JК
The Magehound :: Каннингем Элейн
Страница: 77 из 216We all know that the jordaini place truth above all. Let him go at once."
Chapter Nine
Matteo's troubles did not end when the door of the hold clanked shut behind him.
Kiva wished him well in her sweet, ironic voice and then disappeared. The wemic, after a final long, challenging stare, followed the magehound, leaving Matteo entirely to his own devices.
He started out to find Cyric and soon realized that this effort was both futile and costly. The stallion had shattered the hitching rail by the Falling Star Tavern to get loose, and the innkeeper demanded payment. Matteo had spent all of his allotted coin to ensure that Themo would not come to grief over the brawl in the tavern. It took all his persuasive powers to get the man to agree to accept a note, payable upon demand by the stewards of House Jordain.
Matters did not improve from there. Ordinarily many hostlers in Khaerbaal might have been wiling to lend him a mount, certain of payment from the jordaini order, but none believed Matteo's claim to being a member of that house. His battles, his jaunt with Tzigone through the bilboa tree and the dirty back streets, and his confinement in the dirty cell had left his white linens dingy and stained beyond recognition. Worse, he had inexplicably lost the pendant that proclaimed him a jordain.
There was nothing to do but walk, so Matteo set out at a brisk pace. By sunset, he left the city gate behind. He walked as late into the night as he dared, then took a page from Tzigone's book and took refuge in a large, vine-shrouded mazganut tree.
Sleep did not come, for he was all too aware of the numerous night sounds around him. He recognized the snuffles and grunts of the wild boars who rooted for fallen nuts at the base of the tree, the not-too-distant shriek of a hunting panther, the hum and chitter of the tiny, often malevolent sprites who made their lairs in the uppermost branches.
Worse were the faint, unearthly echoes of the Unseelie music. Matteo had heard tales of the dark fairies that haunted the mountain passes and danced widdershins upon the ruins of ancient cities and long-forgotten graves, and he'd read that on occasion they ventured close to civilized lands. All these things he recognized from his studies, but the knowledge did little to prepare him for the chilling actuality of their song. After a time, he began to talk to himself, reciting tales and histories and royal genealogies-anything to drown out the faint, darkly compelling music.
Chapter Nine
Matteo's troubles did not end when the door of the hold clanked shut behind him.
Kiva wished him well in her sweet, ironic voice and then disappeared. The wemic, after a final long, challenging stare, followed the magehound, leaving Matteo entirely to his own devices.
He started out to find Cyric and soon realized that this effort was both futile and costly. The stallion had shattered the hitching rail by the Falling Star Tavern to get loose, and the innkeeper demanded payment. Matteo had spent all of his allotted coin to ensure that Themo would not come to grief over the brawl in the tavern. It took all his persuasive powers to get the man to agree to accept a note, payable upon demand by the stewards of House Jordain.
Matters did not improve from there. Ordinarily many hostlers in Khaerbaal might have been wiling to lend him a mount, certain of payment from the jordaini order, but none believed Matteo's claim to being a member of that house. His battles, his jaunt with Tzigone through the bilboa tree and the dirty back streets, and his confinement in the dirty cell had left his white linens dingy and stained beyond recognition. Worse, he had inexplicably lost the pendant that proclaimed him a jordain.
There was nothing to do but walk, so Matteo set out at a brisk pace. By sunset, he left the city gate behind. He walked as late into the night as he dared, then took a page from Tzigone's book and took refuge in a large, vine-shrouded mazganut tree.
Sleep did not come, for he was all too aware of the numerous night sounds around him. He recognized the snuffles and grunts of the wild boars who rooted for fallen nuts at the base of the tree, the not-too-distant shriek of a hunting panther, the hum and chitter of the tiny, often malevolent sprites who made their lairs in the uppermost branches.
Worse were the faint, unearthly echoes of the Unseelie music. Matteo had heard tales of the dark fairies that haunted the mountain passes and danced widdershins upon the ruins of ancient cities and long-forgotten graves, and he'd read that on occasion they ventured close to civilized lands. All these things he recognized from his studies, but the knowledge did little to prepare him for the chilling actuality of their song. After a time, he began to talk to himself, reciting tales and histories and royal genealogies-anything to drown out the faint, darkly compelling music.