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

"There's plenty there, children," suggests Nyryah, "and there's another loaf in the kitchen."
Vernt grins and takes one slice of each bread, then passes the tray to Lorn, who takes only a single slice of dark bread before passing the tray to his father. Kien'elth, like his younger son, takes one slice of each, and hands the tray to Jerial, dark-haired, and the eldest child. She, like Lorn, takes but a slice of dark bread, and smiles across at Lorn as she hands the tray to Myryan, also black-haired, and the youngest of the four siblings. Myryan takes a single slice of sun-nut bread and returns the tray to her mother.
The fowl casserole that had been set before Kien'elth makes a circuit of the table, but all helpings are so similar in size that they would have to have been weighed for an outsider to determine which is the largest-or the smallest. After the casserole comes the dish of buttered and nutted beans.
When Myryan sets down the serving spoon for the beans, all six begin to eat, silently for a moment, until each has had at least one mouthful of something.
"You were a little late, dear," suggests Nyryah.
"We had to chaos-charge a second complement of firewagons," replies Kien'elth. "The two new companies of Mirror Lancers are being sent along the Great Eastern Highway tomorrow. The barbarians of the northeast have tried to attack the cuprite mines. While they were thrown back across the Hills of Endless Grass, the Emperor has determined that the lancers of the northeast shall be more greatly reinforced to carry the message to the barbarians that they may be reminded of the futility of such attacks."
Myryan smiles.
"You find that amusing?" asks Vernt.
"The name's amusing," she admits. "Nothing's endless, not even the Rational Stars. So how can grass be endless?"
"The barbarians are endless," says Vernt. "Every year there are more of them."
"More doesn't mean endless."
"And they're just as stupid every year. Tens of scores of them try to cross the border, and most of them die." Vernt looks at his father. "There must have been more than usual if you had to do more chaos-charging."
"I was told that the lancers have it well in hand," answers his sire.
"And they will push the barbarians back across the not-so-endless Grass Hills," Myryan says, "no matter what the barbarians call the grass."
"I do believe we've heard this before," suggests Kien'elth politely. "We decided the name was a barbarian affectation." He clears his throat, then takes another mouthful of the fowl casserole, nodding as he tastes it.
"We just ought to take over all of Candar-the western half, anyway," says Vernt. "That way, we wouldn't have to worry about the smelly barbarians."
"The chaos-towers can't be moved," Lorn points out. "That's why Emperor-"
"Lorn," interjects Kien'elth quickly. "Not at dinner."
"Yes, ser."
"We don't need to move the towers," continues Vernt, seemingly oblivious to his father's warning to Lorn. "The barbarians' iron blades are so soft that a cupridium blade cuts through any of their weapons." The younger son snorts. "We don't need firewagons and highways to conquer them."
"No-but would you want to live in a mud-brick hut or a tent?" Kien'elth laughs. "You wouldn't get cooking like this, or cities like Cyad or Fyrad or Summerdock."
"We've heard this discussion before, too," interjects Jerial. "Cyador already has more land than we'll ever need, and so do the barbarians. They don't attack from need, but from perversity. They want to take what we've built, because they're too lazy and too stupid to make things for themselves."
"They do not have chaos-towers, nor could they fabricate them if they wanted to," says her father gently.
"They don't have to live like swine," counters Vernt. "You can smell them from kays away."
"They weren't born with your advantages," Kien'elth points out.
"We've sent teachers out to the north and east." Vernt's voice rises. "And those that weren't killed had to kill the barbarians to escape with their lives...."
"Maybe they don't want to learn," suggests Jerial, with a hint of a laugh in her voice. "They don't like books as much as you do."
Lorn quietly finishes his casserole, and, while the others are looking at Vernt and Jerial, and while his mother has slipped away from the table to bring the dessert platter, he slips a slice of sun-nut bread from the tray and onto his platter. He eats it in precise motions before finally speaking. "They still think we took their land."
"We didn't take anything, did we?" asks Myryan. "I thought most of Cyador was the Accursed Forest before the founders came, and it killed either the barbarians or us whenever it could. They didn't live here. They couldn't have lived here." She shakes her head. "It doesn't make sense. We're not using land that they ever could have farmed or herded on. I agree with Jerial. They're just lazy."
"They are what they are," replies Kien'elth, "and we aren't going to change that. We can only deal with our own lives." He clears his throat. "Lorn... have you ever met Aleyar? She's Lector Liataphi's next-to-youngest daughter?"
"He's met them all." Vernt chortles.
Lorn manages not to flush. "She is blonde, I believe, and quite well spoken."
"I told you so," Vernt hisses.
"Father..." Jerial begins.
Kien'elth turns to his eldest daughter. "Liataphi has no sons. I am not asking Lorn to consort with her. I am asking if he would at least talk to the young lady. There's no harm in seeing if he likes an eligible young woman."
"...and it would be kind," Myryan says with a sad smile.
"Because her older sister Syreal ran off with that merchanter, and that means that unless she consorts with a Magi'i she'll lose her standing in the Magi'i?" asks Jerial.
"It's true, isn't it?" counters Myryan. "We're lucky. We have brothers who are carrying on as Magi'i. Aleyar isn't, and she's sweet."
"You know her?" asks Nyryah.
"I like her," replies Myryan. "She's too gentle to be consorted to a lancer or a merchanter." She looks at Lorn. "And she is pretty."
Lorn shifts his weight in his chair almost imperceptibly, then smiles. "I'll make a point of talking to her."
"That's all I ask," Kien'elth says, as he turns and smiles at Myryan. "Lector Kharl'elth said that the only young lady his son ever talked about was you."
"Ciesrt?" Myryan's expression reverts to one of polite interest.
Lorn glances from her to their father, who in turn watches the wavy-haired Myryan closely.
"Ciesrt'elth," corrects Kien'elth. "You know him, Lorn."
"He's in my student group," concedes Lorn.
"He works hard," adds Vernt. "Lector Hyrist'elth says he wishes all the students worked as hard."
Across from Lorn, Myryan's face tightens ever so slightly.
"He's pretty serious," Lorn adds.
"These are serious times," Kien'elth begins, clearing his throat in the way that Lorn knows a long pontification is about to begin.