted command mand that sent them trotting back to the shelter of a stable where horses nickered and stamped. I took my hand from my knife’s hilt and pretended I had not been afraid as my two companions brought me across the yard to the keep’s entrance. Rekyn motioned me forward, but I hesitated, struck suddenly by a new concern: “Do I meet the aeldor now? How should I address him?”
“‘My lord’ will do,” she told me, “and you’ve no reason to fear him. Bardan’s no ogre, and you come as welcome guest to this hold.”
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded; we entered the keep. I saw how thick were the walls, marveling at the builder’s skill, then frowned as I realized we did not stand in the great hall I had expected but in a kind of cellar, a huge, circular chamber, dim and stacked all about with casks and barrels, firewood, sacks, haunches of meat hung from hooks set in the wooden roof. Rekyn touched me gently, indicating a broad stairway that rose around the curve of the wall. She moved ahead of me then, and Andyrt fell in behind, and we climbed toward another open door, light bright there, and noise.
On Rekyn’s heels I went in and gaped anew despite myself. This chamber was as large as the one below but set with deep-cut embrasures and circled by sconces in which candles burned, augmenting the blaze of the fire in the massive hearth and the lanterns that hung from the beams overhead. The floor was wood, scattered with rushes, long tables and benches occupied by more men than women, the latter sex emerging from doorways, carrying platters of meat, bread, steaming vegetables, pitchers of ale. Off to one side a minstrel-I had neither seen nor heard one before, but I knew from the kithara he plucked that was his calling-fought the roar of the diners. He stood behind a table set a little apart from the others, three men and two women seated there.
“The aeldor,” Rekyn murmured in my ear. “The Lady Andolyne is to his right; the other woman is Gwennet, wife of Sarun, who is heir. The other man is Bardan’s second son, Thadwyn.”
I nodded in thanks and acknowledgment, committing the names to my memory, eager to make as good an impression as I might, and walked with the commur-mage and Andyrt to stand before the table.
Andyrt sketched a casual bow; Rekyn ducked her head and said, “Lord Bardan, this is Daviot of Whitefish village.”
I bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor. I saw a bone there, and then another of the great gray hounds snatch it up. The room grew silent save for the soft strumming of the kithara, and then a deep voice said, “In the God’s name, Daviot of Whitefish village, will you stand up and look me in the eye, or are you bent-backed?”
I felt my cheeks grow warm. I stood, mumbling, “My lord aeldor, Lady Andolyne … No, I am not … I-”
Bardan laughed, the sound rumbling from his broad chest, and I met his gaze. I saw a rotund face, ale-flushed and dense-bearded, streaks of white in the russet, the eyes large and brown, twinkling with amusement. He was a heavy-set man, past his prime, but yet muscular. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled back, revealing forearms corded thick. He smiled at me, beckoning me forward.
“So you’re the one,” he said. “Rekyn speaks well of you-Andyrt, too-and I trust their judgment. You’d be a Mnemonikos, eh?”
“Does it serve you,” I said, and thought to add, “my lord aeldor.”
“Me,” said Bardan, “the Lord Protector, Dharbek. Aye, have you the makings of a Rememberer, then you shall serve us all.”
“And does that not work out,” said Andyrt, with what I then thought was massive presumption, “I’ll have him for the warband.”
Bardan laughed again, not at all put out, and shouted for places to be set at his table, ale to be brought us.
As we waited I took the opportunity to study his kinfolk. His wife, the Lady Andolyne, was of an age with him, which is to say old in my eyes, but like the aeldor she seemed hale, if not so beautiful as I had thought so elevated a personage should be. Her hair was not yet touched with gray, but its brown was somewhat faded, and though her eyes shone bright, they nested amongst lines. Gwennet’s hair was a soft gold, and she was pretty in a vague way. She was clearly some few years younger than her husband, and the smile she bestowed on me was friendly. Indeed, they were all friendly, even Sarun, who was a hawk to his father’s bear, lean of feature, with the same brown eyes but those more piercing-appraising me, I thought. Thadwyn was not much older than I and favored his mother. Much to my surprise, it was he who pushed a filled tankard to me when we sat.
After the ale I had already drunk, I had poor appetite for more, but I deemed it ungracious to refuse and so smiled my thanks and sipped. Bardan saw my caution and exaggerated a frown. “What’s this?” he demanded. “A would-be Mnemonikos who’s no taste for ale? In the God’s name, young Daviot, that’s a thing unknown.”
“Perhaps,” said Andolyne with a smile, “Daviot shall set a new standard, and introduce sobriety to his calling.”
“Unlikely,” said Sarun. “Have you ever met a Storyman without a taste for ale?”
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