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

caused our beloved mountain home to flee potential invaders, not the same thing at all. At the moment,
the only way to reach Bamffle is to be escorted by a native."
While he was explaining, the wayward mountain had drifted closer and now loomed at our backs as
though eavesdropping.
"Quick!" He leaped onto his mule. "Before it gets away!"
Gerta and I followed. The mountain lumbered backwards, but not before we made it onto one of its
winding trails. We rode upward the rest of the day without incident, finally rounding the last bend at dusk
when the castle came into sight.
"Oh, my," Gerta said. She stood in her stirrups and stared.
Oh, my, indeed. I sat back in the saddle and studied the scene. The whole construct, portcullis,
curtain walls, even the privy tower, was dancing. Mortar dribbled from between the stones with every
awkward jiggle so it looked like a demented Morris dancer. Zimbolini pulled his mule up beside us and
sighed. "Not again. The court magician cast a spell to make it self-cleaning several months ago and now
it's always tidying up."
He stood in his stirrups and pointed an accusatory finger. "Bad castle, bad! In the name of the King,
I demand you desist!"
With a rumble, the stones settled back to a more appropriate resting state, only slightly out of
alignment. "You just have to be firm with it," he said. "It doesn't really mean to misbehave."
"I'll remember that," I said. We followed him into the castle, leaving our horses with a stableboy in
the foregate.
In the great hall, tapestries depicting puppet shows covered every wall. The courtiers, all dressed in
shades of red and purple, stared as we entered, then went back to gossiping among themselves. They
had strings tied to their wrists and ankles, and moved with strange, jerky motions as though performing
some bizarre local dance.
An ornate throne stood back by the far wall, next to an ugly floor lamp. A ten year old boy, dressed
in grimy blue, sprawled on his stomach at its foot, busy pulling the legs off a set of tin soldiers. He looked
up as we approached. "Wow, are you pirates? I've always wanted to be robbed!"
Gerta turned to me, puzzled. "Is that what passes for a serving lad in these parts?"
"Indeed it is not!" Zimbolini quivered with indignation. "That is Princess Abyssmina's intended,
Prince Vigal the Simply Smashing, Heir Apparent of Hagrishia, whom you will escort home."
Vigal eyed Gerta's sword. "Have you ever killed anyone?"
She backed away, her hand automatically going for her dagger. I could tell she was confused, which
is never safe for anyone within sword range.
He scrambled to his feet, downy cheeks flushed with excitement. "Would you kill someone now so
I can watch?"
Zimbolini straightened his travel-stained tunic, then pulled from his pocket a sock tricked out with
button eyes and a thread mouth, slid it onto his right hand, and bowed. "Your Majesty," he said, moving
his fingers inside the sock so the thread mouth "spoke," "may I present Hallah Iron-Thighs and Gerta
Derschnitzel, mighty swordswomen of the lower reaches."
"What do they want?" asked a peevish voice.
"You sent for them, sire, to escort the princess and her betrothed to Hagrishia. As you may
remember, she is required to arrive in the capital by Wednesday or the wedding is off." Zimbolini turned
to us. "May I present King Jonquil the Shy, Protector of Bamffle, Lord of the Wild Marches of Eastern
Nimrod, and Holder of the Avenue of Immediate Availability in Mershorn, capital city of mighty
Hagrishia herself!"
"He's king of an avenue?" Gerta smothered a snicker.
A puppet popped up from behind the throne and regarded Gerta malevolently. It was clad in pink
and purple robes with a bent tin foil crown perched on its tiny head. "That avenue was presented in honor
of my aunt's wedding!"
"Bet you wanted something more useful." Gerta elbowed Zimbolini. "Like a set of saucy pictures!"