Kevin Stein - Brothers Majere
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- Название:Brothers Majere
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"Tomorrow, my lady." The man discovered that he was still clutching his knife.
"You have done well," the woman said, ending the conversation.
He bowed respectfully. Closing the door as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his hostess, the man walked swiftly and thankfully out of the house. Mounting his nervous horse, he rode away into the city, eager to return to the comfort of his own home, where the rooms did not abhor his presence.
The lady in the black cowl had lived in the house atop the only hill in Mereklar all of her life. She felt comfortable in its rooms and hallways, the lights from outside creating patterns through the stained glass as mysterious as the lights shining from within.
After her agent had left, she rose gracefully in a single, fluid motion from her chair and walked confidently through the darkness of the study to a door in the east wall. The unseen waterclock that still ticked away the hours was the only sound in the house. The lady made no noise as she glided through a door into a side hall. Here she came to another door, set at the end of the corridor. She entered an arboretum, moved along a narrow path to the huge glass door facing the outside, then left the garden, closing the door behind her. The cowl of her robes was pulled low, hiding her face from the faces of the moons.
With sure and steady strides in the moonlit darkness, she quickly traversed one of the gardens surrounding her home. Coming to an old tree, dead and brown and pitted, she pushed away bramble with her foot, revealing an entrance leading into the ground – a passage devoid of light. She walked with even steps into the darkness.
Traveling untold distances, finding her way through mazes, paths, and passageways that went in all directions, she finally reached her destination – a cavern of stone flattened at the end opposite the entrance. Torches flickered in sconces, a stage for dancing shadows. In the center of the hall stood a rounded semicircle of stone holding a slab of rock so large it would require hundreds of men to move it. Standing around this altar were nine people, each wearing robes of state and service.
"You are late, Shavas," Lord Alvin said as he turned to face the entrance.
"Yes," said the woman in the doorway, stepping into the room, torchlight shadows staining her gown.
The ministers looked at each other, then at the woman.
"What news do you bring us?" asked another when it was obvious the woman was not going to offer an excuse.
The lord who spoke was a short man, stoop-shouldered, a gold medallion shaped like a sunburst weighing down his thin frame. He was dressed in a dark blue coat lined with gold-braided trim. Gold buttons ran down the front of his shirt, partially hidden by a dark blue vest.
"The three men are coming to the city's aid."
"And they will solve the mystery of the disappearing cats?" the short man asked again.
"They wilt try," corrected Shavas, the hood of her robes still hiding her face.
"We don't want panic," remarked a stern-faced, gray-haired woman. "We're close to that now."
"There's no choice," Lord Alvin spoke shortly. "You must hire these men, Shavas."
"I concur," said Lord Brunswick.
The consenting murmurs of the others filled the room, their united voices muffled in the underground cavern.
"What you mean is that you want me to do what is needed to repair your blunder," Shavas said. She flashed them a scornful glance, turned, and walked from the room. Her right hand gripped tightly a large fire opal she wore around her neck, holding onto it as if she were holding onto her very life.
That same night, someone else at the inn noticed the rider's hasty departure with interest. A black shape, almost invisible in the darkness, bounded down the same path the rider had taken. Moonlight glinted red in its eyes.
CHAPTER 7
Caramon awoke the next morning with a pounding in his head that his metal-working friend, Flint Fire-forge, would have envied. The steady hammer blows, falling with excruciating regularity, made him wince with pain. The delicate sounds of chirping birds were like the clash of spears, and the shuffling noises of the other patrons at the inn created a wave of agony.
Slowly drawing the sheets back from his head, exposing only his sleep-matted hair and bloodshot, half-closed eyes, the fighter glanced around the room, wincing again as a shaft of light struck him full in the face.
"A cruel blow!" he muttered.
Quickly pulling the sheets back over his head, Cara-mon lifted the bedspread from the side – avoiding another bright onslaught – and peered across the room to his brother. Still asleep, Raistlin appeared to be in pain – his back was arched slightly, his hands were curled into claws. But he breathed easily. Caramon sighed in relief.
The warrior glanced over to Earwig's bed, hoping that the kender – with his shrill voice – was also still asleep. He was, if the steady rise and fall of his blankets was any indication.
"Good," said Caramon to himself. "I'll go downstairs and use my tried-and-true remedy for overindulgence."
The warrior eased himself out of bed, his head bent against the morning's light.
"Good morning, Caramon!" Earwig shrilled cheerfully, his voice piercing Caramon's skull. The warrior fell over the bed as if toppled by a mighty blow.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so miserable. Thinking of Flint reminded him of one of the old dwarf's many sayings, "A fighter's greatest enemy is himself." He had never understood what that meant until now. He wondered, too, if Flint had been referring to that terrible stuff – dwarf spirits – that had been the warrior's downfall.
"Earwig," Caramon began, speaking softly through clenched teeth, his hands slowly clamping his head to ease the pressure. "If you don't shut up, I'm going to have to kill you."
"What?" Earwig shouted, his voice just as loud as before. "What did you say? I couldn't hear you. Would you repeat that, please?"
In answer, Caramon grabbed a pillow with his left hand, walked over to the kender, and bagged Earwig's head with the pillowcase.
"Is this a game? What do I do now?" cried the kender, highly excited.
"Just sit there," growled Caramon, "till I tell you to move."
"All right. Say, this is fun." Earwig, pillowcase over his head, composed himself to wait for whatever wonderful part of the game was going to come next.
Caramon walked out of the room.
Going to the well outside, he brought up a bucket of cold water and immersed his head in it. Sputtering, he shook himself like a dog, wiping his face on his shirt sleeves.
Returning indoors, still rubbing himself dry, Caramon went into the eating hall, where breakfast was being served. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot muffins helped ease the unrelenting pain in his head and reminded him that he hadn't eaten since dinner last night – and that had been interrupted.
It's a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.
The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.
Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.
"Well, almost never," he amended.
"What can I get for you this morning?" It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.
"A drink. Two-thirds grain, one part juice, one part cooking spice, and a green vegetable stalk, something absolutely tasteless. And plenty of pepper," Caramon added.
"Ah," said Yost, "a seasoned warrior. The Old Fighter's Favorite. And I bet you'll be wanting some breakfast as well. Maggie!" – his yetl caused Caramon to groan aloud – "bring something to eat for the gentleman here."
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