"Katharine Kerr - The Bargain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kerr Katherine)

The Bargain
By: Katharine Kerr
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Katharine Kerr, best known for her Deverry series, rarely writes short fiction. тАЬThe
BargainтАЭ is thus a very rare event and a very special story. And even now, IтАЩm
wondering if Kit has managed to get out of committing short fiction yet againтАФIтАЩve
got my suspicion that тАЬThe Bargain,тАЭ a story of Deverry, is a ballad written in the
form of prose. Certainly, it has the wry Celtic wisdom on which Kit has built her
reputation.
****
A long time ago, when Deverry men first sailed west to the province they called
Elditina, but which we know today as Eldidd, there lived a man named Paran of
Aberwyn. Half scribe and half hunter, he was the son of a merchant house but a
restless soul who preferred to explore new territory rather than haggle in the
marketplace. All alone he traveled wild places and lived out of his pack like a
peddler, but he carried dry chunks of ink, a stone for grinding them with water,
bunches of river reeds that he could cut into pens, and strips of parchment. Since in
those days there were no lodestones and astrolabes, his maps were rough, of
course. He squinted out the directions from the sun and estimated the distances from
how far and fast heтАЩd been walking, but he always put in plenty of
landmarksтАФwatercourses and suchlikeтАФso that others could follow him. Both the
merchant guilds and the noble lords paid high for those maps and the stories he told
to go with them.
On one of his trips west, however, Paran ended up with a fair bit more than
heтАЩd bargained for. After about a weekтАЩs walk on foot to the west of Aberwyn, he
came to a place where, through a tangle of sapling hazels and fern, he saw a river
flowing silently, clear water over white sand. The path heтАЩd been following, a deer
trail or so he assumed then, turned to skirt the water and lead deeper into the trees.
At the bank itself, he found a clearing, a sunny luxury after days in the wild forest.
He swung his heavy pack off his shoulders and laid it down for a good stretch of his
sore back. To either hand the river ran through a tunnel of trees that promised hard
walking ahead. Nearby, the pock pock pock loud in the drowsy summer day, a
woodpecker hammered an oak.
тАЬGood morrow, little carpenter,тАЭ Paran remarked.
The bird ignored the sound of his voiceтАФpuzzling, that. He sat down by his
pack, unlaced the leather sack at the top of the wooden frame, and took out a long
roll of parchment, scratched and spotted with his map and his notes. He was just
having a look at how far heтАЩd come when he heard the barest trace of a sound
behind him. He was on his feet and turning in an instant, his hand reaching for the hilt
of his sword, but he drew it only to find himself facing an archer, his horn bow
drawn, an arrow nocked and ready, out of reach at the forest edge. When Paran let
his sword fall and raised his hands in the air, the archer smiled. He was a pale young
man, with a long tangle of hair so blond it was nearly white, and boyish-slender with
long, narrow fingers. Barefoot, he wore a knee-length tunic of fine pale buckskin,
belted in with the quiver of arrows slung at his hip. Around his neck on thongs hung
a collection of tiny leather pouches and what seemed to be carved bone charms or
decorations. When he spoke quickly in a melodious, lilting, and utterly unknown
language, Paran gave a helpless sort of shrug. тАЬMy apologies, lad, but I donтАЩt
understand.тАЭ The archer cocked his head in surprise, looked Paran over for a
moment, then whistled three sharp notes. From a far distance they heard first one