"Glenda Larke - Heart of the Mirage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Larke Glenda)

It was easy to imagine Rathrox, a thin grey man with yellow teeth, using his
caustic wit to amuse his emperor. Easy to imagine the sixty-year-old
Exaltarch, his handsome face marred by the cynicism of his eyes, being amused
by Rathrox's brand of cruel humour. (What I couldn't imagine was what they
found so entertaining about me.
Even as I speculated, the Exaltarch gave a belly laugh loud enough to carry
through to the anteroom. The two imperial guards outside the door affected not
to hear; I frowned. I was still pacing up and down, irritably because of the
unfamiliar feel of carpet beneath my bare feet, but the laugh halted me. It
was the kind of guffaw a person might make if they saw a slave spill soup in a
rival's lap. Under the circumstances it was hardly encouraging, although I
couldn't imagine what I'd ever done to warrant the mockery of the Exaltarch.
One of the guards gave me a sympathetic look. He had been more appreciative
when I'd first arrived, eyeing my bare right shoulder, long legs and the swell
of my breasts with a connoisseur's eye, but his
appreciation had died once he noticed the graceless way I walked and sat. Not
even wearing a fine silk wrap threaded through with gold could make me
feminine enough to please a man like that guard; the stylish wrap of the
highborn lacked allure when it was worn as if it were a large, hastily donned
bath towel. I had no pretensions to elegance, or even moderately good looks.
I'm taller than most women, long-limbed and muscular. My skin is an
unfashionable brown, and my hair the burnt-sienna colour of desert earth,
although I did keep it curled and highlighted gold, more in keeping with
Tyranian notions of beauty and fashion.
I felt someone approach the door and prepared myself for its opening. A slave
appeared in the doorway and motioned me inside; I obeyed wordlessly and, eyes
discreetly downcast, went to kneel at the feet of my monarch, just managing to
suppress my distaste for the feel of carpet beneath my knees. The slave
slipped away through a side door and I was left alone with the Exaltarch and
Magister Rathrox. 'My service is yours,' I said formally, and touched my hand
to the hem of the Exaltarch's robe in symbolic submission. The gold trimming
was knobbed with seed pearls and felt stiff and harsh beneath my fingers. I
kept my eyes lowered.
There was a long silence and then an 'Ah' that was little more than an
expelled breath. 'So you are Ligea, the late General Gayed's daughter. Look
up, girl, and let me see you properly.'
I raised my head and ventured to return the gaze of the Exaltarch's assessing
eyes. I had seen him at close quarters once before, years ago. At the time
he'd been returning to the city of Tyr at the head of his victorious troops
and in those days he was lean and hard and arrogant, a politician-soldier
about to wrest
the last vestiges of political power from the hands of his senile predecessor
and a divided Advisory Council. The arrogance was still present, but the
hardness had gone from the body into his face. His physique was showing signs
of easy living тАФ sagging chest, raddled cheeks, a belly large enough to move
independently of the rest of him тАФ but his face said this was a man used to
being obeyed, a man who knew how to be ruthless. No overindulgence would ever
eradicate the brutal shrewdness of those cold eyes, or the harsh lines around
his mouth.
He was lounging on a red velvet divan, at ease, the fingers of one hand