"Mercedes Lackey - Brightly Burning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

He could have hired a horse to ride-there was a stable with horses for hire and a bigger park to
ride them in-but what was the point of that? You werenтАЩt allowed to take the beast any faster than a trot,
you had to stick to the bridle paths, and the riding park was just a bigger version of the tiny park of their
square. Riding in the park was nothing more than a way for girls to show themselves off for young men,
and young men to assess the competition. It wasnтАЩt even exercise.
Lan hated Haven; he had since heтАЩd arrived, and he hadnтАЩt seen anything yet to change his mind.
But he was in the minority, because the rest of his family had taken to life in the city with the enthusiasm
of otters to a water slide.
His mother was at the Guildhouse every day, her daughter with her at least part of the time. LanтАЩs
younger sister Macy took after her mother in every way, and it looked as if Nelda would be handing the
reins of her position in the Guild over to her daughter when the time came that she wished to step down.
Macy adored every facet of city life, and so did LanтАЩs younger brother, Feodor. Feodor tagged after
their father the way Macy trailed behind Nelda, absorbing every aspect of the business of a cloth
merchant as easily as a towel soaked up water. LanтАЩs oldest brother Sam wasnтАЩt even in the equation-he
spent so much time at his MasterтАЩs that Lan scarcely even saw him.
A proper little copy of Father, he is, Lan thought cynically. And how nice for him that is.
Same for Feodor. They never got into trouble just for existing; they never got the long looks of disgust
or disappointment. Not once. Back home, that hadnтАЩt mattered; Lan was out at dawn and not back until
dark, and if his parents were disappointed in him, at least he was able to avoid them.
Why canтАЩt they just send me back home? he thought longingly.
It wasnтАЩt as if they couldnтАЩt afford it, not with all the silver his father was throwing around lately.
They kept saying that it was time he grew up and took on some responsibilities and made something of
himself. . . .
Why? Highborns donтАЩt have to! There are plenty of people with well-off parents who arenтАЩt
expected to go out and тАЬmake something of themselves.тАЭ
The only thing he really wanted to do was out of the question, of course. Given a choice, heтАЩd
have entered the Guard. He knew he rode well enough to get into the mounted troops; he certainly didnтАЩt
fancy marching for leagues and leagues on his own two feet. He rather thought heтАЩd look good in the
Guard uniform of dark blue and silver, and it was an admitted magnet to attract pretty girls, or at least it
had been at home. Even foot soldiers got attention when they passed through Alderscroft.
The one and only time heтАЩd mentioned his ambitions, there had been such an outcry he hadnтАЩt
dared say anything about it again. And without family support-well, he could pretty much forget about
getting into the mounted troops, at least for a long while. If you brought your own horse and passed the
riding trials, you went automatically into the cavalry, but if he didnтАЩt have family support, he wouldnтАЩt
have a horse. And he wasnтАЩt so desperate that he cared to just run off and join the ground troops.
Definitely not. Without some weapons-training, real training with a Weaponsmaster, heтАЩd go
straight into training with that most basic of front-line weapons, the pike. It would be months before he
got his hands on a bow or an edged weapon, and all his time would be spent on grueling marches and
drills.
I might as well be a woodcutter, it would be as much work and more interesting.
And anyway, he couldnтАЩt even run off to join the Guard for another two years. Even if he lied
about his age and identity, his parents would probably find out where he was and drag him home again.
Nobody would believe I was sixteen anyway. Skinny and lanky he might be, but he was also
undersized. He didnтАЩt even look fourteen. Feodor looked older than he did, and was certainly taller.
Of course, as his father pointed out constantly, a lack of height didnтАЩt matter to a merchant or a
Guildsman.
By this time he had brooded himself into a truly black humor, and the moment he heard the
housemaids come giggling into the kitchen for their late breakfast, he bolted up the stairs for his room,
now carefully polished and scrubbed, any trace of him erased. He took a perverse pleasure in pulling the
curtains shut on the morning sunshine and undoing their work by casting himself on the bed, boots and all.