Новини освіти і науки:

G+

Тлумачний словник
Авто
Автоматизація
Архітектура
Астрономія
Аудит
Біологія
Будівництво
Бухгалтерія
Винахідництво
Виробництво
Військова справа
Генетика
Географія
Геологія
Господарство
Держава
Дім
Екологія
Економетрика
Економіка
Електроніка
Журналістика та ЗМІ
Зв'язок
Іноземні мови
Інформатика
Історія
Комп'ютери
Креслення
Кулінарія
Культура
Лексикологія
Література
Логіка
Маркетинг
Математика
Машинобудування
Медицина
Менеджмент
Метали і Зварювання
Механіка
Мистецтво
Музика
Населення
Освіта
Охорона безпеки життя
Охорона Праці
Педагогіка
Політика
Право
Програмування
Промисловість
Психологія
Радіо
Регилия
Соціологія
Спорт
Стандартизація
Технології
Торгівля
Туризм
Фізика
Фізіологія
Філософія
Фінанси
Хімія
Юриспунденкция

Contents 6 страница

“The elven woman?” Gaspard cocked his head and let out a breath. “Really. Don’t see many of those. Rabbit in a mask. Listen to me, Sielig. You’ve done well tonight. Now, I’m not going to give you gold, because giving you gold is just giving you a knife in the back. You know it, and I know it. But those men over there have some silver, and it’ll be more than enough to build you another warehouse.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The elf bowed deeply, and Gaspard’s men led him away.

“Are you actually going to pay him?” Duke Remache asked beside the coach.

“I am.” Gaspard turned to his future grand duke and smiled. “Knife in the back would be safer, but you have to guess we’ve got a dozen of those big, glittery eyes on us right now, and they’d know. Right now, I’d rather they see the man who helped rebuild the warehouse the empress’s people burned down. I might need them later.”

Remache nodded, impassive behind his gold and silver mask. “You’re going to use the elves?”

“I can’t use whatever Melcendre had for me. Whatever it was, it like as not went up in that.” Gaspard jerked a thumb at the burning remains of the warehouse. “But a Dalish spy and an elven assassin both working for Celene?” Gaspard asked as he climbed back into his coach. “Maker’s breath, if I can’t find a way to use that, I don’t deserve the throne.”

In the slums of Halamshiral, whispers blew on the embers of rebellion.

Cruelty from the nobles was nothing new. Every elf in the city knew to look down when a human walked by. The elven women learned early on how dangerous it could be to travel alone, or to look too pretty. The elven merchants knew the fine dance of protesting enough that the nobles paid some of what they owed, but not protesting so much that their houses were put to the torch.

It was not loved, but it was known, and tolerated, and accepted as the way of the world.

Lemet’s death was unacceptable.

Lemet had been a good man, his friend Thren and the other tradesmen whispered. He’d done honest work, kept his home clean, and even got business from the nobles’ coachmen because of Lemet’s low prices and kind, respectful manner. He had a slow temper and an easy laugh, and he bought drinks for his friends more often than not. Lemet wasn’t gutter trash, they whispered, but Lord Mainserai’s men had stabbed him, then hacked him apart and hung pieces of the body throughout the city like the worst kind of criminal. If they could do this to a good elf like Lemet, who never made trouble, what might they do to everyone else?

Lemet had died protecting a runner, the thieves whispered. Whatever he did to make his coin, he was a true elf at heart, and the shems who’d cut him down like a dog had been trying to tell every elf in the slums that they owned those streets. It was past time the humans learned that there were always more rocks to throw.

Lemet had come from a night at the tavern talking about the old days, Jinette and the other true believers whispered. Whatever he’d said that night in the tavern, he’d heard of the time when Halamshiral was the home of the elves, before the humans broke the peace and invaded. He’d listened, and when the noble whose ancestors had burned the elven homeland to the ground tried to kill an innocent child, Lemet had stood tall against him. Could any elf do less?

Comte Pierre of Halamshiral, who had indulged Lord Mainserai’s activities as long as no humans were hurt, ordered the patrols increased throughout the slums of the city. A group of elves returning home from a late night’s work were harassed and beaten by the guards. The next morning, the guards were found dead in the market square, their ears hacked off in the manner used on elven bandits.

Comte Pierre sent his chevaliers into the slums to make an example. They killed ten elves who didn’t have the sense to stay indoors and awoke the next day to find that someone had killed their stablemen and slit their horses’ throats.

Lady Elspeth informed Lord Mainserai that his visits were no longer welcomed at her family’s estate, as his uncouth behavior had so stirred up the commoners that Lady Elspeth’s servants had been unable to procure fresh berries to make her favorite tarts. As he rode back to his estate, fuming, a thrown rock sailed through the open window of his coach and bloodied his nose.

The wiser nobles took an autumn holiday at their country estates. The foolish nobles increased their guards.

And quietly, slowly, the word began to spread from Halamshiral across Orlais.

* * *

For Celene, the weeks after Gaspard’s failed gambits were sweet and quiet. She approved diplomatic documents, read reports, held audiences for inventors and artists who wished for patronage, and put into motion plans for a ball thrown in honor of the Divine, where she might speak with the nobles and make some headway in the tension between the templars and the mages.

There had been no word from the Divine’s red-haired representative, though. No refusal, but no confirmation, either, and the silence twisted knots in Celene’s stomach. She lay awake again, Briala curled up next to her on the side of the bed, watching the dawn.

What Orlais needed, she thought, was another Blight. Not that it would seriously help, and she would never wish such destruction upon her empire. But Blights were, if not easy, at least simple. Gather everyone who can fight, throw them at the darkspawn, and hope the Grey Wardens could destroy the Archdemon. Politics were put aside, eventually if not immediately—the stories surrounding Loghain Mac Tir’s foolish betrayal of the Grey Wardens and attempt to seize power during the last Blight had been confusing at best, but even the savage Fereldan nobles had eventually banded together.

If darkspawn swarmed up from the Abyssal Rift and another Blight began, would Grand Duke Gaspard fall into line and bring his considerable military prowess to bear on an enemy that deserved it? Would the templars and the mages turn their fury to the darkspawn?

Celene sighed. As simple as it sounded, she knew that another Blight would rip Orlais apart far more brutally than any measure of infighting or civil strife. What was more, each Blight saw cultures destroyed and knowledge lost. No one built libraries in times of war. Her university, her class of nobles learning to think critically instead of mindlessly following in the steps of their fathers, the commoners and even the elves slowly making their way into the halls of learning … all of that would be put aside in the struggle to simply survive.

“You need to sleep,” Briala murmured beside her.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be.” Briala stretched, one arm trailing down Celene’s side as she did. “You could have woken me earlier.”

“Burdens of the empress,” Celene said, and smiled. Her lover’s skin was dark against the creamy white satin of her nightshirt.

Briala rolled onto her stomach and lifted her face, meeting Celene’s gaze. “Let me share them.”

“I don’t want you to share them, Bria.” Celene let her arm cradle Briala’s body to soften the words. “You are my eyes and ears already. I want this…” She pulled Briala close. “I want this for me alone. For us.”

Gently, Briala pulled out of Celene’s grasp and sat up, still facing her. “Your Majesty, you know that isn’t possible.” She took Celene’s hand, her fingers warm and strong. “Have you answered Remache?”

Briala’s eyes were so large and dark in the morning. It was like staring into an endless pool, soothing and deep.

“You know he now backs Gaspard,” Celene said with a sigh. They had both sworn long and loud the night after Gaspard made his proposal on the hunting trip and Briala saved Michel from the bard’s trap. Gaspard had failed on both fronts, but knowing that Remache was lost gave the victory a bitter aftertaste.

Briala squeezed her hand. “But can he not be turned back? If you answered him without acknowledging his change of allegiance, he might find ruling beside you more tempting than serving Gaspard. The fear of angering you by formally withdrawing his suit alone might compel him to—”

“I would lose you,” Celene said, and the words caught in her throat as she said them. “Bria, you’re all I have. All that is really me.” She pulled Briala in close, felt her warm arms come around her. The satin of Briala’s nightshirt slid against Celene’s skin like a cat arching its back to be petted. “Maker, I envy you sometimes.”

She knew immediately that she had said something wrong. She felt Briala stiffen, though her arms didn’t move, and Briala’s voice was light as she said, “The empress of Orlais envies an elven handmaid?”

“You know what I mean, Bria.” Still holding her, Celene patted Briala’s back. “You could leave here, become someone else.”

“As long as that someone is an elf,” Briala said with a dimpled smile, but Celene knew she was still hurt.

“Yes, I know. But I … I was born to sit on that throne. I can’t do anything else. Since my parents and Lady Mantillon…” She trailed off.

This time, Briala pulled away. “You would make a wonderful scholar,” she said as she stood and pulled her robe on, “at least until Emperor Gaspard made a decision you found objectionable. Then, I believe trouble would ensue.” She smiled over her shoulder.

“You are probably right, my love.” Celene rose as well and pulled her own robe on, as if nothing were wrong. “And … I will consider Remache.”

Briala nodded and slipped her mask into place, then left through the passage behind the mirror, and Celene sighed and fetched her little magical pot.

She would be making her own tea this morning, it seemed.

* * *

Briala was in the market catching up with her contacts when Felassan came again.

“I did not expect to see you for months,” she said as he picked his way past a group of merchants arguing over a wagonful of goods and caught her eye. “This is a lovely surprise.”

Though her mentor’s cloak was as clean as always, untouched by the grime his constant wandering should attract, Felassan’s face looked drawn and tired beneath the shadows of his cloak. “As much as I miss the sight of your lovely masked face, da’len, I turned back for more practical reasons. What have you heard from Halamshiral?”

Briala followed him to the park where they had spoken just a few days ago. “Nothing,” she said. A pack of wealthy merchants’ sons were nearby, laughing and tossing a wineskin back and forth as they trampled the grass. They sent leers her way, and she ignored them and kept her voice low. “My birds are overdue. They often come late in the autumn. I’ve heard nothing from the ships arriving from across the Waking Sea.”

He smiled wearily. “Well, then, I did not tire my ancient bones for nothing. Some foolish shemlen lord killed and brutalized an elven tradesman without cause. The angrier voices in the alienage are calling for mien’harel.”

The shock of it was so great that Briala laughed despite herself. “Over one tradesman? How many of our people are butchered every day?”

“We never know where the lightning will strike in the dry forest,” Felassan said as he sat down in the grass, “but I can smell the smoke.” He gave her the particulars, the name of the lord and the dead elf, for what little that mattered.

“So the elves will rebel? They’ll be crushed. This is…” She broke off and started to pace angrily. “Do they think this will help the empress? This is the last thing she needs!”

“The friends of the butchered tradesman will be heartbroken,” Felassan said. “I imagine they are constantly considering Celene’s needs.”

“They had better!” Briala spun on him. “She’s bending the Divine to her cause, she’s dealing with Gaspard … if this hurts her, do you think Gaspard will be better for the elves?”

“If there is one thing I have learned,” Felassan said, “it is that major political changes are almost never based on what I think.” He made an idle gesture. “What you think, on the other hand, might change how the Empress of Orlais reacts to this news. I can promise you that no one in Val Royeaux has heard this news before you.”

One of the merchants’ sons overthrew the wineskin, and it sailed over his friend’s head. Without missing a beat, Felassan took two steps, caught it, spun, and lofted it back without spilling a drop. The young men clearly looked offended that an elf had joined their game, but it had been a very good catch, and they had the good grace to laugh and nod.

“You’re right, hahren.” With an effort, Briala stilled herself. “Thank you.”

Felassan smiled gently. “Go.”

She made her way back to the palace, tugging her mask back into place and moving with unseemly haste through the wealthy district. Back inside, she made her way through the halls. The chatelaine saw her and called her way, but Briala ignored it. Whatever she had to pay later would be worth it.

She found Celene in a conference with a university administrator and, stealing a tea tray from a serving girl, entered with a bow. She served the tea with the grace of years of training, never interrupting the administrator’s charming requests for more funding and better clarification on how many commoners would need to be admitted to the university to please the empress. Celene gave Briala a single glance as she took her tea, sweetened with honey just as Celene had liked it since childhood.

Back out in the hall moments later, Briala shoved the tea tray at the serving girl without looking and paced the halls, thinking.

It had to be handled perfectly. Some would die in any event—Briala had learned that lesson on the day Lady Mantillon murdered her parents and all the other servants to ensure Celene’s safe rise to power. But the right words could save hundreds of lives.

Briala could not afford to spare tears for inevitable deaths. In that respect, she supposed that she was more like the nobles she served than the elves in the marketplace. The thought sometimes sickened her, but again, not as much as the thought of deaths she could have prevented.

Celene summoned Briala to the Stone Room a few minutes later and dismissed the other servants. She was standing by an open window, looking out over the gardens. The room had gotten its name from one wall, which was covered from floor to ceiling with differently colored pieces of amber. They formed a mosaic of the Grey Wardens riding their legendary griffons against a horde of darkspawn. The Wardens and their griffons were done in brightest gold, the sky was pale, and the darkspawn, led by the great Archdemon, were sooty red.

The rest of the room held trophies and other art of the legendary order, though none was as detailed. One great framed map dated back to the Second Blight and showed how far the darkspawn had spread at the height of their power, and in the corner an empty suit of armor held safely behind glass was said to date back to the Divine Age, when Emperor Drakon sent Orlesian armies against the darkspawn to save Grey Wardens besieged at Weisshaupt.

Celene gestured at a chair whose legs were carved griffon claws. “Whatever you find in the market can usually wait until the evening.”

Briala sat. “This cannot, Your Majesty. The elves in Halamshiral are angry. Lord Mainserai killed a tradesman without justification, and the elves are calling for mien’harel.” At Celene’s silence, Briala added, “It is an elven word. When the humans go too far, the elves remind them that even a short blade must be respected. They—”

“They will rebel,” Celene said, the words cutting through the chilly autumn air. “Against me. Now.”

“It is not rebellion, Your Majesty.” Briala bowed her head and took a shaky breath, clutching at the griffon-head arm of her chair. This was exactly what she had feared. “The elves of Halamshiral have never seen you. Their grievance is with neither you nor Orlais. They only wish justice for a man of your empire who died without cause.”

“What they wish is irrelevant.” Celene turned and stalked away from the window. “I am already fighting a war on two fronts. I cannot be seen to fight a war on three.”

“Then don’t.” Briala rose, putting herself in Celene’s path. “Give them justice.”

“A lord for the death of an elf? I … damn this thing.” With a quick jerk, Celene tore the mask from her face. Her face was flushed beneath, her eyes red from another night of little sleep. “Shall I declare the elves equal citizens before the Maker and the throne as well, while I’m at it?”

“Why not?” Briala took her own mask off, stealing a quick moment to steady herself. “Unless you don’t believe that, and I’m just a jumped-up kitchen slut you haven’t tired of yet.”

Celene turned away, tossing her mask onto an overstuffed couch and stalking to the great amber wall. “You know I cannot do that, Bria. I might as well engrave Gaspard’s initials on the throne.”

Against the wall of gold and red, Briala’s empress and lover looked pale and wan. Celene had always seen sleep as an enemy, or at most a necessary evil, from what Briala could tell, and since the events in Kirkwall the stress of rising tensions had her awake before dawn almost every morning. If it were early enough, Briala could sometimes coax her into lovemaking, and the warm and drowsy bliss afterward would let Celene steal a few more hours of rest. Lately, even that had not been enough.

Briala sighed. “I do know.” Instead of going to Celene, she went to the small table where Celene’s teapot sat, forever just shy of boiling. She poured Celene a cup of tea, brought it over, and gently touched Celene’s shoulder. It was not quite an apology.

Celene turned, saw the tea, and sighed. “I do what I can, Bria. I have pushed the nobles to help the elves.” She took the saucer, lifted the cup to her lips, and inhaled slowly. Briala saw the set of her shoulders ease ever so slightly.

“I know. You have done more than anyone since Andraste herself granted us Halamshiral.”

“Sadly, I do not believe it within my power to grant the elves Halamshiral at the moment,” Celene said with a tiny smile.

Briala matched her smile, and took Celene’s hand. “I will table that suggestion, then.” Gently, respectfully, she led Celene to the overstuffed couch and pulled the empress down beside her. “The throne cannot bring this Lord Mainserai to justice, and the elves will cause you nothing but trouble for it. So let me help.” She took a breath. “Send me to Halamshiral.”

Celene was silent for a moment. Her hand went still in Briala’s grasp. “You will kill Mainserai?”

Briala nodded, confident and businesslike. “I have the contacts to lead the elves. I can give them the blood they need, then gentle them before they think to turn to another target. It will be an unexplained crime for the city watch, not a rebellion, and if anyone asks your opinion, you can suggest that a lord who is so uncouth as to kill a harmless creature should learn to look to his own defense.”

Celene reached out, gently, and put a hand to Briala’s cheek. She leaned forward, and when they kissed, Celene’s arms went around Briala, fiercely tight.

Then she stood, picking up her mask and sliding it back into place as she did, and walked slowly to the window, silent the whole time.

“Clean and quick, Bria,” she said.

“Your Radiance.” Briala bowed and left to pack her things.

* * *

Empress Celene slept alone that night.

It wasn’t as though Briala visited every night, of course. On some nights, Briala’s duties kept her up late working, and when Celene visited another lord’s estate, discretion kept them in separate beds.

But it had been some time since Briala had been away.

She woke up before dawn each morning, cold and alone, watching the darkness outside the window as though if she stared hard enough, she could see all of them. The mages, the templars, the elves, even Gaspard and Remache and whomever else Gaspard had turned. They all lurked outside the palace, creeping closer each night as she slept, waiting for her to make the mistake that let them attack.

Each morning, she made her tea, drank until the headaches faded to a distant buzz at the back of her head, and poured herself into old books of interest to nobody but scholars.

She passed the next few days quietly, listening to speeches and accepting gifts. News of the elven uprising in Halamshiral reached the ears of Val Royeaux, and the assembled nobles and courtiers shook their heads and grumbled about the spoiled elves of Halamshiral not knowing how good they had it compared to Ferelden and the rest of Orlais, where they lived in the alienages. Comte Pierre sent apologies for the shameful behavior of his city and made it clear that he would have the matter under control shortly, which left nobody satisfied. The nobles of Val Royeaux asked what Celene would do, and Celene gave polite non-answers and silently wished Briala a swift journey.

She attended a performance at the Grande Royeaux Theater three days after Briala’s departure, and that was when she discovered how far things had gone.

The Grande Royeaux had been established almost two hundred years ago. It had a reputation as the greatest theater in the empire, with the most famous performers, the most distinguished playwrights, and the most extravagant sets and effects—including, at some performances, smoke and flame conjured not through an alchemist’s powders but by a mage who had obtained permission to come from the Circle and lend his expertise. As a result of having to constantly outdo its competitors, however, the Grande Royeaux had also come to the attention of both the Chantry and the throne for performances that bordered on the scandalous. Mad Emperor Remille had restricted the theater to wordless pantomimes for fear that plays would somehow foment rebellion against his rule, and Celene’s uncle, Emperor Florian, had nearly shut the Grande Royeaux down altogether after one tasteless play made light of the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden.

Celene had made a point of supporting the theater, financially and politically. She had pushed back against Chantry complaints, and on occasions when a play referenced her, either literally or metaphorically, she was always seen to laugh or applaud appropriately, a cultured empress with no concern for what might be said of her on the stage. In return, the playwrights of Orlais had always been kind.

Her coach stopped before the main entrance, by the lush carpet rolled out to signify that one of the grand nobles had deigned to attend the performance. Outside, the crowd stood at a respectful distance.

“Orders, Majesty?” Michel asked. He had been quiet but vigilant since Briala had helped him escape Gaspard’s trap, eager to redeem himself for his perceived failure. He had haltingly tried to apologize at one point, as Briala had suggested he might, and Celene had quickly silenced the conversation, making it clear that Ser Michel was blameless in the matter.

Now was not the time to have a champion who did not believe in himself.

“Observe, as always.”

Ser Michel nodded and stepped out of the coach, then turned and extended a hand to assist her. Outside, servants who had ridden atop the coach quickly swept dust from the lush carpet and pushed back commoners and lesser nobles as Celene stepped down.

Something was off in the crowd. She felt it instantly. They bowed, of course, but the tenor of their murmurs was wrong. As Ser Michel escorted her inside, with servants carrying the long train of her dress and spraying rosewater into the air before her so that the smell of the crowd would offer her no offense, she watched from the corner of her half-mask and listened as best she could.

“… don’t see her…”

“Wouldn’t be here…”

Inside, Celene accepted a bow from the current owner of the Grande Royeaux Theater, a plump woman who had put her merchant family’s money to good use. Tonight, the woman wore a simple but fashionable gown embroidered with a laughing mask on one side and a weeping mask on the other, and thick tradesman’s makeup just close enough to Celene’s to honor the empress without attempting to imitate her. Beneath the makeup, however, the lines on her face spoke of worry.

Celene would have given anything to have Briala there. Her handmaid and lover was even better than Celene at pulling facts together from the smallest observations, and she could go places Celene could not, invisible in her servant’s mask. As it was, she smiled politely as the theater owner led Celene to the royal booth, a richly decorated box that offered Celene and her guests a beautiful view of the stage, while offering the crowd a beautiful view of their empress.

One of Celene’s servants poured her tea, while another laid a purple velvet cushion down on Celene’s seat—no matter how nicely decorated the royal booth was, it would not do for an empress to sit on what still amounted to a wooden bench. A third servant sprayed rosewater into the air until the smells of sweat, salted food, and theater smoke were banished to satisfaction.

“I believe I will take wine tonight,” she said to the servant with the teapot.

“Yes, Your Radiance.”

“While you fetch it, please send my compliments to Mademoiselle Archet upon the lovely new curtain. Also…” Celene squinted thoughtfully at the lamp on the wall. “Take another girl with you and find fresh candles. I do believe these are guttering.”

“Yes, Your Radiance,” said the servant, and left with another.

The candles were doing no such thing, and Celene rarely took wine at the performances, and her servants knew both of these things. They also knew that Celene would want them to listen to the crowd, ask polite questions, and find out what was happening. None of them had Briala’s skill, of course, but one did not personally serve the empress of Orlais without knowing how to play the Game.

The play, which had been billed as a romantic adaptation of the story of Andraste, started shortly thereafter. Andraste was played by a lovely young woman with blond hair. She began her rebellion against Tevinter enthusiastically, though Celene found her performance to be more excited than intelligent. Celene had studied the historical texts, even the forbidden ones, and she suspected that Andraste had been much more political than the idealistic believer presented by the Chantry. Wars didn’t get won otherwise.

A quiet knock at her door made her turn. Michel rose and opened the door, then turned to Celene. “Duke Remache of Lydes, Majesty.”

“Show him in, Michel.”

Duke Remache stepped inside and bowed. “Your Imperial Majesty. I saw that you were in attendance, and if it is not presumptuous, I hoped that my own unworthy company might be welcome.”

She bade him sit with a graceful flick of the wrist. “If it is not to the detriment of your own companions, I would be pleased.”

He nodded and sat in the chair beside hers. Michel quietly stood at the back of the private booth.

“For though Tevinter’s mages rule, we see, ’tis better magic serve on bended knee!” Andraste proclaimed down on the stage.

“An odd performance,” Celene murmured. “I expected a romance or a tragedy, but this?”

Remache glanced at her. “And what do you think it is, Your Majesty?”

“I would suspect a comedy, but even the Grande Royeaux would not do that to the life of Andraste.” Celene smiled. “Although it might be the first recorded Exalted March on a theater.”

Remache laughed quietly.

Down on the stage, Andraste was convincing the rebels to ally with the elves. “Against such magic, how can freedom reign? Our forces thus arrayed will not suffice! But with sweet justice as our own refrain, the elves shall come to aid us … once or twice!”

The crowd laughed nervously, and Celene saw the darkness below lighten as hundreds of faces turned up to look at her.

Shartan, the heretical elven warrior whose story of joining Andraste’s fight against ancient Tevinter had been stricken from the Chant of Light, had walked onto the stage.

He had been cast as a woman, and she was wearing a dress, her hips swaying with comic exaggeration and her wooden prop ears huge, so that even those at the back of the room could tell that she was an elf.

She kissed Andraste’s hand, and the crowd whistled.

Celene felt the world go still around her. The back of her neck tightened, and she held herself motionless.

After a moment, she said, “I had thought to bring up a matter you had proposed earlier, Duke Remache.”

“I am not certain I recall any matter that requires further discussion, Your Radiance.” He did not take his eyes off the stage as he said it, and he was smiling as he watched.

“I see. I would so hate to ruin your enjoyment of the performance,” Celene said. “Tell me, do you see many?”

“Only those I have paid for myself.”

“It would appear that Gaspard paid for this one,” Celene said, keeping her face from betraying any emotion that the crowd might see from below. “With a feather.”

“Oh, I am no chevalier to care about fencing with feathers,” Remache said, still not looking over, “but Gaspard cares greatly for the hunting in Lydes, while for you, it seems merely an obligation.”

Не знайшли потрібну інформацію? Скористайтесь пошуком google:

Генерація сторінки за: 0.02 сек.