"Janny Wurts - The Cycle of Fire 2 - Keeper of the Keys" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wurts Janny)

The younger one spat into the sea. "It's a boy, that. Flotsam don't wear boots, not that I ever saw."
"You say?" The sibling grunted in disgust. "Only last week, you missed the buoy marking the headland.
Near to run us aground for that, and now you claim you got eyesight!" Still, intrigued, he did not order the
boat put about. "If that draggle o' cloth is human, I'll give a week's coppers, and buy you a beer a night."
"Ye'll lose, then." The younger brother laughed, and sprang to haul in the sheets. Dearly loving a wager,
he braced himself against the shuddering heave of the boat as wind-tossed canvas thundered taut. "If he's
drowned, I get his rings."
The elder brother caught the worn tiller. "We'll see." And he turned the sloop, which reeked of cod, and
sent her dashing in a heel for the beach head.
Lashed ashore by a rampaging flood of surf, the craft's sturdy timbers grated and grounded against sand.
The elder brother leaped the thwart, his callused, twine-scarred hands braced to steady the prow. The
younger brother vaulted after and, kicking sand from his wet boots, stumped up the beach to determine the
winner of the bet.
He bent over the dark lump by the tide line, sending gulls flapping seaward. Tentatively he touched, then
drew back.
Impatient, the brother by the boat bellowed after him. "Well? Who's doing the buying this week?"
The answer came back, subdued against the boom and echo of breakers under the cliffs. "It is a boy." The
younger fisherman paused, and slowly stood straight on the shore. "A sick one."
The elder brother cursed, the exhilaration of the wager abruptly gone sour. Now out of decency they must
take on a passenger; sick, even dying, the wretch would need food and water, and the sloop's hold was not
yet full enough to pay even the cost of reprovisioning. "Better bring him in," he shouted. "And the beer
copper goes for his bread."
The younger of the two fishermen shrugged philosophically, then lifted the limp body from the sand. His
find proved to be slight, black-haired, and dressed in the remains of fine clothing. The eyes opened in
delirium were blue, and the hands ravaged by what looked like burns.
"He probably eats like a flea," the younger brother muttered as he arrived, breathless, and deposited his
burden in the sloop's bow. "Weighs little enough."
But the elder brother remained unsympathetic. He jerked his head, anxious now to be away from shores
that were deserted, ruins of the once fortunate kingdom of Elrinfaer.
"And anyway, you have the sporting instincts of a grandmother," groused the younger. He set his
shoulder to the sloop and shoved her ungainly prow seaward. As she slipped, grating, into deeper waters, the
boy in the bow groaned in the throes of fever.
"Would you have left him, then?" accused the younger, bothered at last by his brother's silence. When he
received no answer, he shrugged; the castaway wore court clothes, badly torn, but the dirt on the tunic was
fresh. Perhaps he would have wealthy relatives who would reward his rescuers for his safe return.

Betrayal
By evening, they gathered in the great hall on Cliffhaven, a rough-mannered crowd of sea captains,
sailhands, and men at arms. All were exiles, lawfully condemned as thieves or murderers by the Free Isles'
Alliance or the outlying kingdoms; except one, a slight, black-haired girl, almost lost in the brocade chair
where she sat with her feet tucked up. Her arms were sunburned and briar-scratched, her nose peeling; but
the robes she wore had the pearly sheen of a dreamweaver trained by the Vaere. For that reason, the bearded
captain who wended through the press of beer-drinking companions approached with guarded respect.
Jostled by celebrants, sailors with silver-hooped earlobes, and officers still wearing mail, he gained the
relative peace of the corner. There the captain set his tankard aside. He had been assigned the task of
ensuring the enchantress's comfort, and at present the girl wore a troubled frown. He had to yell over the
noise; immediately he regretted that his shout sounded gruffer than he wished. "Taen Dreamweaver?"
At her name she looked around, pale eyes enormous under the shadow of her brows. Her age was
eighteen, but seemed less. "Jaric isn't here."
"No? Are you certain?" Surprised the boy should be gone, the captain stroked the knife at his belt out of