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

"You take much care for your Mar," she said, laying a gentle hand on his head. "Many young lords just come into their estate would forget to do so; you have a good heart, my son." She frowned. "It was very wise ofЕ"Чshe made a moue; her one meeting with the founder of the House of the Sleeping Dragon had been a strained exercise in mutual incomprehensionЧ"that woman, Megan, to consign all this to you rather than to her cousin. A woman should not concern herself with such matters whatever these Zak think." Another smile. "Unfortunate that she should meet with an accident; still, what can be expected when those of my sex venture into the harsh world beyond the protecting walls of their quarters?"

Habiku blinked. Could she suspect? No, the hazel eyes were calmly innocent. Better that things remain so, for her. She could never understand what he had done to get his hands on the capital of the Sleeping Dragon, or what he had begun in the early years to protect her from her stinking habit. He hated the odor of poppy resin that permeated her clothing. The Brotherhood ensured that she could only get a limited amount, the drug being fiercely addictive; a maintenance dosage, but though not enough to harm. At the beginning it had been their hold on him. As long as he did what they wanted they limited her supply. Now he was rising in power there as well, and soon she would be free of it. As soon as he was strong enough. He left his mother once more engrossed in her tapestry and climbed the stairs to his chambers where Lixa waited.

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SLAF HIKARME, HABIKU'S ROOMS

She lay under him, unresponsive, face dull and dead. He slapped her and when he failed to get a response again he took her anyway, thrusting heavily until, with a small, muffled sound, he arced and spasmed, still thrusting deep. And she lay there. He collapsed on top of her, seeing the long black hair twisted in his relaxing fists; he imagined a startlingly bright strand in it, like Whitlock's. He'd only hadher once, and she'd been unconscious, drugged, and heneeded her, had to have her. He pulled Lixa's head around and tried to imagine she was Whitlock.

He ignored the tolling of the bell by the door; the servants would deal with it.

Sweat trickled down his neck and fell on Lixa's cheek as he raised his head and looked down at her, hate in his eyes. Threaten, punish, flog, nothing could make her respond anymore. "You aren't her, " he whispered. His fists tightened, pulling on the mass of hair, forcing her head back and forth. "Show something, damn you," he whispered, then louder, "You're nother , but you'remine !"

He pulled out of her and sat up, semen dribbling into the hair on his leg as he shuddered again, slightly. And she lay there.

"Bitch," he said, then pulled her up, hanging limp from his hands. A backhanded slap flung her into the heaped pillows of the bed. "Bitch!"

He scrambled for his robes as his door opened. WhoЧ

A DragonGuard from the Nest, walking past a valet torn between fear and an almost irresistible urge to protest.

Pure Zak face and build, tunic leather covered in steel plates lacquered black, rippling liquidly in the lamplight. Belt of jet circlets, long knives on each hip; a ceremonial helm of black steel tucked under one arm with the ruler's five-headed dragon symbol. A squire in grey carried his weapons, a quiver of short heavy darts and their throwing-stick of carved ivory; and a twofang, a double-headed spear. It was an insult to come carrying weapons, contempt on top of insult to have them carried by another. A parody of Zak court etiquette, a statement.You are a stranger, an alien, whose word is of no account: therefore I send a specialist in violence to deal with you. But only one, because you are of no account .

One of Ranion's own Guard, even the common soldiers well-born. Habiku frantically tried to think of some reason the DragonLord would suddenly take a personal interest in his life. Whom had he offended? Avritha was still purring from last time.

"Smoothtongue, you are summoned, " the guard said in a bored voice. He strolled to the quilted mattress, his soft chamois boots silent, turned Lixa's bruised face to the light with one disinterested toe. Idly, he toyed with the long black braid of his hair; the squire stood motionless, a trained half-pace to the guard's left where he could stretch out his hand to take a weapon. A faint lift of brows above eyes the color of blackrock, commanding:Make yourself decent, naZak .

Ranion's jokes, Habiku thought as he wiped himself down sketchily before throwing on a robe offered by his valet. He could imagine the titters behind hands and fans if he arrived smelling of sex; Avritha would not be pleased, no.Ranion's jokes . The DragonLord held all their lives in his hands; now it pleased him to order his guard to be as insolent as possible. It was just to see what happened, the impulse of a nasty child who kicked open an ants' nest to see the tiny creatures scurry.

The little bastard has to push, and he can get away with it, Habiku thought, as he pushed his feet into wooden-soled street shoes.His father was a killer, but he killed as a snake does, for food or when threatened. This one is like a weasel; mad, and kills for the joy of it . Ranion's need for killing was coming on him more and more often, as if there was some secret frustration eating at the taproot of his soul.If only I could convince Avritha to bear a child off someone else for the sterile little bastard.

The half-Zak merchant prince cleared his throat. "To which court am I summoned, sir Guard?" he asked politely.

"Court, sir Merchant?" the guard said, turning and examining the fingers of his metal gauntlets. He closed the hand, the movement rippling like water across the cunningly jointed plates; F'talezonian metalwork was unmatched anywhere. "The mindspeaker at the Nest has a message; the DragonLord bids you there, to go about your business." He smiled, a patient, understanding expression. "Itis a rare honor for one outside the Nest or the noble Houses to use the mindspeaker's talents, sir Merchant, ah, no, my small error,ClawPrince ." The Claw was the F'talezonian unit of currency, but the ancient houses preferred to take their share from rents, property, land, rather than active commerce.

Koru, Habiku swore in a relief that was half rage. His own return bow was a masterpiece of understated courtesy.The DragonLord hasn't bothered to ask about the messages in iron cycles, not since the spring.

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THE ABBEY OF SAEKRBERK BRAHVNIKI, EASTERN SHORE
TENTH IRON CYCLE, FOURTH DAY

"Zar Benaiat," Megan said, with the shadow of a bow.

The breezeway flanked one wall of a courtyard garden, near the heart of the Benai. Warmth radiated from the bluish-gray stone walls, keeping greenness here after the outer fields had turned sear with frost.Fraosra moved between the long beds in red robes, readying them for winter.

"Captain. Megan, Honey-Giver be thanked that the rumors of your death were false," the Benaiat replied; his tone was businesslike and brisk, but the look he bent on Megan was warm. The light-brown eyes that perched over his beaked nose were shrewd; Shkai'ra was reminded of the curious gaze of a raven or fox. He was not a tall man, midway between the two women in height, very thin but not cadaverously so.

He dropped the trowel he carried into the basket of the Vra attending him, a dry rustle from the papery bulbs dug for the winter rising, and accepted a cloth to wipe his earthstained hands. Then he dropped some of his formality and reached out his hand to Megan.