"Nancy Springer - Isle 03 - The Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

"Ay, to be sure!" The slave merchant laughed and cracked his whip.

"Good." The young man brought out a slender knife, such as scholars use to sharpen their pens with, and
began carefully to cut Trevyn's bonds.

The slaver shouted, and his face went white. "Nay, young master! He's a wild 'unтАФhe'll go to kill me!"
But the thongs were cut, and the young man stepped back without comment. Trevyn rubbed his chafed
wrists and studied the shaking Slaver, who was backing cautiously away. No courage in the man without
his fellows, it seemed! He would gladly have settled his score with this tormenter, and it was no cold
caution that restrained-him. He could not say why he stayed his hand, unless it was somehow because of
the young man who stood quietly beside him. He could have leveled him with a single blow, by the looks
of him, but the fellow had freed him fearlessly. . . . Trevyn turned and nodded farewell to the old man
who had befriended him. Then he looked to his new master.

"Here," the young man said, handing him a sort of loincloth; hardly the raiment of a prince, but Trevyn
put it on gladly. His feet were healed by now and his back mostly healed. The traders had been obliged
to tend to him, not wanting to bring him to market looking like a scandal. Still, the young man winced and
muttered to himself when he saw the stripes.

"This way," he said when they were both ready. They walked together through the marketplace. "My
name is Emrist," he told Trevyn. "Not that it matters, I suppose," he added vaguely. "Though, of course,
you can hear. . . ."



They turned out of the marketplace into a crooked alleyway that wound up terraced slopes between
houses perched precariously on their foundations. At the top of the steep hill they paused for breath. If
Trevyn had looked back, and if he had known, he could have seen Rheged's men entering the
marketplace to search for him.

He and his new master traversed a ragged country cut by rocky ridges into patchwork gardens,
vineyards, and or┬мchards. They stopped often to rest, for Emrist was not strong. Toward noon they
shared bread and cheese and a flask of weak wine. It seemed to Trevyn that Emrist was not a rich man.
He went afoot, though easily tired, and his tunic and sandals looked plain and worn. Trevyn wondered
how he had got the gold to buy him, and, indeed, why he had bought him at all. For his manner was
gentle, and he did not seem to be the sort of person who would lightly own another.

By early afternoon they had moved into wilder country, where habitations were fewer and growth
cluttered the meadows until they were really young forests. The look of the land made Trevyn wary, and
he was not entirely surprised when robbers ran at them, screeching, out of the brush. There were four of
the rustic brigands, each armed with a wicked-looking sword. If Trevyn had been by himself he might
have run; his fray with the slavers had taught him caution. But there was Emrist to be thought of. ...
Trevyn lunged under a whistling sword, wrested the weapon from its owner, aware that Emrist had
already fallen. He killed the robber with a swift stroke to the throat and turned on the other three,
frantically beating them back from Emrist's prostrate form. In a moment they rallied and circled him; he
took some cuts then. But he had been trained to use the sword against odds and soon felled them.
Though it sickened him to do so, he made certain that each robber was dead before he turned his back
on them.