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

"What's Calimshan like?" asked Robyn.
Daryth shrugged, but then smiled at her disarmingly.
"Like any powerful nation, I guess. It's run by the merchants, mostly, under control of the Pasha. I served the Pasha directly - a position of high honor, I suppose." The Calishite's tone showed that he thought very little of the honor.
"How about the festival?" prodded the prince, feeling a little thirsty.
"You two go ahead," said the Calishite. "I'd like to settle in here and relax a bit."
"You're coming with us!" Robyn's tone brooked no argument. "This is the liveliest night Corwell will see until Midsummer, and I'm not going to let you miss it!"
For a moment, it seemed to the prince that a shadow passed across Daryth's face. Tristan hoped he would disagree with the woman and stay behind, but he relented.
"Very well. Let's have some fun."
The golden reflections of sunset still flickered in Corwell Firth as Tristan, Robyn, and Daryth returned to the festival. Many revelers carried torches, and bright lanterns hung from all of the stalls, so the meadow was lit against the darkness. Still, just beyond the periphery of the celebration, the cold spring air was black and mysterious.
In the pocket of light, the spring celebration approached frenzy. Bards struck their harps with enthusiasm, the opposing sounds mingling in the air. Hucksters pressed their wares eagerly, the sellers of meads and ales prospered, and much gold and silver changed hands.
Celebrations of the Ffolk were hard-drinking affairs, and the spring festival washed away a winter's worth of boredom. In many places, snoring bodies lay along the aisles or underneath the drinking benches. These were ignored by their fellows who could still walk.
The air of the festival made Tristan bubble with enthusiasm and excitement. Daryth observed the festivities with unabashed wonder.
"Twice better than last year's," observed the prince, watching Robyn laugh happily, "as it should be." Then he paused abruptly and his face went blank as he remembered. "The hound. I'd better stop at Pawldo's and make the arrangements."
"Did I hear my name?" Tristan looked around to see little Pawldo beaming up at him. Clinging to his arm, looking nervously at them, was a young Halfling maiden.
"Allow me to introduce Allian," stated Pawldo formally. "My dear, this is Tristan Kendrick, prince of Corwell, the king's ward, Robyn, and - say, aren't you -" Pawldo's eyes widened at the sight of Daryth.
"And this is Daryth of Calimshan," Tristan interjected, bowing to Allian, who blushed deeply.
"Delighted to meet you all," she giggled, her voice even higher pitched than Pawldo's.
"Tristan pulled the leather pouch from his pocket.
"Here's your money, Pawldo. Forty gold, right?"
"Tch - with a memory like that, you'll never make a king!" Pawldo grinned. "The figure I recall is fifty!"
"Indeed," muttered Tristan, counting out ten more gold pieces. "I'll pick up the hound in the morning."
"Well, we're off!" announced the halfling, tucking away the coins. "The halflings of Lowhill are having a big dance tonight!" He and the young maid swiftly melted into the crowd.
"I don't know where to begin!" cried Robyn, whirling around and trying to see everything.
A pair of tumblers rolled between the companions, and Robyn, startled, stepped backward. "Look!" she called.
Seizing Tristan's arm, she pulled him along behind the acrobats. But the prince noticed that her other arm was just as warmly clasping Daryth's.
"Perhaps a cool mug of ale..." the prince suggested. In an instant, Robyn had pulled them into a small stall. Tristan found himself buying a round for his companions, as well as the half dozen Ffolk in the place.
"Many thanks, my prince!" acknowledged an old farmer with a broad smile. Tristan reflected that he heard his title only from good friends, or drunks. In a corner of the stall, a lesser bard tried to strum a lively country tune. Several equally lively wenches surrounded the musician, urging him on, dancing and laughing, and kicking high at the growing crowd of onlookers. The festive atmosphere made them ignore the fact that the music was slow and and dissonant, for the bard had not thoroughly mastered his harp. The prince thought it was unfortunate that the greater bards all gathered to play at Caer Callidyr, citadel of the High King, for the spring festival.
Tristan watched with interest, but then Robyn was gone again.
"Come on!" she called before disappearing around a huge green and yellow tent of gleaming silk. The canopy seemed to shine brighter in the torchlight than it had in sunlight, perhaps because of the contrast against the inky background.
Following Robyn around the tent, the men found her staring with interest through a hooded doorway, into a darkened tent interior. Acrid smoke puffed from the entrance, and she coughed slightly.
She started to step through the door when Daryth moved forward. "This is a Calishite tent, Robyn, and I know the odor of the ginyak weed. This is not a place for a young lady."
"What makes you think I'd be in trouble there?" she asked, a glare in her eye.
"I did not mean to... please!" Daryth stuttered, suddenly nervous. "But trust me, we ought to find our fun elsewhere!"
Robyn looked again at the entrance. Tristan, certain that the headstrong lass would ignore Daryth and charge right in, was more surprised when, without further argument, she spun and turned away.
Brushing past both Daryth and the prince, she walked on. Tristan saw Daryth cast a frightened glance at the tent, and run to catch up with her.
"Here," Robyn called gaily, rushing to the entrance of another silken tent. They crowded inside and spent several minutes watching a snake charmer artfully coerce his serpentine pets from their large, clay jars. In the back of the tent, the snake charmer displayed, chained to a stout post, a great Firbolg.
The giant slept, so its ferocity could not be tested.
"Look at that nose!" commented the prince, watching the great organ flex with the Firbolg's heavy snores.
"The poor creature," said Robyn, with an angry look about the tent. "Keeping it chained up like an animal!"
"It's worse than an animal," charged Tristan. "It's a monster!"
"Some monster!" Robyn snorted. "Old and weary, I would say, and better off wherever it came from!" She stalked off.
Once again, the young men found themselves hurrying through the festival grounds, trying to keep Robyn in sight. Shortly, Tristan found himself in a smoky but huge tent, watching oiled dancers undulate to the jarring rhythm of tiny cymbals and wailing pipes. He would have been willing to watch more of the exotic dance, but he found himself annoyed that Robyn so boldly joined the men in watching the suggestive movements.
"Let's go," he said gruffly, and Daryth, too, urged Robyn out of the tent.
One after another, they inspected the tents and pavillions of the fair. Several times they lingered in a meadhall, or wine tent, and the flush of many drinks made the evening whirl more madly than ever. In one such tent, Tristan saw the brawny form of Erian, but the big guard had already collapsed in the corner. In another, they ordered a massive limb of mutton, which Daryth tore into as if half starved.
Other tents offered wares for sale, products of the hardworking craftsmen of the Ffolk. Smooth pottery, colorful wool cloaks and capes, and gleaming steel weapons all displayed the skill of Tristan's people, and it was not without pride that he compared the fine weapons to the cheaper, iron implements of the northmen.
Robyn bartered with a crone of a weaver-woman for a new cape, embroidered in a bright, leafy pattern. Throwing it over her slender shoulders, she whirled alluringly for her two companions.
Finally, the trio found themselves standing before the white linen tent of Friar Nolan. The stout cleric rushed from the entrance and fastened on Tristan. "The shame! The debauchery!" Friar Nolan's bald head glistened with sweat, and his eyes were wide. In emphasis, he bobbed his head excitedly at the dancers and drunks thronging through the festival.
"The gods are forgiving, and will overlook much, but I fear for many souls tonight," the cleric continued in a breathless rush. Although the clerics of the new gods had been preaching on the Moonshae Islands for a century or more, many of the Ffolk still clung to their traditional worship of the earthmother. The Ffolk accepted, and even appreciated, the clerics, for their powers were beneficial, and their practices benign.
Still, old traditions carried great weight among the Ffolk, and the presence of the druids served as a strong counter to the clerics of the new gods.
The source of the druids' might came from the wild places of the Moonshae Islands - particularly the Moonwells. Mostly solitary, living in secluded groves, the druids gathered at the communities of the Ffolk for occasions such as the festival, or emergencies such as floods, earthquakes, or war.