"Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Archives" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

"He probably got in Cook's way and she booted him with a broom."
"He did not!" Evaine insisted, hugging the cat closer. "There's someone down there. Come and see. Cathan, please!"
"Evaine, I'm not going downstairs," Cathan snapped. "I don't feel like playing. In case you hadn't noticed, this stupid cold is making me mean and grumpy. Why don't you go pester Joram and Rhys?"
"They're too busy playing their dumb game! Just because I'm little, nobody ever listens to me!"
Rhys, who had been following the exchange with growing amusement, exchanged a conspiratorial wink with Joram, who had also sat back to grin.
"We'll listen to you, won't we, Joram?" he said, delighted at the excuse to leave the hopeless game and do something else.
Apparently Joram had also grown bored with the game, for he joined in without missing a beat.
"Of course we will, little sister," he said, rising and adjusting a dagger thrust through the belt of his blue school tunic. "Why don't you show us where you think you heard them? Can't have prowlers carrying off the silver. Do you think they've tied up the servants?"
"Jor-am!"
"All right, all right!" Joram held up both palms and did his best to assume the more serious mien he thought a future Michaeline Knight should wear. "I said we'd go investigate. Why don't you leave Symber here, where he'll be safe?"
"No!"
"Then, why don't you let me carry him?" Rhys reasoned. "That way, you can lead the way and show Joram and me where to look."
"All right, you can carry him," she agreed, handing over the cat. "But I think Joram better go first. He's got a knife."
"Good idea," Joram said, though he had to turn away to keep from grinning. As he stealthily pushed the door to the turnpike stair a little wider, holding a finger to his lips for silence, Rhys hefted the cat's front end onto his left shoulder and supported its weight in the crook of his arm. The cat began purring loudly in his ear as it settled, kneading contentedly with its front paws.
Rhys ignored Cathan's bemused and slightly patronizing smile as he followed Joram and Evaine into the winding stairwell. What did he care what Cathan thought? If Evaine had judged Joram best suited to lead a military exercise, she was only acknowledging the obvious-and without any of the hint of ridicule Cathan so often heaped upon Rhys for his lesser military acumen. And it was Rhys to whom she had entrusted her precious Symber-which was a far more important responsibility, in her eyes.
On the other hand, Rhys' military training had not been wholly wasted. Trying to place his slippered feet as quietly as Joram or the cat purring in his arms, he sent a tendril of thought questing into the cat's mind- just in case there was something going on below stairs that shouldn't be.
And Symber had been frightened by something. The big black cat was too wrapped up in the pleasure and security of perching on Rhys' shoulder, reveling in that special ecstacy that only the feline purr declared, for Rhys to read any details; but he did manage to catch an impression of something Symber did not like, that had scared him enough to send him scooting to Evaine for safety. And somehow Rhys did not think it had been Cook with her broom.
He sent that mental impression off to Joram just before they reached the landing, but only the two MacRories had gotten close enough to even touch the curtains across the entry to the great hall before a pair of hairy arms burst through the split in the middle and grabbed each by an arm, jerking them through.
"I told you I'd seen a kid!" a rough voice bellowed.
"Rhys, Rhys!" Evaine shrieked. And a heavy "Whoof!" exploded from someone far larger and heavier than Joram as Rhys instinctively ducked and hurled himself through the curtained doorway at the side rather than in the middle, burdened by an armful of suddenly startled cat-and found himself right in the middle of a tangle of struggling bodies, both adult and child.
"Cathan!" Joram screamed, sending up a psychic cry as well, as he squirmed almost out of the grasp of the man who held him and Evaine and somehow managed to get his dagger free of his belt. "Rhys, look out!"
But Rhys was having his own problems as he tried to duck the clutches of another rough-clad man who suddenly loomed right in front of him. He yelped and lost his footing as Evaine's cat launched itself from his shoulder with all its back claws dug in, but the squawk of horrified surprise from his attacker was worth the pain, for Symber landed on the man's bare forearm with all claws out and clung like a limpet, sinking his teeth into the fleshy part of the man's thumb with a ferocious growl.
Cursing and flailing, the man tried to shake the cat off his arm; Symber only dug in with all four sets of claws and held on more tenaciously. Rhys almost managed to tackle one of the man's legs and trip him, but a vicious kick that only narrowly missed his head changed his mind about that. As he rolled clear, trying frantically to see whether there might be more than just the two men and wondering where the dogs were, Evaine wormed out of the grasp of her captor-who was now far more worried about Joram's knife than a child of six-and went for the man molesting her cat, kicking him hard in the shin.
The man howled and whirled around. The reaction cost the cat its grip. As the man grabbed for Evaine and missed, cursing with rage, he made an even more desperate attempt to dislodge the clawing, biting black demon attached to his arm. With a mighty heave, he shook Symber loose and flung him hard against the wall. Evaine wailed as the cat slid to the floor and did not move.
But even worse danger kept Rhys from noticing what happened to cat or girl after that. He was scrambling toward Joram, for Joram was losing the tug of war with his attacker for the knife in his hand, when suddenly a third man towered between them, throwing down a bag of booty with a loud clank and seizing Rhys by a bicep with one hand while the other began to draw a sword.
Rhys tried to remember every trick he'd ever practiced or heard about hand-to-hand fighting in the next few seconds, for he was weaponless, and his opponent was probably three times his age and weight. As he ducked under a blow that would have taken off his head if it had connected, he saw Cathan finally careen out of the newel stair doorway with a sword in his hand, shouting urgently for the servants.
He was too busy staying alive to see what happened as the older boy took after the man who was grabbing for Evaine again. As Evaine dove between Cathan's legs for safety, Rhys' concentration was distracted by even more frantic scuffling between Joram and his opponent. Suddenly fire was searing across the back of Rhys' right leg, and it was buckling under him.
The pain was excruciating, the terror worse, as Rhys collapsed and tried to worm out of his assailant's range, clamping a frantic hand to the slash across his calf. His hand came away bloody in the instant he had to look, the thick wool of his grey legging rapidly turning scarlet. He was gasping too hard to utter much physical sound as the man raised a bloody sword to finish him, but his desperate psychic cry reverberated in the hall and beyond as he made a last, determined attempt to fling himself clear of the descending blade-though he was sure he was going to die.
He never knew how Cathan managed to intervene; only that suddenly another sword was flashing upward to block the blow, shattering the attacker's lesser blade, driving on to split the man's skull from jaw to crown. As blood and brains spattered, and before the man even hit the floor, Cathan was whirling to take on Joram's opponent. The man who had menaced Evaine was already moaning on the floor, clutching a belly wound and trying to crawl out of Cathan's reach.
A handful of male servants finally managed to burst into the hall at that point, quickly helping Cathan subdue and bind the remaining attacker. Only then did Rhys dare to sit up and take another look at his wound.
Oh, God, it was bad!
His breath hissed between his teeth, and tears welled in his eyes as he clapped his hand back over the gash and subsided on the floor again.
The great tendon down the back of his calf was cut clean through. Despite the depth of the wound, he did not seem to have bled much after the initial trauma, but the leg was begining to throb and burn as the first shock wore off. A Healer might be able to repair the injury, but if he could not, Rhys would be a cripple for life.
"I'll send for a Healer!" one of the servants promised, tight-lipped and pale, when he had gotten just a glimpse of Rhys' leg. "Try to stay calm."
Biting back tears, for he was old enough to know that crying was not going to help matters any, Rhys curled into a ball on his left side and closed his eyes, pillowing his head on his left arm and trying to relax while he made himself run through one of the spells he'd been taught to control pain. He was scared, but it was the only thing he knew to do.
It worked, though. When he opened his eyes, the leg was numb, and he was no longer quite so afraid. Joram and a still-sniffing Evaine were kneeling at his side, Evaine cradling a motionless but still-breathing Symber in her arms.
"Is it bad?" Joram asked, craning his neck to see. "Jesu, he's hamstrung you! You aren't bleeding very much, though. Father will be back soon. Cathan and I have already Called him."
"I think I Called him, too," Rhys whispered, managing a strained little grin for Evaine's sake as he drew a deep breath to keep the pain and despair from rising again. "Him and any Deryni for two counties. I thought they were going to kill us."
"I think they may have killed Symber," Evaine murmured around a little sob of grief, ducking her head over the cat's labored breathing. "That horrid man threw him against the wall! He's still breathing, but he's all limp."
As she lifted plaintive eyes to his, begging him to tell her everything would be all right, he caught Joram's faint head-shake. He had to agree the cat did not look good. Wincing as he shifted his good leg to support the injured one, still holding his wound with his right hand, he tried to think how to make it easier for her.
"I'm sorry, little one," he whispered. "Maybe it isn't as bad as you think. Would you-like to put Symber next to me? Maybe a Healer can fix us both, when one gets here. And if I worry about Symber, maybe I won't worry so much about my leg."
With a brave gulp, Evaine laid the injured cat in the curve of Rhys' left arm, close against his chest and cheek. He could sense how badly the cat was hurt, even though it was unconscious, and he let his fingertips caress one quiet velvet paw as he looked up at Evaine, wishing there were something he could do.
"You-you're not going to die, are you, Rhys?" she asked in a very small voice.
He forced himself to give her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry," he said softly. "It's bad, but I'll be all right."
Cathan came and crouched at Rhys' feet to look at the wound, snuffling and wiping futily at his nose with a blood-stained sleeve, then sat heavily on the floor and let out a forlorn sigh.
"Well, at least Father will be here soon with a Healer. The king's loaning him Dom Sereld. He's one of the best. Damn!" He slammed a bloody fist against the flagstones. "I should have gotten to you sooner! I should have come down when Evaine asked me to! They poisoned the dogs with doctored meat while the servants were busy in the cellar. They must've known most of the household were away."
The steward came with questions about the prisoners after that, and Cathan took Joram with him to see to their handling until Camber should arrive. Evaine stayed with Rhys, though, laying her small hands on his forehead and helping him ease into a floating, twilight state that was even more isolated from his pain. It was something Rhys could have done for himself, as most Deryni with any training could have done, but the luxury of not having to do it released him to drift off to merciful sleep while he waited for the Healer.
He dreamed about the cat curled in the hollow of his arm-dreamed that the animal snuggled closer and buried a cool, damp nose in his side, purring so hard that the vibration resonated all along his body.
He dreamed of the summer Camber had brought the kitten home, an endearing scrap of plush black fur with eyes like peridots and needle-sharp hooks at the tips of velvet paws. By Christmas, the adorable kitten had turned, as kittens will, into an awkward, gangling catling, all huge bat-ears, over-long legs, and a stringy tail. For months, Lady Jocelyn referred to him as "the damned stringbean."
By the following summer, however, Symber had grown into the promise of his kittenhood and become the sleek, graceful feline Rhys remembered best: friend, comforter, and counsel-keeping confidant of all the MacRorie household-though it was Evaine and Rhys he seemed to prefer. It was that Symber who stayed in Rhys' dream, his purr rumbling in Rhys' ear and taking him deeper, deeper...