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

hadori.' People were forgetting, trying to forget. When the last man who bound his hair was gone,
the last woman who painted her forehead, would Malkier truly be gone, too? 'Why, Ryne might
even get rid of those braids.' Any trace of mirth dropped from his voice as he added, 'But is it
worth the cost? Some seem to think so.' Bukama snorted, yet there had been a pause. He might be
one of those who did.
Striding to the stall that held Sun Lance, the older man began to fiddle with his roan's
saddle as though suddenly forgetting why he had moved. 'There's always a cost for anything,' he
said, not looking up. 'But there are costs, and costs. The Lady Edeyn. . .' He glanced at Lan, then
turned to face him. 'She was always one to demand every right and require the smallest obligation
be met. Custom ties strings to you, and whatever you choose, she will use them like a set of reins
unless you find a way to avoid it.'
Carefully Lan tucked his thumbs behind his swordbelt. Bukama had carried him out of
Malkier tied to his back. The last of the five. Bukama had the right of a free tongue even when it
touched Lan's carneira. 'How do you suggest I avoid my obligations without shame?' he asked
more harshly than he had intended. Taking a deep breath, he went on in a milder tone. 'Come; the
common room smells much better than this. Ryne suggested a round of the taverns tonight.
Unless Mistress Arovni has claims on you. Oh, yes. How much will our rooms cost? Good
rooms? Not too dear, I hope.'
Bukama joined him on the way to the doors, his face going red. 'Not too dear,' he said
hastily. 'You have a pallet in the attic, and I . . . ah . . . I'm in Racelle's rooms. I'd like to make a
round, but I think Racelle . . . I don't think she means to let me . . . I . . . Young whelp!' he
growled. 'There's a lass named Lira in there who's letting it be known you won't be using that
pallet tonight, or getting much sleep, so don't think you can -!' He cut off as they walked into the
sunlight, bright after the dimness inside. The greylark still sang of spring.
Six men were striding across the otherwise empty yard. Six ordinary men with swords at
their belts, like any men on any street in the city. Yet Lan knew before their hands moved, before
their eyes focused on him and their steps quickened. He had faced too many men who wanted to
kill him not to know. And at his side stood Bukama, bound by oaths that would not let him raise a
hand even had he been wearing his blade. If they both tried to get back inside the stable, the men
would be on them before they could haul the doors shut. Time slowed, flowed like cool honey.
'Inside and bar the doors!' Lan snapped as his hand went to his hilt. 'Obey me, armsman!'
Never in his life had he given Bukama a command in that fashion, and the man hesitated a
heartbeat, then bowed formally. 'My life is yours, Dai Shan,' he said in a thick voice. 'I obey.'
As Lan moved forward to meet his attackers, he heard the bar drop inside with a muffled
thud. Relief was distant. He floated in ko'di, one with the sword that came smoothly out of its
scabbard. One with the men rushing at him, boots thudding on the hard-packed ground as they
bared steel.
A lean heron of a fellow darted ahead of the others, and Lan danced the forms. Time like
cool honey. The greylark sang, and the lean man shrieked as Cutting the Clouds removed his
right hand at the wrist, and Lan flowed to one side so the rest could not all come at him together,
flowed from form to form. Soft Rain at Sunset laid open a fat man's face, took his left eye, and a
ginger-haired young splinter drew a gash across Lan's ribs with Black Pebbles on Snow. Only in
stories did one man face six without injury. The Rose Unfolds sliced down a bald man's left arm,
and ginger-hair nicked the corner of Lan's eye. Only in stories did one man face six and survive.
He had known that from the start. Duty was a mountain, death a feather, and his duty was to
Bukama, who had carried an infant on his back. For this moment he lived, though, so he fought,
kicking ginger-hair in the head, dancing his way towards death, danced and took wounds, bled
and danced the razor's edge of life. Time like cool honey, flowing from form to form, and there
could only be one ending. Thought was distant. Death was a feather. Dandelion in the Wind
slashed open the now one-eyed fat man's throat - he had barely paused when his face was ruined -