"Forgotten Realms - Shandril's Saga 01 - Spellfire (2002) (Greenwood, Ed)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forgotten Realms)

She washed her face and hands in the basin of cool water she'd left for Lureene, another young woman who waited on the tables and shared the sleeping-loft with Shandril, except on nights when she had a man and Shandril was banished to the cellar for her own safety. She changed her clothing and crept quickly downstairs again along the passage to the deserted taproom. Gorstag would be seeing to the food, she knew, and he would have started the evening fire already. A party of adventurers had come in from Cor-myr earlier, and Gorstag would be busy. The flagstones were cool under her feet.
The taproom was warm and smoky. Light blazed up from the crackling hearth and the several sputtering torches mounted on the walls and hooded with grim black iron. Shadows leaped on the walls and the great beams that ran low overhead the length of the taproom, bearing the sleeping chambers of the inn's upper stories upon their mighty backs. In the shifting play of light, the scenes on faded, flaking paintings seemed to live and move. The high deeds of heroes of the dales were remembered there, and the glories of battles long past. Massive tables of dark oak planks with squat, thick-carved legs crowded the room, and about them were plain, smooth benches and stout chairs covered in
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worn leather.
Over the bar hung a two-handed broadaxe, old but proud, well-oiled, and kept sharp. Gorstag had borne it in far-off lands in days long gone and adventures he would not speak of. When there was trouble, Shandril remembered, he could still toss it from hand to hand like a dagger and whirl it about as though it weighed nothing. Whenever Shandril asked him about his adventures, the old innkeeper only laughed and shook his head. But often in the mornings, when Shandril crept down the stairs to start the kitchen fires, she would stop and look at the axe and imagine it in Gorstag's hands on sun-drenched battlefields far away, or amid icy rock crags where trolls lurked, or in dark caverns where unseen horrors dwelt. It had been places, that axe.
The bar itself was surrounded by a small, gleaming forest of bottles of all sizes and hues, kept carefully dusted by Gorstag. Some came from lands very far away, and others from Highmoon, not half a mile off. Below these were the casks, gray with age, which the men filled from smaller traveling kegs at the upper bungs, kept sealed with wax and emptied by means of brass taps. Gorstag was very proud of those taps, since they had come all the way from fabled Water-deep.
Above the bottles, just over the axe, there was a silver crescent moon, tilted to the left just as it was on the creaking signboard outside the front door: The Rising Moon itself. Long ago, a traveling wizard had cast a spell on the silver crescent, and it never tarnished. The house was a good inn, plain but cozy, its host well respected, even generous, and Highmoon was a beautiful place.
But to Shandril, it seemed more and more to be a prison. Every day she walked the same boards and did the same things. Only the people changed. The travelers, with their unusual clothing and differing skins and voices, brought with them the idle chatter, faint smells, and excitement of far places and exciting deeds. Even when they came in, dusty and weary from the road, snappish or sleepy, they had at least been somewhere and seen things, and Shandril envied them so much that sometimes she thought her heart would burst right out of her chest.
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Every night folk came to the taproom to smoke long pipes and drink Col-stag's good ate and listen to the gossip of the Realms from other travelers. Shandril liked best those times when the grizzled old men of the dale who had themselves fought or gone adventuring in their younger days told of their feats, and of the legendary deeds of even older heroes. If only she were a man, strong enough to wear coat-of-plate and swing a blade, to set foes staggering back with the force of her blows! She was quick enough, she knew, and judged herself fairly strong.
But she was not strong like these great oxen of men who lumbered, ruddy-faced, into the inn to growl their wants at Gorstag. Even the long-retired veterans of Highmoon, some \ nodding and shrunken with age, others scarred or maimed in ancient frays, seemed like old wolvesЧstiff, perhaps, slower and harder of hearing, certainly, but wolves nonetheless. Shandril suspected that if ever she looked in the house of any of these old men of Highmoon, an old blade or mace would be hanging in a place of honor like Gorstag's axe. If ever she got to see any of the other houses in Highmoon, it would be a wondrous thing, she reflected sourly.
She sighed, her scalded hands still smarting. She dared not smear goose-grease on them before getting the herbs, or Korvan would fly into a rage. His aim with kitchen utensils was too good for her health, Shandril knew. Smiling ruefully, she took the basket and knife from behind the kitchen door and went out into the green stillness of the inn garden. She knew by now what to cut, and how much to bring, and what was fit to use and what was not, although Korvan made a great show of disgust at her selections and always sent her back for one more sprig of this, and chided her for bringing far too much of that. But he used all she brought, Shandril noticed, and never bothered to get more himself if she was busy elsewhere.
Korvan was still absent when she returned to the kitchen. Shandril spread the herbs out neatly in fan patterns upon the board and exchanged basket and knife for the wooden yoke and its battered old buckets. I'm used to this, she realized grimly. I could be forty winters old, and still I'd know nothing but lugging water. Hearing Korvan coining down
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the passage into the kitchen, grumbling loudly about the calm thievery of the butcher, she slipped out the back door. She darted across the turf to the stream, holding the ropes of the pails with practiced ease to keep them from banging against each other.
She felt eyes upon her and looked up quickly. Gorstag had come around the corner of the inn. Trotting head down, she had nearly run into his broad chest. He grinned at her startled apologies and danced around her, making flourishes with his hands as he did when dancing with the grander ladies of the dale. She grinned back after a moment, and then danced to match him. Gorstag roared with laughter, joined by Shandril. Suddenly, the kitchen door banged open and Korvan peered out angrily. Opening his mouth to scold Shandril, he closed it again with an audible snap as the innkeeper leaned over to smile closely at him.
Gorstag turned back to her and said, for Korvan's benefit, "Dishes done?"
"\fes, sir/' Shandril replied, giving a slight bow.
"Herbs cut and ready?"
"Tfes, sir." Shandril bowed again hastily to hide her growing smile.
"Going straight out for water. I like that ... I like that indeed. You'll make a good innkeeper yourself someday. Then you could have a cook to do all those things for you!" They both heard Korvan's sniff before the kitchen door slammed. Shandril struggled to swallow her giggles.
"Good lass," Gorstag said warmly, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
Shandril smiled back at him through the hair that had fallen over her face again. Well, at least someone appreciated her! She hurried off down the well-worn, winding path of beaten earth and exposed tree-roots to the Glaemril, to draw staggeringly heavy buckets of water for the kitchen. Tonight would be a busy night. If Lureene did not bed with one of the travelers, she'd have much to tell as Shandril hissed questions in the darkness of the loft: who came from where, and where they were bound, and on what business. News, too, and gossipЧall the color and excitement of the world outside, the world that Shandril had never seen.
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Gratefully she waded out into the cool water, her bare feet avoiding the unseen stones with long practice as she filled the old wooden buckets. Then, grunting with the effort, she heaved them up onto the bank and stood for a moment, hands on hips, looking up and down the cool, green passage of the stream through Deepingdale's woods. She could not stay long, or swim or bathe and get herself wetter than she was, but she could look... and dream. Past her feet, the GlaemrilЧDeeping Stream, some called it-rushed laughingly over rocks to join the great river Ashaba that drained the northern dales and then turned east to slip past rolling lands, full of splendid people and wondrous things, lands that she would see, someday!
"Soon," she said firmly, as she climbed from the stream and took up the worn wooden yoke. A heave, a momentary stagger under the great weight and she began the long climb up through the trees back to the inn. Soon.
Adventurers were staying at The Rising Moon this night; a proud, splendid group of men by the name of the Company of the Bright Spear. Lean and dangerous in their armor and ready weaponry, they laughed often and loudly, wore gold rings on their hands and at their ears, and drank much wine. Gorstag had been busy with them all afternoon, for as he told Shandril with a wink as he strode down the cellar stairs in search of old and cobweb-covered bottles of wine, "It pays to keep adventurers happy, and it can be downright dangerous if you do not." They would be in the taproom by now, Lureene already flirting and flouncing saucily as she brought them wine and strong cider and aromatic tobacco. Shandril promised herself she'd watch them from the passage, while Korvan was busy with the pastry.
Shandril kicked the rusted pot by the back door so that the cook would hear and let her into the kitchen. The chain rattled as Korvan threw up the half-bar and snarled, "Get in!" The expected pinching and slap came as she staggered across the uneven floor with the water. "Don't spill any of that, mind! There are dishes waiting, sluggard! Move that shapely little behind of yours!" Korvan rumbled, ending with his horrible, barking laugh. Shandril set her teeth grimly under the yoke. Someday she'd be free of this!
Х 14*
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The evening grew cool, as it often did in the dale after a hot day, mist gathering in the trees. The Rising Moon's taproom filled up quickly. The townsfolk of Highmoon had done business with the Company of the Bright Spear, and the veterans had come to take their measure and perhaps swap some tales. Shandril managed one quick peek at the taproom and saw the company holding court, all boisterous Jests and laughter, at the central tables. A scattering of local veterans sat nearer the bar, and at the small tables along the wall were other visitors. Shandril noticed two lady adventurers close to the bar. Noticed, and stared.
They were beautiful. Tall, slimЧand free to do as they pleased. Shandril gazed at them in wonder from the shadows. Both of the women wore leather and plate half-armor without color or blazon. Long, plain scabbards at their hips held swords and daggers that looked to have seen heavy use. Their cloaks were also plain, but of the finest cloth and make. Shandril was surprised at the soft beauty of the two and the quiet grace of their movementsЧno red-faced oxen, these. But what struck her most was their calm self-assurance. They were what she longed to be. Shandril stared at them from the darkness of the passageЧuntil Korvan came out of the kitchen with a roar. He plucked Shandril up by grabbing a fistful of tunic and hauling roughly and carried her down the passage and into the kitchen.
"Do /stand and gawk? If I did, what would the guests eat then?' was all Korvan said, in a fierce whisper with his stub-bled face an inch from hers, and Shandril feared for her life. If there was one thing Korvan cared about, it was his cooking. For a wild moment, as he thrust a bowl of potatoes at her, Shandril considered attacking her tormentor with a kitchen knife, but that wasn't the sort of 'adventure' she wanted.
But as she washed and cleaned out three hares under Kor-van's hot glare, Shandril knew that she'd had more than enough of this treatment. She was going to do somethingto get out of here. Tonight.
"A good place, I've heard," said the mage Marimmar in the
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last blue light of dusk, as their ponies carried them down through the trees toward the lanterns of Deepingdale. " Mind you say nothing of our business or destination, boy. If asked, you know nothing. You are not even all that interested in Myth Drannor?'
Narm Tamaraith nodded In weary silence, and his master turned on him sharply in the gloom. "Do you hear, boy?
Answerf
"Aye, Lord, tЧnodded, not thinking you would not see. 1 beg full pardon. I will say nothing of Myth Drannorf' Nairn's master, Marimmar "the Magnificent" (Narm had heard him called other things occasionally, but never to his face), snorted.
" 'Not thinking*! That's the problem, boy, too much of the time. Well, think! Deep but sharp, boy, deep but sharpЧ dont let the world around escape your notice, lest it sticks a blade in your ribs while your wits are off somewhere considering Xult's Seven SigUs! Got it?"
"Aye, Lord," Narm replied, sighing inwardly. It was to be one of those evenings. Even if this inn was nice, he'd scarcely have the chance to enjoy it, with Marimmar holding forth on all of Nairn's many shortcomings. Narm could see now why the Mage Most Magnificent had so readily agreed to take on an apprentice. Marimmar needed someone around to belabor, and no doubt few stayed long to listen. His master's art was good, though; Narm knew enough of magic to be certain of that. But Marimmar certainly knew how to ruin the delight and enthusiasm of any adventureЧ or even daily chores, for that matter. Narm turned into the yard of The Rising Moon, pronouncing silent curses upon his master. Maybe there would be pretty girls inside. . . .
After the hares and four pheasants and too many carrots and potatoes to count, Shandril stole away for another look at the inn's guests. The company of adventurers might talk of their deeds, or even show off some treasure. Moreover, she might learn who the two ladies were. Flitting barefoot down the passage in her greasy tunic and apron, Shandril peered out cautiously into the noise and bustle.
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Across the smoky taproom sat an imperious man in fine gray robes, a thin pipe between his fat fingers as he spoke to his companion, a much younger man. This one was handsome, even in nondescript gray robes that were too large for him. He was dark-haired and slim, with a very serious face. His eyes were intent on the cup of wine he clasped on the table before him. Shandril was about to turn away when suddenly his gaze met hers.
Oh, his eyes! Belying that stern face, they were dancing. They met hers merrily and did not ridicule her wild-tousled, long blonde hair and greasy garb, but winked at her as an equalЧone, moreover, lucky to be in the shadows and not facing a steady barrage of questions.
Shandril flushed and tossed her headЧand yet could not go. Snared by his gaze, by being regarded as aЧperson and not a servant, Shandril stood watching, mute, hands clenching in the folds of her apron. Abruptly, the youth's gaze was jerked away, as a hooked fish is pulled from the water regardless of its will to stay, by the impatient snapping of the older man's fingers.
Shandril stood alone in the shadows, as always, trembling with excitement and hope. These folk who traveled about the world outside were no greater than herself. Oh, they were rich enough, and had companions and business of import, and experienceЧbut she could be one of them. Someday. If ever she dared. Shandril could look no longer. Bitterly she turned back to the kitchen, railing inwardly at the fear that always held her there, despite the endless pots and scalding water, despite Korvan.