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

in front of so many eyes. Pointing fingers and snickering grins flashed among the tables.
'It's good to see you again, too, Racelle,' Bukama murmured with a small smile when she
finally released him. 'I didn't know you had an inn here. Do you think -?' He lowered his gaze
rather than meeting her eyes rudely, and that proved a mistake. Racelle's fist caught his jaw so
hard that his hair flailed as he staggered.
'Six years without a word,' she snapped. 'Six years?' Grabbing his ears again, she gave
him another kiss, longer this time. Took it rather than gave. A sharp twist of his ears met every
attempt to do anything besides standing bent over and letting her do as she wished. At least she
would not put a knife in his heart if she was kissing him. Perhaps not.
'I think Mistress Arovni might find Bukama a room somewhere,' a man's familiar voice
said drily behind Lan. 'And you, too, I suppose.'
Turning, Lan clasped forearms with the only man in the room beside Bukama of a height
with him, Ryne Venamar, his oldest friend except for Bukama. The innkeeper still had Bukama
occupied as Ryne led Lan to a small table in the corner. Five years older, Ryne was Malkieri too,
but his hair fell in two long bell-laced braids, and more silver bells lined the turned-down tops of
his boots and ran up the sleeves of his yellow coat. Bukama did not exactly dislike Ryne - not
exactly - yet in his present mood, only Nazar Kurenin could have had a worse effect.
While the pair of them were settling themselves on benches, a serving maid in a striped
apron brought hot spiced wine. Apparently Ryne had ordered as soon as he saw Lan. Dark-eyed
and full-lipped, she stared Lan up and down openly as she set his mug in front of him, then
whispered her name, Lira, in his ear, and an invitation, if he was staying the night. All he wanted
that night was sleep, so he lowered his gaze, murmuring that she honoured him too much. Lira
did not let him finish. With a raucous laugh, she bent to bite his ear, hard, then announced that by
tomorrow's sun she would have honoured him till his knees would not hold him up. More
laughter flared at the tables around them.
Ryne forestalled any possibility of righting matters, tossing her a fat coin and giving her a
slap on the bottom to send her off. Lira offered him a dimpled smile as she slipped the silver into
the neck of her dress, but she left sending smoky glances over her shoulder at Lan that made him
sigh. If he tried to say no now, she might well pull a knife over the insult.
'So your luck still holds with women, too.' Ryne's laugh had an edge. Perhaps he fancied
her himself. 'The Light knows, they can't find you handsome; you get uglier every year. Maybe I
ought to try some of that coy modesty, let women lead me by the nose.'
Lan opened his mouth, then took a drink instead of speaking. He should not have to
explain, but Ryne's father had taken him to Arafel the year Lan turned ten. The man wore a single
blade on his hip instead of two on his back, yet he was Arafellin to his toenails. He actually
started conversations with women who had not spoken to him first. Lan, raised by Bukama and
his friends in Shienar, had been surrounded by a small community who held to Malkieri ways.
A number of people around the room were watching their table, sidelong glances over
mugs and goblets. A plump copper-skinned woman wearing a much thicker dress than Domani
women usually did made no effort to hide her stares as she spoke excitedly to a fellow with
curled moustaches and a large pearl in his ear. Probably wondering whether there would be
trouble over Lira. Wondering whether a man wearing the hadori really would kill at the drop of a
pin.
'I didn't expect to find you in Canluum,' Lan said, setting the wine-mug down. 'Guarding a
merchant train?' Bukama and the innkeeper were nowhere to be seen.
Ryne shrugged. 'Out of Shol Arbela. The luckiest trader in Arafel, they say. Said. Much
good it did him. We arrived yesterday, and last night footpads slit his throat two streets over. No
return money for me this trip.' He flashed a rueful grin and took a deep pull at his wine, perhaps
to the memory of the merchant or perhaps to the lost half of his wages. 'Burn me if I thought to
see you here, either.'