JК
The Magehound :: Каннингем Элейн
Страница: 26 из 216"I see that I do not need to tell you the penalty for this offense."
Chapter Three
The streets of Khaerbaal were quiet, for the sun burned high overhead and every Halruaan who could sought the comfort of darkened rooms and, if they were fortunate, magically cooled breezes.
Tzigone was unaccustomed to such comforts, so she didn't miss them. If anything, she enjoyed the hour or two of relative solitude. A few street people huddled in the shade offered by alleys and arbors, and visitors from other lands mopped at their streaming faces as realized their error and sought a cool tavern. Few spared a glance at the small, thin figure clad in a loose brown tunic and leggings that ended several inches above her bare feet. With her tousled, short brown hair and slightly smudged face, she looked more like a street urchin than a young woman. If an observer cared to look more closely, he might notice that beauty was hers if she wished to claim it. Her face angled sharply from high cheekbones to a small pointed chin, and her eyes were big and brown, lively with intelligence and unusually expressive.
At the moment, those eyes were deeply shadowed, for she'd lost another night's sleep to that thrice-bedamned wemic.
Tzigone shifted the sack off her shoulder and looked around for a likely recipient for its contents. She didn't keep anything for long. Possessions, things, had a way of betraying those who held them too close. The last thing she'd treasured had been a silver brush, and keeping it had gotten her captured and nearly killed.
Her gaze fell on an old woman huddled in the shade of an almond tree, wearing thick cast-off garments that might have been comfortable during the coolest winter days. Tzigone pulled a long, red silk kirtle from the bag.
"A fine day to you, grandmother," she said cheerfully, using the friendly greeting common to peasant folk. "Lady's Day has come and gone."
"Mystra be praised," muttered the crone, not bothering to look up. "Crowded, it were. And noisy, too."
Tzigone dropped the simple gown into the woman's lap. The fine fabric glided down as softly as a shadow. "Have you any use for this, grandmother? I can't wear it now that Lady Day has passed. There are too many travelers in this town with odd notions about a lone woman in a red dress." When the crone shot her a quizzical look, Tzigone placed her hands on her hips and took a couple of steps in a dead-on imitation of a doxie's strut.
"Them were the days," the old woman said with dry, unexpected humor. She fingered the silk with knotted hands.
Chapter Three
The streets of Khaerbaal were quiet, for the sun burned high overhead and every Halruaan who could sought the comfort of darkened rooms and, if they were fortunate, magically cooled breezes.
Tzigone was unaccustomed to such comforts, so she didn't miss them. If anything, she enjoyed the hour or two of relative solitude. A few street people huddled in the shade offered by alleys and arbors, and visitors from other lands mopped at their streaming faces as realized their error and sought a cool tavern. Few spared a glance at the small, thin figure clad in a loose brown tunic and leggings that ended several inches above her bare feet. With her tousled, short brown hair and slightly smudged face, she looked more like a street urchin than a young woman. If an observer cared to look more closely, he might notice that beauty was hers if she wished to claim it. Her face angled sharply from high cheekbones to a small pointed chin, and her eyes were big and brown, lively with intelligence and unusually expressive.
At the moment, those eyes were deeply shadowed, for she'd lost another night's sleep to that thrice-bedamned wemic.
Tzigone shifted the sack off her shoulder and looked around for a likely recipient for its contents. She didn't keep anything for long. Possessions, things, had a way of betraying those who held them too close. The last thing she'd treasured had been a silver brush, and keeping it had gotten her captured and nearly killed.
Her gaze fell on an old woman huddled in the shade of an almond tree, wearing thick cast-off garments that might have been comfortable during the coolest winter days. Tzigone pulled a long, red silk kirtle from the bag.
"A fine day to you, grandmother," she said cheerfully, using the friendly greeting common to peasant folk. "Lady's Day has come and gone."
"Mystra be praised," muttered the crone, not bothering to look up. "Crowded, it were. And noisy, too."
Tzigone dropped the simple gown into the woman's lap. The fine fabric glided down as softly as a shadow. "Have you any use for this, grandmother? I can't wear it now that Lady Day has passed. There are too many travelers in this town with odd notions about a lone woman in a red dress." When the crone shot her a quizzical look, Tzigone placed her hands on her hips and took a couple of steps in a dead-on imitation of a doxie's strut.
"Them were the days," the old woman said with dry, unexpected humor. She fingered the silk with knotted hands.