"L. E. Modesitt - Spellsong 1 - The Soprano Sorceress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Aye, and they should for all the silver Im paying.

Its far less than bringing in masons from Nordwei.

Not that much. Not in these times. Barjim pauses, as if waiting for a
response, then finally continues. Too bad you couldnt bring us rain. Need
that worse than the fort, except we need both, with the dark ones on the
move. He looks down at the shorter lord. I still dont see why you cant
bring rain. Its not as though youve avoided darksong. We both know that.

Thats too dark, and Ive explained why before, Brill answers patiently.

You have an answer for everything, points out Barjim. Thats why youre a
sorcerer.

No, responds Brill. Thats why Ive survived as a sorcerer.

Cold iron is more sure.

That is true, lord, says Brill, his tone light, not quite mocking. Unless you
consider the Dark Monks.

Someday. Barjim shakes his head. Ill leave you to your task, master
sorcerer. Ill be back to inspect your work later, and, of course, pay you.

Of course, lord. Brill bows deeply.

Lord Barjim snorts and turns, swinging up onto his mount. As .he rides
toward his troopers, they straighten in their identical purpled leather saddles.

Once the troopers pass the outcropping of dark stone on the south side of the
valley, they turn due west, back toward Mencha, away from the Sand Pass
that leads to Ebra. When the sound of hoofs on the paved highway echoes
back uphill, Lord Brill lets a smile cross his lips. He glances toward the
representative piles of stone and brick, the dry powdered mortar, and the
tubs of water, then steps under the silk sunshade and wipes his forehead.
After he takes a long sip from the goblet on the portable table, his brown
flecked green eyes drop to the twopart drawing of the walled fortification
fastened with leather thongs to the drafting board. The righthand side of the
drawing illustrates the foundation outline, the lefthand side a frontal view as
if seen from a tall oak, though Brill stands in the middle of a depression
between the hills, empty except for the sorcerer and his players, and the heaps
of stone on the south side. Beside the drawing are the spells, with the proper
accents marked. The softness in Brills eyes vanishes as he faces the musicians.

The groundsorting tune, he orders. Run through it once. He lifts his right
hand and began the count, marking the time deftly. One, two... With his
nod, the musicians begin the sonorous tones, the brass horns low and urgent,
the woodwinds pantherlike, the strings whispering like shifting sands.