"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 3 - The Unwilling Warlord" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

After all, he reminded himself, he was in a port. Naturally, there would
be a variety of travelers, speaking a variety of tongues. "In Semma," he said
to Alder, "all speak one language?" He knew, as he said it, that his phrasing
was awkward, but it was the best he could do.
"Sure," Alder said, settling down at Sterren's table. "Everyone in Semma
speaks Semmat. Just about, anyway; I guess there might be some foreigners now
and then who don't."
Sterren struggled to follow his guard's speech. He had been resigned to
learning Semmat, but now he was becoming really eager to learn. Whatever the
ignominy of being forced to use a barbarian tongue, it was nothing compared to
the isolation and inconvenience of not being able to speak with those about
him.
And it looked as if he was, indeed, going to be stuck in Semma for the
foreseeable future, if he didn't get away very, very soon. Thirteen leagues
inland! There was simply no way he would be able to slip away and cover that
distance without being caught and dragged back, not if the Semmans had any
sort of magic available, as they surely did.
If he was going to escape, he would have to do so tonight, here in
Akalla, and stow away aboard a ship bound for Ethshar.
And how could he do that when he couldn't find three people in Akalla who
spoke the same language as each other, let alone anything that he, himself,
understood? How could he learn which ship was bound whither, and when?
Even if he once got aboard a ship, how could he earn his way home, when
he couldn't even understand orders, or argue about the rules of a friendly
game? No, it was hopeless. He was doomed to go to Semma, a country that his
grandmother had been only too glad to flee, even at the loss of her noble
status. Being thus doomed, all he could do was make the best of it. He would
have to find some way to fit in.
He might even have to actually be a proper warlord. First though, he
needed to know the language. "Alder," he said, "I want to learn Semmat better.
Alder gulped beer, then nodded. "Sure," he said. "What do you want to
know?"
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The road had vanished, but they seemed confident of the route, so he did
not question it. For one thing, he was far too busy trying to minimize the
bruising of his backside to worry about where he was going, or why. He put
aside all worries about wars and warlords and life among the barbarians,
concentrating solely on matters closer to hand, and closer still to his seat.
By the time the party stopped by a tiny stream for a midday rest and
refreshment, out of sight of even Akalla Karnak's highest tower, Sterren's
throat ached from dryness, his hands ached from clutching the reins, his feet
ached from being jammed into the stirrups, his back ached from trying to keep
him upright, and worst of all, his rump ached from the constant abrasive
collisions with his saddle. He did not descend gracefully, but simply fell off
his mount onto a tuft of prairie grass.
Alder and Dogal politely pretended not to notice, but Lady Kalira was
less kind.
"You haven't ridden before, have you?" she demanded without preamble.
Sterren took a moment to mentally translate this into Ethsharitic. "No,"
he admitted. He was too thirsty, weary, and battered to think of any sarcastic