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

"Are you Sterren, son of Kelder, son of Kelder, or are you not?" the
sailor demanded once again.
"Why?" Sterren's voice was unsteady, but he looked the sailor in the eye
without blinking.
The sailor paused, almost smiling, to admire the courage it took to ask
that question. Then he again demanded, "Are you?"
Sterren glanced sideways at the unmoving mass of soldier gripping his
right arm, obviously not in the mood for civilized discourse or casual banter,
and admitted, "My name is Sterren of Ethshar, and my father was called Kelder
the Younger."
"Good," the sailor said. He turned and spoke two words to the woman.
She replied with a long speech. The sailor listened carefully, then
turned back to Sterren and said, "You're probably the one they want, but Lady
Kalira would like me to ask you some questions and make sure."
Sterren shrugged as best he could with his arms immobilized, his nerve
returning somewhat. "Ask away. I have nothing to hide," he said.
It must be a family affair, he decided, or his identity wouldn't be a
matter for such concern. He might talk his way out yet, he thought.
"Are you the eldest son of your father?"
That was not a question he had expected. Could these people have some
arcane scruples about killing a man's first heir? Or, on the other hand, did
they consider the eldest of a family to be responsible for the actions of his
kin? The latter possibility didn't matter much, since Sterren had no living
kin -- at least, not in any reasonable degree of consanguinity.
Hesitantly, he replied, "Yes."
"You have a different name from your father."
"So what? Plenty of eldest sons do -- repeating names is a stupid custom.
My father let his mother name me, said there were too damn many Kelders around
already."
"Your father was the eldest son of his mother?" This made no sense to
Sterren at all. "Yes," he said, puzzled.
"Your father is dead?"
"Dead these sixteen years. He ran afoul of--"
"Never mind that; it's enough we have your word that he's dead."
"My word? I was a boy of three, scarcely a good witness even had I been
there, which I was not. But I was told he was dead and I never saw him again."
This line of questioning was beginning to bother him. Were these people come
to avenge some wrong his father had committed? He knew nothing about the old
man save that he had been a merchant -- and, of course, the lurid story of his
death at the hands of a crazed enchanter had been told time and time again.
 It would be grossly unfair, in Sterren's opinion, for his own death to
result from some ancestral misdemeanor, rather than from one of his own
offenses or failings; he hoped he could convince these people of that.
It occurred to him that perhaps this sailor with his pink sparks was that
very same crazed enchanter, but that idea made no sense, and he discarded it.
It was far more likely that the pink sparks were part of some shop-bought
spell.
In fact, they might well be all there was to the spell, a little
something to impress the ladies, or anybody else, for that matter.
"His mother, your grandmother -- who was she?" the sailor asked.