"Robin Hobb - Assassin 1 - Assassin' s Apprentice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hobb Robin)

rough pat or two, but whether this was from some kindhearted impulse that I make
a good impression, or merely a concern that his package look well tended, I will
never know. He stood again and knocked once at the double doors. Having knocked,
he did not wait for a reply, or at least I never heard one. He pushed the doors
open, herded me in before him, and shut the doors behind him.
This room was as warm as the corridor had been chill, and alive as the other
chambers had been deserted. I recall a quantity of furniture in it, rugs and
hangings, and shelves of tablets and scrolls overlaid with the scattering of
clutter that any well-used and comfortable chamber takes on. There was a fire
burning in a massive fireplace, filling the room with heat and a pleasantly
resinous scent. An immense table was placed at an angle to the fire, and behind
it sat a stocky man, his brows knit as he bent over a sheaf of papers in front
of him. He did not look up immediately, and so I was able to study his rather
bushy disarray of dark hair for some moments.
When he did look up, he seemed to take in both myself and the guard in one
quick glance of his black eyes. "Well, Jason?" he asked, and even at that age I
could sense his resignation to a messy interruption. "What's this?"
The guard gave me a gentle nudge on the shoulder that propelled me a foot or
so closer to the man. "An old plowman left him, Prince Verity, sir. Says it's
Prince Chivalry's bastid, sir."
For a few moments the harried man behind the desk continued to regard me with
some confusion. Then something very like an amused smile lightened his features
and he rose and came around the desk to stand with his fists on his hips,
looking down on me. I did not feel threatened by his scrutiny; rather it was as
if something about my appearance pleased him inordinately. I looked up at him
curiously. He wore a short dark beard, as bushy and disorderly as his hair, and
his cheeks were weathered above it. Heavy brows were raised above his dark eyes.
He had a barrel of a chest, and shoulders that strained the fabric of his shirt.
His fists were square and work-scarred, yet ink stained the fingers of his right
hand. As he stared at me his grin gradually widened, until finally he gave a
snort of laughter.
"Be damned," he finally said. "Boy does have Chiv's look to him, doesn't he?
Fruitful Eda. Who'd have believed it of my illustrious and virtuous brother?"
The guard made no response at all, nor was one expected from him. He
continued to stand alertly, awaiting the next command. A soldier's soldier.
The other man continued to regard me curiously. "How old?" he asked the



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guard.
"Plowman says six." The guard raised a hand to scratch at his cheek, then
suddenly seemed to recall he was reporting. He dropped his hand. "Sir," he
added.
The other didn't seem to notice the guard's lapse in discipline. The dark
eyes roved over me, and the amusement in his smile grew broader. "So make it
seven years or so, to allow for her belly to swell. Damn. Yes. That was the
first year the Chyurda tried to close the pass. Chivalry was up this way for