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time the man refused to break the silence. Jaric shivered, set his sword point
against the stone, and asked the only question that mattered.
"Why attack me?"
The man kicked his dagger aside and mounted the steps. "For devilment, I
suppose." His breath betrayed no sign of exertion.
Jaric gritted his teeth. "Then devil and demons take you. I
couldn't spare the time!"
He turned on his heel, retrieved his buckler and cloak. The slashed letter
fluttered under his feet as he sheathed his weapons with short, angry jerks. A
hand touched his elbow. Jaric recovered his torn note and whirled, his face a
mask of fury.
But the stranger laughed no longer. His brows knitted with contrition and he
said, "I'll make it up to you."
"I doubt it." Jaric pushed past. "You've no idea what you've done."
"No." The man shrugged and fell into step beside him. "But you're not without
talent, you know. I could instruct you, as compensation. The next time someone
sought to delay you, your lady need not be kept waiting."
Jaric stopped. A bitter laugh escaped his throat. He regarded the swordsman,
who held his bloody handkerchief pressed beneath his collar, and whose light
eyes remained shrewdly intent. The boy's features twisted, assumed a look
wholly Ivain's. "That won't mend it," he said.
But by his tone, the swordsman understood that Corley's protégé saw the sense
in accepting. Not without friendliness he offered, "My name is Brith. If you
come to the practice yard by the city guard's quarters, we can start
tomorrow."
"I'll consider it." Jaric was curt. 'Now let me go!"
Sunset silhouetted the humped profile of Little Dagley Islet and the waters of
Landfast harbor deepened slowly to indigo. Loud in the evening quiet, the last
wagons rumbled away from the dockside. Brith crouched in the dooryard of a
spice shop and watched the boy, Jaric, who lingered alone by the wharf. Sea
wind tossed the hair from his face, revealing a glint of unshed tears; while,
beyond the beacon towers of the inlet, a brigantine flying Cliffhaven's colors
shook out her stunsails and scudded south for the Isle of the
Vaere.
Brith swore softly. He tossed his stained handkerchief in the gutter, and
wondered again why the
Kielmark's foremost captain should concern himself with a boy who hated
fighting. The swordmaster shrugged and, feeling the laces of his collar fret
against his cut, cursed again. The pay was generous, but the idea he might
spend the night skulking like a dog in an alley had never entered his mind
when he accepted responsibility for Jaric. On the verge of rising to coax his
charge to consider retiring to the comfort in an alehouse, Brith froze.
Jaric spun abruptly and threw something, his arm a blur of force. The watching
swordsman ducked hastily as the object struck the boards above his head. It
bounced once, and rolled to a stop against the instep of his boot. Brith
retrieved what proved to be a letter, crushed and wadded into an unreadable
pulp.
Cautiously the swordsman looked up and found Jaric on the move once more.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Stealthy as a cat, he followed.
His charge strode to the dockmaster's shed and pounded on the panels until the
door opened. The official inside thrust forth an angry face and swore until
his lungs emptied of air. Although no money changed hands, he finished with
directions. Jaric left without thanks. He interrogated a beggar and a street
urchin for knowledge of landmarks and, poorer by two coppers, eventually found
his way to a slip where a fishing boat of ancient design creaked against her
lines.
Brith tensed. If the boy tried to cast off and chase the brigantine, the
swordsman did not fancy the prospect of stopping him; but Corley's orders had
been explicitly clear: Jaric was to be trained for the sword, and under no
circumstances should he leave the shores of Landfast. But the boy apparently
realized his
Callinde could never match
Moonless's speed under full canvas. He made no effort to sail, but tossed his
weapons, unoiled, into a locker, and sprawled prone beneath his cloak. Brith
guarded and listened, and at length settled resignedly against a damp pile of
fish net. If the boy wept, no sound betrayed him. Perhaps in the end he slept,
for nothing moved on board
Callinde until dawn silvered the horizon to the east.
Wrapped in the fog by daybreak, Moonless shuddered over a swell. Canvas
rippled aloft and fell taut with a coarse smack. Shirtless, and clad hastily
in hose and boots, Corley arrived on the quarterdeck. He squinted at the
compass without pausing to consult the officer on watch.
The quartermaster blinked moisture from his lashes. "Wind's changing."
"I know." Corley gazed over the rails. Beyond the curve of the swell, the air
lay dense and dead, horizon buried in mist. "Stuns'ls will have to come down.
We're in for a blow, I can feel it." Deftly he skirted the wheel and shouted
orders to the boatswain.
Moonless came alive as men leaped for the rigging. Corley watched, unsettled
and critical. When his cabin steward appeared at his elbow with a shirt, he
accepted the garment with a preoccupied frown.
"Where's the Dreamweaver?" He dragged the laces tight at his throat and
adjusted his cuffs, eyes fixed intently on the activities aloft. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]