"Mercedes Lackey - Firebird" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

and thence to the meadow. Instead, he slipped into the servants' area, to the tiny,
windowless, chill little closet beside the dilapidated chapel, the cramped cell of a
room allotted to Father Mikail. As he expected, the priest was taking his dinner with
the servants now that the family and the important folk of the palace had eaten their
fill. With him would be Ruslan the Shaman, giving mutual protection and bolstering
the frayed dignity of each other. Of all the free-born and (theoretically) highborn folk
in the palace, they were the lowest in rank, and no more than nominally above the
servants, and in reality treated with less respect than anyone other than a drudge.
There wasn't room for anything in this room but a small chest and a bed, so Ilya
didn't need to be able to see to get what he wanted. He knelt down in the darkness,
reached under the bed, and felt among the wool slippers, winter boots, and odds
and ends that needed mending until he felt the neck of his balalaika. He kept it in
Mikail's room to prevent his brothers from cutting the stringsтАФthey wouldn't
actually break it, because they might want him to play at some point. But they knew
that he usually played it when he was trying to attract a girl, and if he found it with
the strings cut he'd either have to spend precious time restringing and tuning it, or do
without and risk losing the girl.
It was easier just to hide it with Mikail. With his instrument in hand, he made his
way out to his meeting with the pretty dairymaid.
Once he got into the kitchen garden, he relaxed. It was just dusk, easy enough to
see where he was going, and at this point only one of his brothers would be likely to
stop him. He came to the fence, crossed the stile into the meadow, and made his
way slowly through the waist-high grass. The dairy cattle wouldn't be put here until
first frost, so he didn't need to worry about being interrupted by a curious cowherd
or stepping in a heap of dung. The soft, cool evening air, scented with the flowers
that grew thickly underfoot, brushed his skin gently. Crickets sang among the
grass-stems, and somewhere nearby a nightingale poured out her heart to the stars
that were slowly appearing in the east.
Ilya planned his campaign as he walked, instrument slung over his back, hands
swinging at his sides. She seemed agreeable, but I doubt she'll let me get too far
tonight. He never forced his women, taking his cue from Sasha, who felt the same
way. As far as Ilya could tell, given that the serfs would not protest anything to a
member of the family, the brothers were about evenly divided on their initial
techniques when it came to tumbling girl-flesh. Pietor, Alexi, Yuri, and Gregori had a
certain reputation for ordering a girl to come to them and taking what they wished
from her. He, Sasha, Mischa, and Boris preferred girls who came willingly.
IvanтАФwho knew? None of Ivan's wenches ever talked.
Well, no one would ever deny Father anything, so even the unwilling girls
probably pretend to be willing.
So, tonight would be the start of a new campaign. There would be lots of kissing
and caressing, and maybe the girl would let him go farther than thatтАФbut unless she
already had a position inside the palace in mind, it would take another two nights at
least before he stormed the ramparts and the gates opened for him. Still, the
conquest itself had its rewards, because once the girl yielded to him, it was only a
matter of time before she looked elsewhere than him for a loverтАФnot because he
was a bad lover, but because there wasn't much to be gained, in the way of presents
or position, by being his lover. He'd know his time was over when she wheedled him
for a position on the palace staff, or when she just showed up there by herself. The
latter, of course, could be accomplished by going to the steward and claiming to be
with Ilya's child, whether she was or not. The steward would ask Ilya if he had taken