"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

The merchant developed a wary look. "Your grace?"

"Can you hold a sword, Master Nemthe? No? Are you an archer? Can you use a spear, perhaps? A knife? Not that either? Ah, but I do you an injustice. The weapons of commerce are parchment and pen. Would you care to write the Vellant'im a letter?"

Instinct told him not to stand; unlike Rohan, he was very tall and physical intimidation was best saved for those who required it. Nemthe's humiliation could be accomplished with words. Pol was not stupid enough to make the mistake of overkill.

He knew it was stupid to address the subject of his cousin, but once begun, the words would not stop.

"Or perhaps you'd turn your parchment and pen in Lord Andry's direction. Better yet, why not seek his protection yourself, as you have such faith in it? True, Goddess Keep is a goodly journey from here. In winter, with who knows which armies marching where, I estimate it would take ... oh, call it sixty days, just to be on the safe side. Well, Master Nemthe? When are you leaving?"

Crimson with rage, the merchant turned his head to look for allies. The hall was hushed to the rafters. Not even a candle dared to flicker.

Pol was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He'd known full well what he should have said, what he had set Nemthe up to hear. But every word he spoke was wrong.

That's what he got for trying to be clever. For trying to be his father.

AH at once a chair scraped on the tiles. A tall, white-haired old man stumped forward to the high table, the light of battle in his eyes. Nemthe's head turned; his spine turned to steel. "Tormichin," he muttered. "I only needed that!"

The elderly merchant bowed low to Pol, then addressed Nemthe. "That's no way to talk to a lad who's lost his father, and still less a thing to say in the hearing of all of us who've lost our High Prince! You think he's not just as worried for his wife and little girls? But he's also got all the rest of us to protect, and all the princedoms to defend! You apologize at once, you insolent swine!"

"There's no need for that," Pol said swiftly. "It is I who must ask Master Nemthe's pardon. Reminding a prince of his shortcomings can be an uncomfortable practice." He consciously used what Andrade had always called the family smile, feeling even more the fool. "It's true that as yet I'm untested as High Prince. It's also true that I shall need the assistance of all persons of good will."

"And we can help you most by packing ourselves out of your way," Master Tormichin asserted. "Anywhere you send us is fine with me, your grace." He elbowed his fellow merchant in the side.

Nemthe swallowed bile and nodded. "With all of us, your grace. I've heard of a holding called Chaldona. If it's possibleЧ"

And there ensued the conversation that ought to have occurred to begin with. Guilt made Pol offer carts to carry people and possessions, and mountain ponies to draw them. Nemthe wanted an escort of one hundred soldiers; Tormichin avowed they needed only thirty. Pol gave them fifty. Isriam, back in control and understanding his part, offered to lead them.

"The two hundred measures to Chaldona won't be easy," Pol warned.

"No worse than the many hundreds we Dorvali had

traveled thus far, your grace," Tormichin said. "I'm an old man, far from my hearth and home. But between staying in the middle of a war or a five-day journey over a good road to a safe haven, I know which to choose. Wisdom doesn't have to bite me on the ankle."

So Pol got what he wanted. It was settled that on the morrow provisions would be gathered and transportation organized, and the next day the more than three hundred Dorvali would leave for Chaldona. When the two masters had returned to their seats, Pol accepted the wine cup Meiglan handed him and drained it in two swallows.

"Well done, my lord," she whispered.

She would think so. Dear, loyal, loving Meggie. It wasn't her fault she didn't understand.

*

In the event, it wasn't necessary to steal Rinhoel's dragon token. Mevita had one of her own: the gift Pol had sent on the birth of his namesake. Delicately wrought in silver, its hinged neck had unlatched to reveal a bracelet studded with amethysts. The jewels were back at Waes with everything except their wedding necklets, but the silver dragon gleamed from Mevita's hand in the candlelit antechamber.

"This will do," she said to Naydra and Cluthine. "I don't want to make a thief of any of us."

"Or get anyone caught." The princess glanced nervously to the closed door. "Will this really work? Are you and Rialt sure about its being significant to the Vellant'im?"

"As sure as it's possible to be without actually testing it." Her thumb stroked the dragon's back. "Rinhoel has one that he won't let anyone near. Aurar wears one when she goes out ridingЧand we're positive where she goes. It makes sense."