Ithanalin's Restoration. Lawrence Watt-EvansЧитать онлайн книгу.
spells could announce their arrival, but none of the wards and barriers Ithanalin knew—which was admittedly not many, as that sort of magic was not his area of expertise—could keep them out, any more than locked doors could. Spriggans ran hither and yon almost unhindered, and one of them had clearly run across the endtable.
If there were only some way to make the little pests useful, Kilisha thought—but then she pushed the thought aside and tried to concentrate on Lady Nuvielle. Ithanalin always told her to focus on the customer—magicians were paid for pleasing their patrons, not just for working magic.
And pleasing the Lady Treasurer, who happened to be not merely a top city official but the next-to-youngest of the overlord’s several aunts, was especially important. Kilisha could not help being aware of that she was in the presence of high-ranking nobility.
Lady Nuvielle noticed the girl’s nervousness and smiled again, debating whether to try to put the girl at ease, or whether to tease her and enjoy her discomfort. Still undecided, she asked a neutral question.
“Ithanalin is an unusual name. Is it Tintallionese?”
“I don’t know, my lady,” Kilisha replied. “I’m not sure it’s any known language. Wizards often take new names, for one reason or another.” She shifted nervously. She was shading the truth; she knew her master had taken his name from an old book he had read as a boy, and the book was not Tintallionese in origin.
“I take it you have not dealt with many of your master’s clients?” Nuvielle asked.
“Well,” Kilisha said, shifting her feet, “I have assisted Ithanalin with his customers for a few years now, but none of the other customers were as…as distinguished as yourself, my lady.”
Nuvielle knew exactly what Kilisha referred to, and that it wasn’t just her office of treasurer for the city of Ethshar of the Rocks. She grew suddenly bored and annoyed with the apprentice’s unease—she was tired of being feared because of who her brother had been, and who her nephew was. “Oh, calm down, girl,” she said. “Sit down and relax. I’m not going to eat you.”
“Yes, my lady,” the apprentice said, settling cautiously onto a straight-backed wooden chair set at an angle to the couch. She tucked her brown wool skirt neatly under her as she sat.
Nuvielle looked Kilisha over. She was a little on the short side, and plumper than was entirely fashionable just at the moment. Her hair was a nondescript brown, pleasant enough, but utterly dull, worn long and straight and tied back in a pony-tail. Her eyes were hazel—not brown flecked with green, or green flecked with brown, either of which might sometimes be called hazel, but the real thing, a solid color somewhere between brown and green, neither one nor the other. Instead of apprentice robes she wore a plain wool skirt a shade darker than her hair, a pale yellow tunic that came to mid-thigh, and a stiff leather pouch and a drawstring purse on her belt. A leather-and-feather hair ornament was the only touch of bright color or interest anywhere about her, and even that was something worn by any number of girls in Ethshar of the Rocks. Her appearance was absolutely, completely, totally ordinary. The city held thousands just like her, Nuvielle thought.
Though most, of course, weren’t apprenticed to wizards. What sort of a future could anyone so boring have, in so flamboyant a profession as wizardry? This girl looked utterly dull.
The noblewoman watched Kilisha for a moment, then turned away, determined to ignore the poor little thing until the wizard arrived.
For her part, Kilisha was admiring this gorgeous customer—or rather, client, as the lady would have it. The long black cloak, the rich green velvet, the white satin tunic embroidered in gold and scarlet, the long gloves, the black hair bound up in an elaborate network of braids and ribbons, all seemed to Kilisha to be the absolute epitome of elegance. When Nuvielle turned her head, Kilisha marvelled at the graceful profile and the smooth white skin.
Kilisha had always thought that Yara, Ithanalin’s wife, was just about perfect, but she had to admit that that common soul’s appearance couldn’t begin to compare with Lady Nuvielle’s.
And Kilisha’s own looks, she thought, weren’t even up to Yara’s.
Then, at last, before she could pursue this depressing line of thought any further, Ithanalin finally emerged from the workshop, his hands behind his back.
“My apologies for the delay, Lady Nuvielle,” he said, with a sketchy sort of bow. “I wanted to be sure everything about your purchase was perfect.”
Kilisha grimaced slightly, unnoticed by the others. The real cause for delay had been the need to change clothes, from the grubby, stained old tunic that Ithanalin wore when actually working to the red-and-gold robes he wore for meeting the public. It wouldn’t do for customers to see the wizard as dirty and unkempt as a ditch-digger.
“It’s ready, then?” Nuvielle asked.
“Oh, yes,” Ithanalin said, bringing one hand out from behind his back.
There, standing on his palm, was a perfect miniature dragon, gleaming black from its pointed snout to the tip of its curling tail, with eyes, mouth, and claws of blazing red. It unfurled wings that seemed bigger than all the rest of it put together; they were black on top, red beneath. It folded back sleek black ears, hiding their red interiors, and hissed, making a sound Kilisha thought was very much like little Pirra’s unsuccessful attempts to whistle.
Nuvielle leaned forward on the couch and studied it critically.
“Does it breathe fire?” she asked.
“No,” Ithanalin replied. “You hadn’t said it should, and I judged that fiery breath might be unsafe—a spark might go astray and set a drapery aflame.”
Nuvielle nodded.
“Does it fly?”
For answer, Ithanalin tossed the little beast upward; it flapped its wings, then soared away, circling the room once before coming to land on the arched arm of the couch by Nuvielle’s elbow. It wrapped its tail under the arm, securing itself to its perch, and then stared intently up at its purchaser.
She stared back.
“What’s it made of?” she asked.
“Glass, wood, and lacquer, mostly,” Ithanalin said, stepping back. “I’m not certain of everything, as I subcontracted part of its construction. My talents lie in magic, not in sculpture.” Noticing something, he turned and surreptitiously kicked his heel back, straightening the rag rug, which had humped up again.
“It will never grow?” Lady Nuvielle asked.
“No. That’s as big as it will ever be.”
“Is it male or female?”
“Neither; it’s an animated statue, not a true living creature.”
Nuvielle nodded slowly. For a moment she was silent. The dragon lost interest in her and began studying the crimson fabric of the sofa, the black of her cloak, and the carved wood beneath its talons.
“Can it speak?” Nuvielle asked at last.
“Only a few words, as yet,” Ithanalin said, apologetically. “I thought you might prefer to teach it yourself. I also didn’t name it, but it responds to ‘Dragon.’“
At the word, the little creature looked up, then craned its long neck around to peer at its creator.
“Dragon,” Nuvielle whispered.
The head swung back. She held out a hand.
“Say, ‘here,’” Ithanalin advised.
“Here,” she said quietly.
The dragon unwound its tail and leapt from the arm of the couch to the back of her hand. It stared up at its new owner, and she stared back. Then she looked up. “Excellent, wizard,” she said. “Excellent. I’m very pleased.” She rose, and Kilisha hurried to help her on with her cloak—with the