"Marco,.John.-.Tyrants.And.Kings.3.-.Saints.Of.The.Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marco John)

"I've been called to the Black City," he said. His voice had a
confessional tone, like a whisper. "Emperor Biagio and his
inquisitor wish to speak with me."

"Yes, Father," said Alazrian. He had heard the gossip among the
staff.

Leth was to face the Protectorate.

"Politics," said Leth. "That's what it is, you see."

"Yes," agreed Alazrian. "I see."

"Do you? I doubt that. I doubt you understand anything but
needlepoint. You have your mother's sensibilities for these things,
boy. Your head's full of air."

Alazrian swallowed the insult. His relationship with Leth had only
grown worse since they had come to Aramoor. The pressures of
governing had embittered Leth.

"Biagio lays traps for me," Leth said. "He thinks I'm stupid, eh?
Bloody fop." He balled his hand into a fist and rubbed the knuckles.
"Well, he's got something up his sleeve. He wants you to come as
well."

"Me? To the Black City?"

"We leave the day after tomorrow."

"Why me?"

"You're old enough to make the trip." Alazrian had just turned
sixteen. For his birthday, Leth had given him a dagger, something
to make him "look more like a man." Alazrian never carried it.

"I don't understand," said Alazrian. "What does the emperor want
with me?"

"How the hell should I know? But that's what the summons says,
and we've got to obey. So don't spend too much time weeping
over your mother. We'll need our wits about us for the trip, and I
won't share the voyage with a child that needs a wet-nurse."

"But . . ."

"But what?" growled Leth, whirling on Alazrian.

Alazrian felt his throat constrict. "What about Mother?" he
managed.