"Brooks, Terry - MKL 3 - Wizard at Large" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooks Terry)

"Well, find one, confound it!" Ben cut him short. He started to elaborate, then stopped, glancing instead at the others. "How much sense does this make to anyone else? Abernathy? Willow?"
Abernathy did not answer.
"I think you have to consider carefully what is at risk, Ben," Willow said finally.
Ben put his hands on his hips, looked at them each in turn, then gazed out wordlessly into the gardens beyond. So he had to consider what was at risk, did he? Well, what was at risk was the thing that had made him King of Landover and kept him there. It was the medallion that summoned the Paladin, the knight-errant who served as the King's champion and protector--his champion and protector on more than one occasion already. And it was the medallion that let him pass back and forth between Landover and other worlds, including the one he had come from. That's what was at risk! Without the medallion, he was in constant danger of winding up as just so much dog meat!
He regretted that last comparison almost immediately. After all, what was also at risk was Abernathy's permanent future as a canine.
He frowned blackly. What had begun as a fairly uneventful day was turning into a quagmire of unpleasant possibilities. His memory tugged at him. Ten months ago, he had been tricked into conveying the old wizard Meeks back into Landover when he had thought his worst enemy safely exiled. Meeks had then used his considerable magic to steal Ben's identity and the throne and--most important of all--to convince Ben that he had lost the medallion. It had almost cost Ben his life--not to mention Willow's--to discover what had been done to him and to defeat the old troublemaker once and for all. Now he was King again, safely ensconced at Sterling Silver, comfortably settled, the reins of kingship firmly in hand, his programs for a better life nicely underway, and here was Questor Thews playing around again with the magic!
Damn!
He stared at the flowers. Gardenias, roses, lilies, hyacinths, daisies, and dozens of variations of other familiar species along with a truckload of ground cover and flowering vines--all spread out before him like a vast patchwork quilt, scented and soft as down. It was so peaceful here. He didn't get to enjoy the garden room that often. This was his first morning in weeks. Why was he being hounded like this?
Because he was the King, of course, he answered himself. Let's not be stupid here. This wasn't a nine-to-five job. This wasn't why he had left his profession as a successful trial lawyer in Chicago, Illinois, to apply for the position of High Lord of Landover, a kingdom of magic and fairy folk that wasn't anywhere near Chicago or anywhere else anyone there had ever heard about. This wasn't why he had chosen to alter his life so completely that he was no longer even recognizable as the person he had been in his old world. He had wanted to change all that; that was why he had come here. He had wanted to escape the purposelessness of being who and what he had become--a bitter and reclusive widower, a disillusioned practitioner of a profession that had lost its character. He had wanted a challenge that would again give meaning to his existence. He had found that here. But the challenge was constant and not circumscribed by time or place, by need or want. It was simply there, always new, always changing; and he understood and relished the fact that he must always be there to meet it.
He sighed. It was just a little difficult sometimes.
He was conscious of the others watching him, waiting to see what he would do. He took a deep breath, inhaled the mix of fragrances that filled the noonday air, and turned to face them. Whatever doubts he'd had were gone. The decision wasn't really all that hard after all. Sometimes he just had to do what felt right.
He smiled. "Sorry to be so touchy," he said. "Questor, if you need the medallion to make the magic work, then you've got it. As Willow said, I have to consider the risks involved, and any risk is worth helping Abernathy get back to himself." He looked directly at his scribe. "How about it, Abernathy? Want to take the chance?"
Abernathy seemed undecided. "Well, I don't know, High Lord." He paused, thought, looked down briefly at his body, shook his head, and looked up again. Then he nodded. "Yes, High Lord, I do."
"Splendid!" Questor Thews exclaimed, promptly coming forward. The others murmured, hissed, and cluttered their approval. "Now, this won't take a moment. Abernathy, you stand here, right in the center of the room, and the rest of you stand back a bit behind me." He adjusted them accordingly, beaming all the while. "Now then High Lord, please give the medallion to Abernathy."
Ben reached for the medallion where it rested about his neck and hesitated. "You're certain about this, Questor?"
"Quite certain, High Lord. All will be well."
"I mean, I can't even speak or write Landoverian without the medallion!"
Questor brought his hands up quickly in a gesture of reassurance. "Here, now. A simple spell will solve that problem." He motioned briefly, muttered something, and nodded in satisfaction. "There we are. Go ahead. You can take it off."
Ben sighed, took off the medallion, and handed it to Abernathy. Abernathy slipped it carefully about his shaggy neck. The medallion lay against his tunic front, sunlight dancing off its polished silver surface, detailing the etching of a knight riding out of an island castle at sunrise--the Paladin riding out of Sterling Silver. Ben sighed again and stepped back. He felt Willow come up beside him and take his hand in hers.
"It will be all right," she whispered.
Questor breezed back about Abernathy again, adjusting him first this way and then that, telling him all the while that things would take only a moment. Satisfied at last, he moved directly in front of the scribe and took two careful steps right. He tested the air with a wet finger. "Ah!" he declared mysteriously.
He brought his arms high out of the gray robes, flexed his fingers, and opened his mouth. Then he paused, his nose twitching. One hand dropped quickly to rub at it in irritation. "Dratted sunshine tickles," he muttered. "Pollen does nothing to help, either."
The G'home Gnomes crowded close again, pressing up against the wizard's robes, their ferret faces peering out at Abernathy in anxious anticipation.
"Could you move those creatures back?" the dog snapped and even growled a bit.
Questor glanced down. "Oh. Well, yes, of course. Back now, back with you!" He shooed the gnomes away and resumed his stance. His nose twitched again, and he sniffed. "Quiet, please!"
He began a long incantation. Bizarre gestures accompanied words that brought frowns of puzzlement to the faces of his listeners. They edged forward a pace or two to listen: Ben, a lean, fit man of forty standing firm against the advancement of middle age; Willow, a child in a woman's body, a sylph, half-human, half-fairy; the kobolds Parsnip and Bunion, the first thick and stolid, the second spindle-legged and quick, both with sharp, glittering eyes and teeth that suggested something feral; and the G'home Gnomes Fillip and Sot, furry, unkempt ground creatures that appeared to have just poked their heads up from their earthen dens. They watched and waited and said nothing. Abernathy, the focus of their attention, closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.
Still Questor Thews went on, looking for all the world like some scarecrow escaped from the fields, his recitation seemingly as endless as the complaints of the G'home Gnomes.
Ben was struck suddenly with the incongruity of things. Here he was, until recently a member of a profession that stressed reliance on facts and reason, a modern man, a man from a world where technology governed most aspects of life, a world of space travel, nuclear power, sophisticated telecommunications and a hundred-and-one other marvels--here he was, in a world that was all but devoid of technology, fully expecting a wizard's magic to transform completely the physiological makeup of a living creature in a way that the sciences of his old world had barely dreamed was possible. He almost smiled at the thought. It was just too bizarre.
Questor Thews' hands swooped down suddenly and then up again, and the air was filled with a fine silver dust that sparkled and shimmered as if alive. It floated in breezy swirls all about Questor's hands for a moment, then settled over Abernathy. Abernathy saw none of it, his eyes still tightly closed. Questor continued to murmur, his tone changing, growing sharper, becoming more a chant. The silver dust swirled, the light of the room seemed to brighten, and there was a sudden coldness in the air. Ben felt the G'home Gnomes shrink back behind his legs, muttering guardedly. Willow's hand closed tighter about his own.
"Ezaratz!" Questor cried out suddenly--or something like it--and there was a brilliant flash of light that ricocheted off Ben's medallion and caused them all to flinch away.
When they looked back again, there stood Abernathy--unchanged.
No, wait, thought Ben, his hands are gone! He has paws!
"Oh, oh," Questor said.
Abernathy's eyes blinked open. "Arf!" he barked. Then, in horror, "Arf, arf, arf!"
"Questor, you've turned him completely into a dog!" Ben exclaimed in disbelief. "Do something!"
"Drat!" the wizard muttered. "A moment, a moment!" His hands gestured, and the silver dust flew. He resumed the incantation. Abernathy had discovered paws where his hands had been. His eyes had snapped wide open and his muzzle had begun to quiver.
"Erazaratz!" Questor cried. The light flashed, the medallion flared, and the paws disappeared. Abernathy had his hands back. "Abernathy!" the wizard exulted.
"Wizard, when I get my hands on you... !" the scribe howled. Clearly, he had his voice back as well.
"Stand still!" Questor ordered sharply, but Abernathy was already advancing on him, moving out of the ring of silver dust. Questor moved quickly to stop him, brushing at the dust where it formed a screen between them. The dust darted away from him as if alive and flew suddenly into his face.
"Erazzatza!" Questor Thews sneezed suddenly.
A well of light opened up beneath Abernathy, a cloudy brightness that seemed to fasten about the dog's legs with tiny feelers. Slowly, the light began to draw Abernathy down.
"Help!" Abernathy cried.
"Questor!" Ben screamed.
He started forward and tripped over the G'home Gnomes, who had somehow edged in front of him.
"I... I have him... High Lord!" Questor Thews gasped between sniffles. His hands tried desperately to regain control of the swirling dust.
Abernathy's eyes had opened even wider, if that were possible, and he was straggling to climb free of the pooled light, calling out to them frantically. Ben tried to untangle himself from the G'home Gnomes.
"Be... calm!" Questor urged. "Be... ca... ah, ah, ah... ACHOOO!"
He sneezed so hard, he lurched backward into Ben and the others and knocked them all sprawling. The silver dust flew out the windows into the sunlit gardens. Abernathy gave one final cry and was sucked down into the light. The light flared once and disappeared.
Ben pushed himself up on his hands and knees and glared at Questor Thews. "Gesundheit!" he snapped.
Questor Thews turned crimson.