"R. A. MacAvoy - Damiano" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAvoy R A)

avoiding Raphael's, slid around the great hall with its
cream-colored walls, floor of painted flowers, and as-
sorted alchemy bric-a-brac scattered on the acid-stained
oak tables. He focused on the black kettle hanging over
the central hearth.
"Damiano jerks and stutters. He has the smooth
articulation of a sore-footed cow. And as for his lifeтАФ
well his life is to take lessons: in magic, in music. He
has done that for twenty-one years."
Raphael didn't smile. "You are very hard on your-
self. Remember that the harshest critic on earth is my
brother, and his specialty is telling lies. Personally I like
Damiano's playing." He extended the liuto. Damiano
took it and fondled it absently. He always felt uneasy
when Raphael began to talk about his brother the
Prince of Darkness.
"If you continue to study," added the angel, "I
expect you will develop the ears to hear yourself as I
do."
"I knew there was some reason I was studying,"
he muttered. "So it's just so I can hear myself without
wincing?"
His grumble died away, and Damiano lifted his
eyes to the echo of siege engines, distant and ghostly,
resounding in the hall. The iron lids of the many pots
on the hearth rattled in reply.
The angel didn't seem to hear. "I thought that was
done with," muttered Damiano, furrowing his fore-
head. Rough brows met in a straight line. "Last Tues-
day the men of Savoy crept out of Partestrada, between
midnight and matins. The citizens they abandoned are
in no position to fight."
Raphael seemed to contemplate the bare hall. "It's
not really... battle that you hear, Dami. Pardo's rams
are knocking down walls outside of town."
"Walls? Whose? Why?" Damiano shot to his feet
and wedged his shoulders into the narrow crack of a
window. A man of more substance would not have
been able to do it. The wall was almost two feet thick,
for the Delstrego house had been built as a fortress.
Damiano craned his head left and peered along the
main street of Partestrada. From this particular win-
dow, if he twisted with a good will, he was able to spy
around one corner to the front of Carla Denezzi's
house, where in good weather she sat on the balcony,
doing her complicated needlework. Damiano was prac-
ticed at making this particular neck twist. What it told
him often decided whether he'd bide his time at home
or venture out.
Today the balcony was empty; and its wooden