"David Freer - The Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Freer Dave)

smallest shred of responsibility. She was blessed with perfect features and a good, if immature, figure.
She was a spoilt, poisonous little bitch. It is impossible to say what her friends called her, for she had
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none.

The reams of golden bracelets on her arms tinkled musically as she moved. Their sweet sound failed to
enhance the performance of a royal temper tantrum. It was indeed a magnificent theatrical display,
otherwise. From a safe distance, say a hundred miles, it had all the elements of a farce, but to those
unfortunate enough to be involved in it, it was undoubtedly a tragedy. Five foot two of concentrated ennui
and pique was likely to mean at least pain, or even death, to them.

She stormed and ranted at the unfortunate majordomo, her potentially beautiful little face screwed up
into a mask of rage. "Howdare you deny us!" A stamp of a small foot, "We want them! You will get us
some,now!" she screamed as shrilly as any fishwife. Even in her fury the royal "we" was maintained.

The plump man knelt, shaking with fear. His position had ensured that while the rest of the city starved,
he had remained very well larded. Now it seemed that he would have to pay the price for all those meals.
"Your Royal Highness!" He wrung his hands. "I can't get you fresh bilberries. You don't evenlike them!"
He held his position because he always remembered her likes and dislikes perfectly.

She ignored the perfect truth of his statement. Her mouth opened in a vixenlike grin, little white teeth
clenched. The green eyes narrowed. She pointed out of the diamond-pane windows, across the sprawl
of Shapstone City, to the surrounding hills. The voice was cruelly honeyed. "The hills are purple with
them. Get us some,now!"

She knew as well as he did that the Morkth troops held the city in a vicious siege. They had for the last
five months. She knew that those close, purple hills were as unreachable as the moon. But she played a
toxic little game with him. The uninitiated would have failed to understand it, but she was, for lack of
anything better to practice on, manipulating him. She would reduce him to abject fear and pleading. Then
she would forgive him if, of course, he obliged with a few other trifles. The game was partially to relieve
her boredom, but partially because this was what she'd been trained to do, from very early childhood.

Yes, she was pampered. Yes, in almost all respects, she was allowed free rein. But she knew what she
was. She was simply a pawn in her father's machinations. He planned to use her to further his Empire
dream, and for this he had trained her. She could have her way with all but her instructors. They had
shaped her to his design. She knew how to manipulate. She could have written volumes on court intrigue,
and how to turn it to her own ends. She'd been taught by the best. She could have seduced an
eighty-year-old eunuch if need be. They'd had some very unusual palace guests to teach her the theory of
bed arts. Theory only: her virginity had some considerable value in certain circles. However, she'd been
taught how to fake that, too. She knew far more than any apothecary about poisons, where to find them,
how to make them, and how to administer them. She was an expert with a thin-bladed dagger. She was
also sixteen and tired of waiting. She felt her talents were being wasted.

Now for the strike. The pleas would begin in a moment. She turned her face away toward the door, in
time to see the second of her ever-present guards stagger and fall. The man who had pressed the
razor-tipped spike in through the guard's ear was smiling, sharklike. She'd seen him often enough before,