"Alexander, Lloyd - Westmark 02 - The Kestrel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Alexander Lloyd)

He stopped at the sound of hoofbeats. Another horseman was coming at a brisk pace from the direction of the town. He glimpsed a squat figure crouched in the saddle- Sighting Theo, the rider halted and called out.

Surprised to hear his name, but glad for any help that might be forthcoming, Theo ran toward him. The rider, meantime, had swung nimbly to the ground. Short and dumpy, wrapped in a trailing cloak, he raised a finger to the brim of his hat.

"I knew it would be you, sir- But no harm in making certain, is there?"

The voice was not one Theo could forget. The little man's face was shadowed now, but clear enough in Theo's memory: the plump cheeks, the moist, pinkrimmed eyes. The name sprang to his lips without his having to think of it.

"Skeit."

The man bobbed his head. "You remember, sir? in the ordinary way of things, I'd prefer it otherwise. In your case, I take it as a compliment.

"I lost track of you for a time, sir, and nearly missed you again at Mull," he went on cheerfully. "When the landlord told me a young gentleman of your description went galloping off for Marianstat, I knew I'd come on the right path again."

"Following me? You'd have done better to follow your master, Cabbarus, to the devil or wherever he is."

"I have to earn my living, sir."

"Spy? Informer? Worse, for all I know."

Skeit gave him a wounded look. "Those are very hard words, sir. I do my work. I have no grudge against you."

"No business with me, either."

"Now, there, sir, allow me to disagree." Skeit reached into his cloak. "You understand, it's not a matter of ill will. That's not in my nature."

Skeit's pudgy hand, when it emerged, held a pistol.

With the deftness of an expert at his trade, he cocked the weapon, took precise aim, and fired.

Queen Mickle urgently needed a few handfuls of dirt. She had not, until tonight, realized how scarce it was. Her apartments had, as always, been swept and dusted relentlessly.

Her need had sprung up suddenly at the end of the day. That morning, when Dr. Torrens, her chief minister, arrived still without word of Theo, Mickle's patience, even then, was scraped to the bone.

"All I want," she said, in a tone as reasonable as she could manage, "is a simple answer to a simple question: Where is he?"

Torrens shook his head. "We have no further news, Majesty, beyond what we already know."

"Which is nothing." Mickle paced the private audience chamber, hands clenched in the pockets of the breeches she wore in preference to the cumbersome skirts she suffered at grand ceremonials.

"The wheels of government turn slowly," said Torrens.

"Oiled with molasses," Mickle snapped. Dispatches from local constables throughout the Caria valley, where Theo's last letter had come from, were no help. Her hopes had risen at the report of an innkeeper in a town called Mull. He dimly remembered selling a horse to a young man resembling Theo, but had no idea what had become of either. The clue led only to a blind alley. The officers Mickle sent from Marianstat had learned no more.

"Have you heard from Erzcour?" she demanded. "The general advises he is eager to serve in any way he can. He offers troops to search the valley as soon as Your Majesty gives him specific information."

"In other words," replied Mickle, "I tell him where Theo is and he'll go find him."

Dr. Torrens watched her with concern. The girl, slight of frame, narrow waisted, with jutting shoulders, looked more street sparrow than imperial eagle. Unlike her mother, the new queen was no beauty at first glance. Yet there were times when her pale blue eyes made the air crackle, for she could show the bearing and presence of a sovereign-when she chose-and her quick mind absorbed all it lighted on. She might even become, he speculated, the strongest of the royal line. But she still had much to learn, Torrens thought sadly, and one hard lesson was now before her.