"Modesitt, L E - Recluce 10 - Magi'i Of Cyador" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

At the corner of the Second Harbor Way and the Road of Benevolent Commerce, the unofficial border to the merchanter quarter, they stop under a tall feathering conifer, shielded from above by the spreading dark green branches and by the afternoon mist. Lorn is breathing heavily, but the worst of his headache has faded. He stands there silently for a moment, thinking. Abruptly, he turns to Ryalth. "Do you have any scent? A vial of what you use?"
The redhead frowns. "Why?"
"Just dab some on me."
She fumbles in her belt wallet, her arm still around the cloth-covered strongbox. "You know that the City Watch wouldn't be pleased with this."
"They don't care about scent," Lorn jokes.
"They care about people setting fires," she whispers as she dabs some of the scent oil on his wrist.
"Better fires than outland traders assaulting Cyadoran merchanters," he counters, adding, "More of the scent."
"More? What's on you will cover any scent of smoke." Her eyebrows lift. "You want your family to know you've been with someone?"
"It's better than having them ask what I've really been doing," he points out. "Remember, when you live in a Magi'i family, questions are dangerous."
"People say that... is it true?"
"Only a handful of Magi'i can truthread, but the Lectors can, and my father is a Lector." Lorn gestures. "Dab more on my skin, my neck," he suggests, "as much as you can spare."
"You already reek." She wrinkles her nose.
"Fine. Then, they'll all be ready to condemn me."
"And me," Ryalth points out.
"They don't know you, and they'd have to know your name to ask a decent question."
She shakes her head, then glances along the road. "I think I'm glad I'm not from the Magi'i."
Lorn straightens the blue tunic. "You said I could always retreat to my mighty house."
"It sounds as bad as an inbred clan house."
"It's not that bad. My sisters are nice. So are my parents."
"I'm sure they are." Ryalth pauses, then adds, "I'll save your share of the coins."
He shakes his head. "They're yours. I took some, but you took most of the risks," he exaggerates.
She frowns, but says nothing.
"I'll need some favors before everything's done. Call the coins advance payment." He smiles broadly.
"I can't afford favors that expensive."
"I won't ask for anything that big." He leans forward and touches the line of her cheek. "Use them to get yourself free." Then he squeezes her hand and steps from under the conifer, hurrying uphill.
After a moment, Ryalth swallows and begins to walk eastward.
There is no one near the postern gate as Lorn quickly changes into his student whites, leaving the blues and the blue boots in the basket tucked behind the small tree. He readjusts the square of cloth in his belt wallet to ensure the coins are muffled, and then walks briskly through the garden and up the steps.
"You're late, Lorn." His father stands at the top of the steps. "Your mother is worried. It would be kinder if you let us know when you're going out."
"Yes, ser. I'm sorry. I know. I lost track of time. I didn't expect to be so late." Lorn's statements are all true, and he makes sure he doesn't look anywhere close to the billowing smoke that rises to the southwest of them.
His father's nose wrinkles, and he shakes his head. "That's a merchanter scent, isn't it?"
Lorn tries to look bewildered.
"Don't dignify it with a falsehood, Lorn."
"Yes, ser. I mean it is. A merchanter fragrance."
"Do you know what you're doing? What if... ?" His father doesn't finish the question.
"I've been careful about that. There won't be any child," Lorn says absolutely truthfully.
"Lorn..." His father shakes his head again. "I trust you have not attempted a chaos compulsion with the girl."
"No, ser. I wouldn't do such with her."
"Chaos compulsions are odious, and over time, they weaken those who use them, and make them susceptible to the compulsions of others." Kien's voice is stern.
"I have not with her, and I will keep your advice, ser."
"Good. Would that you will be so amenable to showing greater interest in your studies. If not, perhaps a time in the lancers will settle you down... though this is not the best time."
Lorn knows he cannot manifest any greater interest in his studies, although he has come to enjoy learning for its own sake, feeling the sense and the power involved in transferring chaos from the tower outlets to the firelances, and in seeing just how much chaos he can press into each weapon. He also is less than enthused about the thought that he could be posted to the frontiers and use a lance or blade in earnest, even if his skills with the blade are among the best among the students, including those like Dettaur who had been born with a blade in his hand. Using a blade in earnest would definitely increase the odds of an earlier demise than Lorn would wish.
"Vernt was right, then... about the barbarians?" he asks his father.
"There have been more attacks than in any time in memory-or in the records," his father admits. "And they have even used archers in the far northwest." A faint smile appears on Kien'elth's thin lips. "All the attacks have been repulsed, and most of the barbarians killed."
"But they keep attacking?"
"Yes... Enough... we can talk about it at dinner. After you wash off some of that scent. I'll tell your mother that you're here."
"Yes, ser." As he hurries toward the wash chamber, Lorn can sense his father's unease, as though there is far more left unsaid. Yet, Lorn does not wish to push, not when he has apparently misdirected Kien'elth's inquiries about his actions of the afternoon.


VIII