"Fifth Millennium - 03 - The Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

His father had had little time for him; a foreign bastard, with naZak looks and no hint of inner power. Habiku's eyes narrowed. Zak law did not allow any child to be completely disinherited. Mother had always been there; there was always the two of them, when the Zak children chased him home with jeers and rocks and tricks that he was too young to ignore. But Mother had told him of his heritage, beside which F'talezon was nothing but a backwoods pile of stone. The Zak might have been here since the Earned Fire, but what had they ever done to equal Tor Ench? He had his mother to thank that he knew civilized ways.

Now she has a real manor, he thought with satisfaction and rare happiness.Everything she needs . He raised a hand and scratched formally at the door.

"One would enter," he said carefully in her own language.

The slave's voice trailed off; he heard the girl moving to the door.

"TheAmam says that her son, the strength of her age, need ask for nothing." The door swung open.

The rooms within were spacious; they had been Megan's, the best the manor had to offer. They were conveniently far from his own, since there was much of his life it was necessary to keep from his mother.

Latialia had furnished them in the classic Tor Enchian style; it was the first time she had been able to, in her life in F'talezon, and Habiku did not much like it. The outer halls were still decorated as MegЕ she had liked them, warm colors but spare, depending on the purity of line in a single chair or picture to fill the space exactly rather than cluttering with many things. InsideЕ the costly rugs were well enough; bright, abstract patterns on wool soft as maiden's hair. Tapestries covered the walls, of Latialia's own embroidering; most were scenes from The Vengeance of Curlion on the Rebels, an odd subject for someone he had rarely even heard raise her voice in anger. On the hammered brass table rested a pipe, a fantasy of spun purple glass and gently bubbling waters, its mouthpiece carved of ivory. It had been filling the air with the burnt sweetness of poppy resin. He scowled at it; the pipe was new, but the scent familiar, a companion of his youth.

She's lonely, he thought. There was no one in F'talezon she could really talk to; the noble families received her reluctantly, even if they had to, now, and in any case they had no conversation the cloistered Enchian noblewoman would understand. But he wished that she would use the poppy less now that he could buy her the things that would make her happy.At least it isn't dreamdust . That killed in a year, less for naZak.

She lifted a graceful hand from the tapestry frame and he took it, going to one knee in the Enchian court style. "Amam, the sight of your beauty and good health is cherished." He pressed his cheek to her hand and she touched his hair.

"My son. Come, stand up and tell me how your life goes." She spoke the formal court tongue and in her quiet way insisted that he speak a civilized tongue in these rooms.

He brushed the knees of his pants and she rose to precede him to the fire, raising a forefinger to the slave to bring chai. "Wine for me, Mar," he said, and settled back in the rose and cream brocade of the heavy chair.

She clicked her tongue at him but said nothing. The firelight was kinder to her than the candles, smoothing away the wrinkles and burnishing the remaining mahogany in her silvering hair. The lace corners of her mantilla brushed her cheeks as she turned her head; for all her age she was still beautiful, the fine bones of her face carrying her years with grace.

"I am ready, my son." She accepted the cup and sipped, watching him as he thought of what he should say.

"The court is quiet, though the DragonLord is growing bored with his refurbished arena. Teik Avritha asked after your health and wished you well. She is holding a gathering in an iron cycle and sends both a formal and thisЧinformalЧ invitation to attend."

One of her hands fluttered up to cover her mouth. "How kind," she whispered. "I must write and thank her for it."

He frowned inside. She would not go. Not after all the times before, when merchant ClawPrinces had invited her and made their every glance a sneer at her naZak status. Now that he had wealth and power enough to be dangerous to offend, he could not convince her that Avritha, the DragonLord's consort, honestly wished her well. She'd been hurt too many times by the petty ClawPrinces and their kin. Oh, they had been subtle, more subtle than their children had been to himЕ "And your poor motherЕ How is she? Still alive in those four, or is it five, rooms?"

They knew that he hated them. Once he had been too insignificant for them to notice, even to despise, but now they hated him. He smiled and played their games better than they could and threw his wealth, and Avritha's favor, in their faces.

Zingas Avritha, so easy to please.All I had to do was tell her I loved her and she believed me . That was a problem with those reared to trust nobody and see lies everywhere; disbelieving in truth, they became unable to recognize it. As vulnerable as yokels to the right approach; you had to have reallyfelt an emotion to counterfeit it properly, or to know pretence from reality. He had her ear andshe had the DragonLord . . who was quite biddable as long as she kept him happyЕ although growing dangerously unpredictable in his whimsЧHe forced his mind away from business matters.

"Of course, Mar," he said. He leaned forward and patted her hand. "You write and tell them what you think of the invitation." He leaned back and raised his goblet to her. "To your beauty, Mar."

She blushed and lowered her head. "You flatter me, my son."

"On the contrary. Perhaps I should buy you some new lace? To complement you? Or would you like some company, perhaps? A kitten, or a new slave to train?"

"Only if you can afford it, my son." The comment was strange on her lips, put there by years of living as they had. Father had died and the family had seized his inheritance in trust until Habiku came of age, he being naZak. His mother had had to sell her embroidery to eke out the miserable pittance that their Zak law-kin dribbled out, until he could earn for both of them.

He smiled fondly and squeezed her hand, raising it to his lips. "We don't have to worry any more. The DragonLord has ruled in my favor in the matter of the House of the Sleeping Dragon. I have complete authority to spend the capital now, as well as the income."

Which was just as well, considering what he had beenЕ arranging, for the company. Great losses, tremendous losses, so unfortunate: for the books that the tax-assessors would see, at least, if not for the secret ledgers. The funds from the Karibal were becoming very helpful, there.

She nodded, lines of worry smoothing out on her brow. It wasЕ declasse to be concerned with money. One instructed the steward, or the head of the household saw to it and varied the allowance for the women's quarters; that was the way of Tor Ench.