"K. D. Wentworth - Hallah Iron-Thighs and the Hall of the Puppet King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

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Hallah Iron-Thighs and the
Hall of the Puppet King
K.D. Wentworth
It was early summer, which meant the annual Bandit Holiday had rolled around again, when the
local criminals all headed for the seaside and a bit of sun on their pale, scrawny, pox-ridden bodies. For
the next two weeks anyone could travel the mountains in perfect safety. No one would need hired
protection until those lazy, good-for-nothing thieves quit gallivanting about and returned to their mountain
haunts where they belonged.
As happened this time every year, I, Hallah Iron-Thighs, master swordswoman and mercenary, was
depressed. How a girl is supposed to make a decent living under such conditions is beyond me. Those
wretched bandits simply have no sense of responsibility about upholding the social contract.
My partner, Gerta, and I were attempting to drown our sorrows with the last of our funds that
morning down at the dingy Inn of the Crafty Marmot when an envoy arrived, resplendent in purple silk. A
grim fellow with ears like pot handles, he looked as though he'd never drunk an ounce of ale in his entire
life.
His nose twitched above a silly curled beard as he surveyed the odorous establishment. "I seek the
Lady Hallah Iron-Thighs and her boon companion, Gerta!" he proclaimed in ringing tones. "Can either of
you lowly creatures tell me where they might abide?"
Gerta, who had soothed her blues rather thoroughly at that point, fell off her chair with a clink of
chain mail and sprawled at his feet. "Lady!" Convulsed with laughter, she pounded the floor with her fist.
"Hallah, he called you a 'lady'!"
I drew my dagger and let the light from the inn's single lamp gleam along its serrated edge. "I'm
Hallah Iron-Thighs."
"IтАФsee." He produced a scroll tied with purple ribbon. "I am Hermus Zimbolini, Prime Counselor
of Bamffle, charged by King Jonquil the Shy to deliver this royal summons."
"Bamffle?" Gerta dabbed laugh-tears from her eyes.
We'd never worked that far west, but fellow mercenaries described Bamffle as a prosperous
mountain kingdom of agonizingly small troubles where men fussed over the inadequate size of their
buttons and insisted their mothers-in-law should visit more often.
Bamfflian women, our friends had added sourly, worried only that their children were too well
behaved, and their daughters might marry above their stations, thereby losing the opportunity to fully
develop their characters by overcoming adversity. It was a realm of tea parties and knitting socials, not
exactly the sort of place to require a pair of strong sword arms.
We followed the fellow outside, where Gerta unrolled the summons in the sunlight. The parchment
was thick and creamy, the border bright gold. She squinted suspiciously. "It has too many letters on it."
Of course, any amount of letters always proved "too many" for Gerta.
The messenger eased the summons out of her hand, turned it right side up, then gave it back. He
cleared his throat. "His Majesty King Jonquil the Shy wishes you to escort his aunt, the Princess
Abyssmina, to her upcoming matrimonial in Hagrishia."
I took the parchment. There were indeed many elegantly scripted letters dancing across the page, a
veritable flood of them, but I couldn't make out any numbers. "What about payment?"
"I'm certain you'll be handsomely paid," he said.
"Just exactly how handsomely?" I asked, my forefinger tracing the embossed elephant's head on my
sword Esmeralda's hilt.
His eyes were flinty. "I assure you that our good King Jonquil is known far and wide for his
generosity."
Like we hadn't heard that before. "All right," I said. "As we're short on funds with no other offers,