"Deborah Doyle - Circle of Magic 02 - The Secret of The Tower" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doyle Debra)

an untruth in Randal's hearing-and Sir Palamon, the castle's master-at-arms, who was in charge of turning
squires into knights and clumsy peasants into seasoned fighting men, had his own way of dealing with liars
and oath breakers.
Sir Palamon, reflected Randal, had high standards.
In everything. If he ever saw this stable, he'd nail the hostler's hide to the wall.
More than once, on his long journey eastward from Tarnsberg, Randal had caught himself half wishing he
had never left the castle and barony of Doun.
If he'd stayed, he'd have been almost a knight by now; Sir Palamon himself had said that Randal showed
promise.
But no, I had to be smart. Living at ease for the rest of my life wasn't good enough.
Another forkload of manure went over his shoulder.
I wanted to understand the mysteries of the universe.
Randal gulped a breath through his mouth-the air was too nasty to breathe any other way-and dragged
the back of his arm across his forehead in a vain attempt to keep the sweat from running into his eyes.
"Mysteries of the universe, hah!" he muttered aloud. "I'm standing knee-deep in the mysteries of the
universe right now."
The thought made Randal laugh. In the dusty stable, the laugh turned into a choke, then a coughing fit. He
staggered out of the open door into the sweet air and sunlight of the inn yard. He was coughing so hard
that he barely heard the ringing of bridles and pounding of hooves as a trio of mounted men swept
through the gate and into the yard.
He looked up as the cavalcade blocked the light in front of him. Through watering eyes he got an
impression of bright colors and rich patterns. As the coughing fit passed, he heard a voice bellowing in his
ear, "Boy! Say, boy! Take care of the horses, I say!"
Randal turned toward the speaker, and saw a young man scarcely a year or two older than himself. The
youth wore the belt, spurs, and chain of a knight, and rested one gloved hand on the hilt of a sword.
So this is what they're making knights out of these days, thought Randal.
Sir Palamon was right about chivalry going downhill in a greased handcart.
The young man wasn't amused by Randal's appraising glance. "Look at me that way again, boy, and I'll
slap your eyes out. Now take the horses and be quick about it, their comfort's worth more than your
miserable life."
Randal looked away. He took the bridles of the horses as they were given to him and kept his thoughts
to himself. The Basilisk's regular hostler, the one Randal was supposed to be assisting, came running up
to help with the task, all the while bowing to the lordlings and muttering a stream of flattering phrases.
In spite of the hostler's show of eagerness, most of the work still fell to Randal. He walked the horses
down, dried them, and curried them. When that task was finished, the hostler had Randal spread new
straw and set out hay. By the time the work in the stable was done, the sun had almost set, and Randal
had to help close the gates of the inn yard.
With its gates closed and barred, the inn resembled a small fortress more than it did a place where
hospitality might be found. Nobody inside the walls complained, however-no honest man went abroad in
this country by night. Some folk claimed that in the old days, before the death of the High King, wild
beasts were never seen outside of the deepest forests, and a man could walk alone from one side of the
realm to the other with a sack of gold tied to his belt, and never fear a thief. But if those days had ever
truly existed, they were long gone. When they could, travelers spent the night behind locked doors.
After the gates were shut, Randal went to the kitchen behind the main room of the, inn. These days, as he
made his way to Tattinham as a traveling laborer, he never got to walk into any place by the front door.
In the kitchen, the cook set Randal to scouring out the pots and pans from dinner. Finally, almost two
hours later, Randal got his own share of the evening meal: a small portion of burned meat and soggy
bread.
He retreated with the food to the chimney corner, where he wolfed down the bread and meat in spite of
the taste. As usual, the food vanished long before his hunger was satisfied. He thought wistfully of the