"Sheri S. Tepper - The True Game - 3 books" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tepper Sherri)

At the visitor's table against the far wall a Sorcerer was leafing through a book as he dawdled over his
food, the spiked band of his headdress glittering in the firelight. He was all alone, the only visitor, though
I searched carefully for one other. My friend Yarrel was crowded in at the far end of a long table with no
space near, so I took an open bench place near the door.
Across from me was Karl, his red, wet face shining slickly in the steam of the food bowls..
"Y'most got boggled up there, Peter-priss. Better stick to paper games with the littly boys. "
"Oh, shut up, sweat-face,тАЭ I told him. It didn't do any good to be nice to Karl, or to be mean. It just didn't
matter. He was always nasty, regardless.
"You wouldn't have known either."
"Would so. Grandsire and Dadden both told me that 'un."
His face split into his perpetual mocking grin, his point made. Karl was_son of a Doyen, grandson of a


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 Tepper, Sheri S. - The True Game

Doyen, third generation in the School. I was a Festival Baby, born nine months after Festival, left on the
doorsteps of Mertyn's House to be taken in and educated. I might as well have been hatched by a toad.
Well, I had something Karl didn't. He could have his family name. I had something else. Not that the
Masters cared whether a student was first generation or tenth. There were more foundlings in the room
than there were family boys. "Sentlings,тАЭ thosesent in from outside by their parents, had no more status
than foundlings, but the family boys did tend to stick together. It took only a little whipping-on from
someone like Karl to turn them into a hunting pack. Well, I refused to make a chase for them. Instead, I
stared away down the long line of champing jaws and lax bodies..They, all looked as I felt-hungry,
exhausted from the day's cold, luxuriating in warmth, and grateful night had come.
I thought of the promised Festival. I would sew bells onto my trouser hems, stitch ribbons into the
shoulder seams of my jacket, make a mask out of leather and gilt, and so clad run through the streets of
Schooltown with hundreds of others dressed just as I, jingling and laughing, dancing to drum and trumpet,
eating whatever we wanted. During Festival, nothing would be forbidden, nothing required, no dull
studies, the Festival Halls would be opened, people would come from Outside, from the School Houses,
from everywhere. Bells would ringтАжand ringтАж
The ringing was the clangor of my bowl and spoon upon the stones where I had thrust them in my sleep.
The room was empty except for one lean figure between me and the fire: Mandor, Gamesmaster of
Havad's House, teeth gleaming in the fireglow.
"Well, Peter. Too tired to finish your supper?"
"IтАжI thought you weren't coming. "
"Oh, I drift here and there. I've been watching you sleep for half an hour after bidding some beefy boy to
leave you alone. What have you done to attract his enmity?"
I think I blushed. It wasn't anything I wanted to talk about.
"JustтАжoh, nothing. He's one who always picks on someone. Usually someone smaller than he is, usually
a foundling."
"Ah.тАЭ He understood. "A Flugleman. You think?"
I grinned weakly. It would be a marvelous vengeance if Karl were named Flugleman, petty tyrant, minor
piece, barely higher than a pawn.
"Master Mandor, no one has yet named him that. "
"You needn't call me Master, Peter. "
"I know.тАЭ Again, I was embarrassed. He should know some things, after all. "It's just easier than
explaining. "
"You feel you have to explain?"
"If someone heard me."