Alex_Winter: переводы

→The duke frowned. “You speak cryptically, Inspector.”

→“I wish to emphasize that I am not here to open an investigation, or to reopen one, as the case may be. The events surrounding your son’s death are not my concern.”

→Warrick regarded Lenoir silently, waiting for him to continue.

→Lenoir shifted under Warrick’s piercing gaze. “I have some questions regarding the death of your son,” he said as neutrally as he was able. Warrick arched an eyebrow, but that was the limit of his reaction. Lenoir pressed on. “I realize that it has been a long time, but certain . . . recent events . . . have brought the case to my attention.”

→“I doubt you know anything of my occupation, Inspector, but as it happens you are right. Busy enough that I have little time for empty formalities, so please come to the point.”

→“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Your Grace,” Lenoir said. “I know you must be busy.”

→Lenoir had never heard the man speak before, and he was struck by the cold gravel of Warrick’s voice. It was entirely suited to a countenance seemingly carved from stone—the long nose chiseled in granite, the eyes chipped from slate. His angular features were framed in dark hair that reached nearly to his shoulders, a style far more pragmatic than fashionable. He sat straight and proud, yet he seemed restless, as though sitting was not a posture to his liking. Had Lenoir passed him on the street, he would never have known Warrick as a nobleman. He carried himself more like a general.

→The door opened abruptly, wrenching Lenoir back to the here and now, and the Duke of Warrick strode into the room. Lenoir was surprised at this prompt arrival; he had expected the duke to keep him waiting, as men of rank were wont to do. His bearing too was surprising, for instead of the affected, leisurely manner typical of his class, Warrick crossed the study with a purposeful gait, gesturing peremptorily at a chair before seating himself behind the desk. Lenoir paused, wondering if he should bow. Instead he settled for a brief incline of his head before taking the proffered chair.

→He let his gaze drop to a pair of sumptuously upholstered chairs facing the desk. Their soft velvet beckoned mockingly. He was tired—exhausted, really—but he supposed it would be impertinent to sit before being invited to do so. Not for the first time, he cursed the inane protocol of the noble classes. Impractical and hopelessly complicated, elite etiquette was a rigid cage disguised in lace, as fatuous and suffocating as a corset. Then again, he supposed that lowborn cretins such as he ought to be grateful that there was a code of conduct governing the interactions of the powerful and hyperambitious. Without it, the games of the nobility would almost certainly turn bloody.

→“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Warrick asked without preamble.

→Virtually the only visible evidence of the duke’s stature was the huge portrait hanging over the mantel, of a young boy of perhaps seven or eight. Dark, doelike eyes stared down at Lenoir, seeming to watch him. The boy had round cheeks full of youthful color, but he wore a somber expression; not a hint of a smile touched his full lips. He wore a bright blue doublet with a high collar, a style that had been popular about a decade ago. The duke’s son, Lenoir decided. If he was right, the presence of the portrait was telling. He misses the boy. That much of the rumor, at least, appeared to be true. Lenoir stared at the canvas, unable to shake the eerie impression that the boy was staring back. Watching through the eyes of the dead, Lenoir thought, just like Vincent. He shuddered.

→He was ushered into the duke’s study and told to wait. He stood at the center of the room, methodically taking in his surroundings. He could not have asked for a better location to conduct his interview. Parlors, sunrooms, and the like were designed for guests; they put forward a false face, one designed to impress. A study, however, was an intimate location, a place that revealed much about the host. This room was particularly eloquent. Though commodious, it was sparsely furnished, with only a few chairs, a desk, and a sideboard. A row of books marched in tidy ranks across a set of shelves near the fireplace. The hearth mantel was unadorned, the sort one might expect to find in a modest inn. And though the room was equipped with glass windows instead of shutters, they were small and practical, with none of the elaborate etching so often favored by the rich.

→He was spared further awkwardness by the return of the first guard, who gestured for Lenoir to be admitted. Lenoir dismounted, handed his horse over, and followed the first guard up the long drive.

→Lenoir suppressed his smile. Did the man honestly think he was being subtle? Aloud, he simply said, “Perhaps.”

→“You take it correctly, good sir.” He paused and adopted a thoughtful look, as though something had only just occurred to him. “Say, you’re a hound, right? You think I could get a job with you lot? What with my experience in the security business, and whatnot?”

→Ah. There it is. The guard’s loose tongue suddenly made a great deal more sense. “I take it you are not well compensated for your time?”

→“Yeah, he’s rich all right,” the guard said sourly. “And he certainly knows how to hold on to a copper.”

→“In my experience, a man as rich and powerful as the Duke of Warrick can get away with just about any scandal.” In this remark, at least, Lenoir was absolutely sincere. In his judgment, it was not the duke’s dark past that had earned him a permanent place in the annals of infamy. The discerning denizens of the Five Villages might be willing to overlook murder, but they could not countenance neglect.

→He waited, his gaze drifting over the harsh lines of Castle Warrick. He had never seen it from so close a vantage before, and the proximity was not flattering. It was an irregular-shaped creature with a rib cage of towers, rugged flanks and tiny, suspicious eyes barely wide enough to permit the sight of an archer. It hunkered behind a stinking moat, a vestige of a bloodier age when noble residences were required to serve as fortresses against would-be invaders. The drive seemed somehow to lead away from the castle, rather than toward, and the iron gates bristled with spikes. Lenoir had never seen a less welcoming structure in all his life. How fitting, he thought dryly.

→Crears colored slightly. “You heard the inspector! Go!” He turned apologetically to Lenoir. “I’m sorry, sir. . . .”