"Modesitt, L E - Recluse 10 - The Magic Of Recluse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

The song was unfamiliar, and I dragged my feet a bit as I neared her. For some reason, I wished I could put away the staff, but it was too long to carry easily while bound to my pack.
Her voice was pleasant enough, although from behind she seemed older than me. But she heard me and stopped singing, looking back at me from under a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with a wide band of blue-and-white fabric.
I slowed my pace to match her steps.
Dark hair, narrow face, and she looked about the age of Corso, mid-twenties.
"Up early. Must be important." Her smile was nice, too.
"Dangergeld," I admitted.
"You're a bit young for that."
"Not totally my idea." I swallowed as I answered. What right did she have to judge me?
Her eyes widened as they focused on the staff I still held loosely in my left hand. "And the staff, that is yours?"
"Yes." I wondered why it mattered at all whether a black lorken staff was mine. A staff was a staff. Right now it was a bother, though I knew I would need it once I actually left Recluce.
Her smile turned sad, somehow. "You'd best be going, then . . . and ... if I could ask a favor . . . ?"
That stopped me. Ask me, not much more than a youngster, for a favor?
"If it's something I can do . . ."
"So cautious . . . yes . . . it's not much . . . I'm sure you can. Should you ever run across a red-haired man from Enstronn-he went by the name of Leith-just tell him that Shrezsan wishes him well."
"Shrezsan . . . ?"
"That's all. Perhaps too much." Her voice was businesslike. "Now, best be on your way to Nylan."
"You sing nicely."
"Perhaps another time . . ." She turned to look at the horse, flicking the reins.
Clearly dismissed, I shrugged.
"Perhaps another time, Shrezsan . . ."
She avoided meeting my eyes. So I picked up my stride to a traveling pace and passed through Enstronn without saying a word. That was easy enough, because no buildings may be closer to the highways or the high roads than six hundred cubits.
I spoke to no one else on the High Road for some time, instead turning over thoughts in my mind and finding no answers. No one seemed to like the dangergeld. But everyone accepted it as necessary. And no one could or would explain why-just great windy platitudes about the necessity of order in the continuing fight against chaos. So who was against order? Who in his right mind wanted total chaos? And what did the dangergeld have to do with any of it?
I walked and asked questions that had no answers. Finally, I just walked.


V

JUST BEFORE MID-MORNING, when it became clear that I was going to be arriving in Nylan at least close to on time, my stomach began to protest.
After passing through Enstronn, I had also passed by Clarion, and a place called Sigil. Despite the elegantly-lettered sign, I had never heard of Sigil, and that meant it couldn't amount to much. Though I strained my eyes to the north of the High Road, and while I could sense that a few houses lay in that direction, I had been able to see nothing.
Beyond Sigil the road grew less travelec, and slightly more dusty. The sun continued to beat down on the dust and on me.
Ahead a blur appeared on the right side of the High Road. Even before I could see it clearly, I recognized it for a wayfaring station. A wayfaring station on the way to one of the main ports of Recluce?
Few citizens of Recluce travel that much, and the masters allow even fewer outside traders upon the isle. They always seem to know when strangers land on the open south beaches or sneak through the fjords punctuating the mountainous north coast. The mountains form a shield against the worst of the winter storms, but they also trap the warm damp winds from the south, which is why the highlands are so damp- almost a jungle in places.
The traders who have leave to travel Recluce are seldom young, and they always say little. Usually they are buyers of art, of pottery or other crafts. Sometimes they sell the southern jewels, the yellow diamonds and the deep green emeralds, that occur only in the far reaches of Hamor.
I wondered once why everyone used the same coins, before I discovered that everyone didn't. Most countries, except for the Pantarrans, use coins similar to the Hamorians-just like we did-copper, silver, or gold pennies. They all have different writing, but the weights are the same-unless someone's clipped the coins. Why? Probably because almost everyone sells to Hamor. Even the Austrans, for all their pride, use coins of the same weight. They call them different names that no one uses-even in Austra.
With so few people traveling beyond a few towns, I used to ask about the High Road, and why it had to be so grand. My father just shook his head. Uncle Sardit never even answered.
As my sore feet brought me nearer to the wayfaring station, the thought of a short break became more and more welcome.
The stations are all alike-tiled roof over four windowless walls, a door that can be barred, and a wide covered porch with stone benches. No furnishings inside, not even a hearth or chimney for a cook fire. Strictly for a quick rest or a place to wait out bad weather.
After pulling off my boots, rubbing my feet, and taking a sip of warm water from the water bottle as I sat on the back stone bench closest to Nylan-the coolest one-I opened the provisions my father had provided. The leftover duck was still good, and there were the last two flake rolls, one plain and one stuffed with cherry preserves. I finished up by eating one of the two sourpears and saved the other.
As I took the last bite of the fruit, I could feel someone approaching. So I looked to the west. Sure enough, a man was leading a horse and covered cart. While he looked to be a trader, I took the precaution of pulling my boots back on, wincing at the blisters I was developing. After that I replaced the provisions bag in my pack and tossed the few scraps out for the birds, out beyond the road.
The staff leaned up against the bench, where I could reach it easily, and my pack was ready to go. I just wasn't.
"Hello there," he called from the wagon post. The man was young for a trader, younger than Uncle Sardit, but with black ragged hair, and a close-trimmed full beard. His short-sleeved tunic was of faded yellowish leather, as were his boots and his trousers. He had a wide brown belt on which he wore a brace of knives. Shoulders broader than Uncle Sardit, and muscles to match.
"Good day," I answered, politely, standing. "Heading inland from Nylan?"
"Couldn't be from anywhere else, now could I?" He laughed as he said it, while he tethered the horse, a dark brown gelding. "And you?"
"From the east ..."
He finished with the animal and stepped up the two stone steps. "Young for a myskid to be traveling, aren't you?"
For some reason, his tone bothered me, and I stepped back, ready to pick up the staff. "Some might say that."
"Never seen a place like Recluce. Nobody travels."
"Not many."
"You're about as friendly as the rest, aren't you? Don't think much of the rest of the world, I guess."