"Janny Wurts - Pass Of Orlon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wurts Janny)

Wurts, Janny - Pass Of Orlon.TXT
VII. PASS OF ORLAN
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The morning following Arithon's escapade at the Four Ravens, Asandir
recalled the horses from the smithy where they had been reshod, then
rousted a hung-over Dakar from the brothel that had sheltered him
through the night. Whether the Mad Prophet had been sober enough to
enjoy the doxie whose bed had warmed him appeared dubious; he sat the
paint's saddle with a pronounced list. Yet the malaise that unstrung his
balance seemed not to dampen his complaints.
'When I pass beneath the Wheel, Dharkaron Avenger's going to seem
like an angel of mercy.' He crooked his reins in one elbow, cradled his head
and managed with well-practiced grumpiness to direct his injury toward
Asandir. 'You said we'd be in Erdane for two more days.'
The sorcerer replied too softly to overhear; but the effect upon Dakar
was profound.
His cheeks went white as new snow. Suddenly straight in his saddle, he
swung the paint's head and promptly spurred down the lane toward the
gates. No further protest escaped him, even when the party clattered out of
Erdane and turned eastward at a pace guaranteed to inflame his hangover.
Lysaer for once forbore from teasing. Aware that his half-brother had
stolen out last night by himself, and disappointed not to have been asked
along, he gained no chance for tactful inquiry; Arithon's night-time outing
remained unexplained. No mention was made of the tunic which a
peculiarly wakeful Enithen Tuer had snatched off to wash before dawn.
Asandir's mood seemed preoccupied and brisk and had been so since
daybreak. Had Dakar felt inclined to be talkative he might have offered a
fellow miscreant fair warning: with a Fellowship sorcerer, silence on any
topic boded trouble.
Yet Arithon was disinclined to worry in any case. With the mystery
behind his mind-block resolved, the cutting edge eased from his reserve.

147

Left less wary than watchful now that he understood the stakes involved a
kingship, he trusted time and circumstance would show him an opening to
overset Asandir's prerogatives. Until then, he rode at his half-brother's side
and not even his restive mare diverted him from rapid-fire conversation.
Lysaer welcomed the entertainment. Since too much quiet let him brood
over the undermining losses of his banishment, he fielded Arithon's quips
in a spirited enthusiasm that outlasted interruptions by fast-riding
couriers and packed farm-drays, and once, a dusty band of cattle whose
herd-boys yipped and goaded their charges to market.
Then, as with West End, the farmlands thinned and ended. One hard