"Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 00 - New Spring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

The air of Kandor held the sharpness of new spring when Lan returned to the lands where
he had always known he would die. Trees bore the first red of new growth, and a few scattered
wildflowers dotted winter-brown grass where shadows did not cling to patches of snow, yet the
pale sun offered little warmth after the south, a gusting breeze cut through his coat, and grey
clouds hinted at more than rain. He was almost home. Almost.
A hundred generations had beaten the wide road nearly as hard as the stone of the
surrounding hills, and little dust rose, though a steady stream of ox-carts was leaving the morning
farmers' markets in Canluum and merchant trains of tall wagons, surrounded by mounted guards
in steel caps and bits of armour, flowed towards the city's high grey walls. Here and there the
chains of the Kandori merchants' guild spanned a chest or an Arafellin wore bells, a ruby
decorated this man's ear, a pearl brooch that woman's breast, but for the most part the traders'
clothes were as subdued as their manner. A merchant who flaunted too much profit discovered it
hard to find bargains. By contrast, farmers showed off their success when they came to town.
Bright embroidery decorated the striding countrymen's baggy breeches, the women's wide
trousers, their cloaks fluttering in the wind. Some wore coloured ribbons in their hair, or a narrow
fur collar. They might have been dressed for the coming Bel Tine dances and feasting. Yet
country folk eyed strangers as warily as any guard, eyed them and hefted spears or axes and
hurried along. The times carried an edge in Kandor, maybe all along the Borderlands. Bandits
had sprung up like weeds this past year, and more troubles than usual out of the Blight. Rumour
even spoke of a man who channelled the One Power, but then, rumour often did.
Leading his horse toward Canluum, Lan paid as little attention to the stares he and his
companion attracted as he did to Bukama's scowls and carping. Bukama had raised him from the
cradle, Bukama and other men now dead, and he could not recall seeing anything but a glower on
that weathered face, even when Bukama spoke praise. This time his mutters were for a stone-
bruised hoof that had him afoot, but he could always find something.
They did attract attention, two very tall men walking their mounts and a packhorse with a
pair of tattered wicker hampers, their plain clothes worn and travel-stained. Their harness and
weapons were well-tended, though. A young man and an old, hair hanging to their shoulders and
held back by a braided leather cord around the temples. The hadori drew eyes. Especially here in
the Borderlands, where people had some idea what it meant.
`Fools,' Bukama grumbled. `Do they think we're bandits? Do they think we mean to rob
the lot of them, at midday on the high road?' He glared and shifted the sword at his hip in a way
that brought considering stares from a number of merchants' guards. A stout farmer prodded his
ox wide of them.
Lan kept silent. A certain reputation clung to Malkieri who still wore the hadori, though
not for banditry, but reminding Bukama would only send him into a black humour for days. His
mutters shifted to the chances of a decent bed that night, of a decent meal before. Bukama seldom
complained when there actually was no bed or no food, only about prospects and the
inconsequential. He expected little, and trusted to less.
Neither food nor lodging entered Lan's thoughts, despite the distance they had travelled.
His head kept swinging north. He remained aware of everyone around him, especially those who
glanced his way more than once, aware of the jingle of harness and the creak of saddles, the clop
of hooves, the snap of wagon-canvas loose on its hoops. Any sound out of place would shout at
him. That had been the first lesson Bukama and his friends had imparted in his childhood; be
aware of everything, even when asleep. Only the dead could afford oblivion. Lan remained
aware, but the Blight lay north. Still miles away across the hills, yet he could feel it, feel the
twisted corruption.
Just his imagination, but no less real for that. It had pulled at him in the south, in Cairhien
and Andor, even in Tear, almost five hundred leagues distant. Two years away from the
Borderlands, his personal war abandoned for another, and every day the tug grew stronger. The