"01 - Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moonshae)

"As if you had cause to doubt..." Pawldo started to retort, but Tristan was not listening.
The animal was a moorhound - one of the savage hunting dogs bred exclusively on the Moonshae Islands. This was not remarkable - Trstan already owned a dozen of the large dogs. But this moorhound was a large and powerful specimen with a proud bearing quite unusual for its kind.
Among the terriers, racers, and wolfhounds in Pawldo's collection, this great brown moorhound stood out like a princess among scullery maids. His brown coat gleamed, thick and smooth, over broad shoulders and long, slender legs. Even for a moorhound, he was huge. His eyes were riveted on Tristan, just as the prince studied him.
"Where did you find him?" Tristan asked.
"Came across with me from Norland, he did. Rode in the bow like he was born to the sea. I've never seen him take any notice of a man - until now that is."
Tristan strode to the dog's side, and knelt on the muddy grass, his eyes level with the dog's. He thought of his hounds. Already they were fierce and loyal hunters - but with a dog such as this to lead them, they would be the finest pack of dogs in the Isles! Tristan slowly took the great head in his hands. The shaggy tail flickered slightly, swaying from side to side.
The prince stared into the moorhound's eyes and whispered, "We shall be the greatest hunters on Gwynneth - no, on all the Moonshaes! Even the Firbolgs of the Highlands will tremble in fear at your cry.
"Your name will be Canthus." The dog regarded the prince keenly, brown eyes shining. His mouth opened slightly as he panted, and Tristan noted teeth the size of his little finger.
A number of onlookers had gathered to observe the prince, and Tristan felt a quick rush of pride as he realized that they looked with equal admiration upon his dog. A pair of savage, yellow-bearded northmen stood behind Pawldo, jabbering in their strange tongue full of yerg and url sounds. Several fisherffolk, a woodsman, and two young boys also watched. A crimson cloak, among the plain garb of the villagers, marked a young Calishite trader, staring in wonderment.
Tristan tried to conceal his eagerness as he stood and turned back to Pawldo, but his palms were sweating. He must have this dog! Trying to look disinterested, he opened the bidding. "He is indeed a fine animal. I'll give you ten gold for him!"
With a wail of anguish, Pawldo staggered backward. "The sea swelled over the bows," he cried in his high, squeaking voice. "Bold sailors grew pale with fear, and would have retreated, but I pressed on! I knew, I told myself, of a prince who would sacrifice his kingdom for such a dog - a prince who would reward well the steadfastness of an erstwhile friend... who would -"
"Hold!" cried Tristan, raising his hand and looking the halfling in the eye while trying to keep from laughing. "You shall have twenty, but no m -"
"Twenty!" The halfling's voice squealed in outrage. He turned to the listeners and threw out his hands, a picture of wounded innocence. The two northmen chuckled at his posturing.
"The sails hung in tatters from the beam! We nearly capsized a dozen times. Waves the size of mountains smashed us... and he offers me twenty gold!" Pawldo turned back to the prince, whose smile was growing thin. "Why a dog like this, to one who knew such creatures, would fetch a hundred gold in an instant - in any civilized port in the world!"
The halfling smiled disarmingly. "Still, we are friends, and so I would remain. He is yours.... For eighty gold!" Pawldo bowed with a flourish to the gasps of the growing crowd. Never had a dog been sold for half of that asking price!
"You overestimate the size of my purse," retorted the prince, knowing full well that the price was going to stretch the limits of his allowance. Ruefully, Tristan groped for a bargaining strategy, but his purse felt very vulnerable. Pawldo knew him too well; the prince could not resist such a magnificent dog.
"I can offer you forty, but that is all I -"
"Forty gold," pronounced Pawldo, still playing the crowd. "A respectable sum, for a dog. If we talked of a normal dog, I would say yes in an instant."
"Fifty," declared the prince, starting to get annoyed at the high cost of doing business with Pawldo.
"Sold!"
"Well done! Bravo!"
The praise was accompanied by hearty handclapping and a delighted, feminine laugh.
"Thank you, my dear Lady Robyn," acknowledged Pawldo, with a theatrical bow.
"And you - I'm surprised you got that crooked halfling down from a hundred," Robyn said to Tristan. The young woman's black hair gleamed in the sunlight, and her green eyes sparkled. Unlike most of the young ladies at the festival, she was clad in practical garb - green leggings and a cape the color of bright rust. Yet her beauty outshone that of the most daintily dressed maidens.
The prince returned Robyn's bright smile, pleased to encounter her. The festival would be even more fun if he could enjoy it with her on his arm.
"Are you here to buy a dog?" he asked, ignoring Pawldo's outstretched hand.
"No. I just came down here to see the animals. The castle was too dark and cold for such a lovely day!"
"Did you talk to my father this morning?" Tristan asked, and immediately wished he hadn't when he saw the flash of pain on her face.
"No," she said quietly, turning her head to the side.
"The king... wanted to be alone."
"I understand," replied Tristan. He looked at the mass of Caer Corwell, towering above the commonsfield on its rocky knoll, and thought briefly of his father. If the king would not even see Robyn - his beloved ward - then he would have nothing to do with anyone.
"Never mind. Let the old coot sit and brood if he wants to!" Tristan ignored the hurt look upon Robyn's face. "Did you see my new prize?"
"He's a fine animal," admitted Robyn somewhat coldly. "But so was his price!"
"Yes, indeed,"chuckled Pawldo. The halfling thrust out his hand again.
Tristan reached for his coin purse. He took minor notice of a crimson flash to the side - the passing of the Calishite in his bright cloak. And then his hand closed upon air, where the fat pouch had been.
He looked toward the ground, suddenly alarmed, but then turned and stared. The red cloak was nowhere to be seen.
"Thief!" Tristan cursed loudly, and sprinted in the direction he had last seen the flash of crimson. Robyn and Pawldo, momentarily surprised, started after him.
Darting around a tent, and barely avoiding a tall stack of kegs, Tristan saw the flash of red some distance away. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes, and then his quarry disappeared.
The prince dashed through a wine tent, leaping several low benches and scattering several early imbibers. Stumbling from the canvas structure back into the aisle between tents, he looked for the thief.
Again the flash of red, and this time the prince closed the distance. The Calishite sprang away with renewed speed, pushing roughly through groups of people, and once spilling a stack of pots and pans into the prince's path. The thief ran well, but Tristan's legs carried him quickly over the ground, springing over obstacles or cutting sharply around corners. Often Arlen, the prince's frustrated teacher, had forced his student to run across the moors for hours at a time, developing his endurance and, incidentally, using up boyish energy. That training now paid off as Tristan picked up speed down a straight aisle.
People turned to gape in astonishment at the two runners. Quickly, the chase drew the attention of the festival-goers. Many of the Ffolk, recognizing Tristan and thinking it was some sort of merry game, gave shouts and laughter of encouragement; soon the prince was followed by an enthusiastic throng urging him on.
Finally the prince closed the gap; with a desperate dive, he grabbed the crimson cloak and jerked the thief to the ground. Tristan fell heavily over him, rolling once and then springing to his feet. The thief also recovered, but by the time he stood, the pair were surrounded by a mob of festival-goers.
Whirling, the swarthy Calishite confronted the prince with a long, curved dagger. Tristan quickly snatched his own hunting blade from its sheath and stopped ten feet from the Calishite. For several seconds, the pair observed and judged each other.
The thief, about Tristan's size and not much older, began to grin in anticipation, though it was mixed with grudging respect for his opponent. The black eyes flashed with humor, and danger, and the thief 's stance beckoned.
As Tristan paused, the curved dagger flashed outward and up. The prince instinctively blocked the blow with his own knife, but he was shocked by the swiftness of the hissing blade.
The thief, too, looked surprised at the quickness of the parry. "You use it well," he acknowledged in heavily accented Commonspeech, indicating the heavy knife.
The crowd grew rapidly, but stood well back from the fight. Their mood was tense and quiet now, as they sensed the danger. But no one dared to intervene.
For the first time, Tristan felt a flash of worry. The thief was so cool, even pleasant, yet he must know that he had been caught. Why did he not simply surrender?
Suddenly, catlike, the man sprang. The attack almost caught Tristan off guard, but his keyed instincts sent him darting to the side. He grasped the thief's wrist as his attacker's momentum carried him past. Then, kicking out sharply to the side, the prince knocked the Calishite to the ground.
But suddenly the grip in which Tristan held his foe reversed itself, and the prince felt himself being flung backward. The wind exploded from his lungs as he landed heavily on his back. Like lightning, the thief sprang toward his chest, curved dagger flashing toward the prince's neck.