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

Bottle
"Well?" Ben demanded. "Where is he? What's happened to him?"
Questor Thews didn't seem to have a ready answer, so Ben diverted his attention from the flustered wizard long enough to help Willow up, then turned quickly back again. He wasn't angry yet--he was still too shocked--but he was going to be very angry any second. Abernathy had disappeared just as surely as if he had never been--vanished, just like that. And, of course, Ben's medallion, the medallion that protected the kingship and his life, the medallion Questor had assured him would be perfectly safe, had vanished as well.
He changed his mind. He wasn't going to be angry after all. He was going to be sick.
"Questor, where is Abernathy?" he repeated.
"Well, I... the fact of the matter is, High Lord, I... I am not entirely certain," the wizard managed finally.
Ben seized the front of the wizard's robes. He was going to be angry after all. "Don't tell me that! You've got to get him back, damn it!"
"High Lord." Questor was pale, but composed. He didn't try to draw away. He simply straightened himself and took a deep breath. "I am not sure yet exactly what happened. It will take a little time to understand..."
"Well, can't you guess?" Ben shouted, cutting him short.
The owlish face twisted. "I can guess that the magic misfired, of course. I can guess that the sneeze--that wasn't my fault, you know, High Lord, it simply happened--that the sneeze confused the magic in some fashion and changed the result of the incantation. Instead of transforming Abernathy from a dog back into a man, it seems to have transported him instead. The two words are quite similar, you see, and the magic's likewise are similar. It happens that the results of most incantations are similar where the words are similar..."
"Skip all that!" Ben snapped. He started to say something further, then caught himself. He was losing control of the situation. He was behaving like some B-picture gangster. He released the front of the wizard's robes, feeling a bit foolish. "Look, you think that the magic sent him somewhere, right? Where do you think it sent him? Just tell me that."
Questor cleared his throat and thought a moment. "I don't know," he decided.
Ben stared at him, then turned away. "I don't believe this is happening," he muttered. "I just don't believe it."
He glanced momentarily at the others. Willow stood close, her green eyes solemn. The kobolds were picking up a planter that had been knocked over in the struggle. There was dirt and broken flowers scattered in a six-foot circle about them. The G'home Gnomes were whispering together anxiously.
"Perhaps we should..." Willow started to say.
And then there was a bright flash of light from the spot where Abernathy had disappeared, a popping sound as if someone had pulled a cork free, and something materialized from out of nowhere, spun wildly about, and came to rest on the floor.
It was a bottle.
Everyone jumped, then stared. The bottle lay there quietly, an oval-shaped container about the size of a magnum of champagne. It was corked and wired tightly shut and it was painted white with red harlequins dancing on its glass surface, all in varying poses of devilish gaiety, all grinning madly.
"What in the world is that?" Ben muttered and reached down to pick it up. He studied it wordlessly for a moment, hefting it, peering into it. "Doesn't appear to be anything inside," he said. "It feels empty."
"High Lord; I have a thought!" Questor said suddenly. "This bottle and Abernathy may have been exchanged--transposed, one for the other! Transpose sounds like transform and transfer, and I think the magic's are close enough that it is possible!"
Ben frowned. "Abernathy was exchanged for this bottle? Why?"
Questor started to reply and stopped. "I don't know. But I am quite positive that is what happened."
"Does this help determine where Abernathy is now?" Willow asked.
Questor shook his head. "But it gives me a starting point. If I can trace the source of the bottle, then perhaps..." He trailed off thoughtfully. "Odd. This bottle seems familiar."
"You've seen it somewhere before?" Ben wanted to know immediately.
The wizard frowned. "I am not sure. It seems as if I might have and at the same time it seems I must be mistaken. I do not quite understand it."
Along with just about everything else, Ben thought rather unkindly. "Well, I don't give a hoot about this bottle," he declared, "but I do care about Abernathy and the medallion. So let's find a way to get them back. Whatever it takes, Questor, you do it and do it quickly. This mess is your responsibility."
"I realize that, High Lord. You need not remind me. It was not my fault, however, that Abernathy tried to move out of the incantation's sphere of influence, that the dust flew into my face when I tried to stop him, and that I thereupon sneezed. The magic would have worked as it was intended to work if I had not..."
Ben impatiently brushed the explanation away with a wave of his hand. "Just find him, Questor. Just find him."
Questor Thews bowed curtly. "Yes, High Lord. I will begin at once!" He turned and started from the room, muttering, "He might still be in Landover; I will begin my search here. The Landsview should help. He should be safe for the moment in any event, I imagine--safe even if we do not reach him immediately. Oh! Not that there is any reason he shouldn't be safe, High Lord," he added, turning hastily back. "No, no, we have time." He started away again. "The sneeze was not my fault, drat it! I had the magic perfectly under my control, and... oh, what is the point of belaboring the matter, I will simply start looking..."
He was almost through the door, when Ben called after him, "Don't you want this bottle?"
"What?" Questor glanced back, then hastily shook his head. "Later, perhaps. I have no immediate need for it. Odd, how familiar... I wish my memory were a little bit better on these things. Ah, well, it cannot mean much if I cannot summon even a faint recollection..."
He disappeared from view, still muttering--the Don Quixote of Landover, searching for dragons and finding only windmills. Ben watched him go in frustrated silence.
It was difficult to think about anything beyond the lost medallion and the missing Abernathy, but there was nothing to be done about either until Questor reported back. So while Willow went into the gardens to pick fresh flowers for dinner and the kobolds went back to their work about the castle, Ben forced himself to resume consideration of the latest complaint of the G'home Gnomes.
Intriguingly enough, the gnomes were no longer so anxious to pursue the matter.
"Tell me whatever you have left to tell me about the trolls," Ben ordered, resigned to the worst. He settled himself wearily in his chair and waited.
"Such a beautiful bottle, High Lord," said Fillip instead.
"Such a pretty thing," echoed Sot;
"Forget the bottle," Ben advised, remembering for the first time since Questor had departed that it was still there, sitting where he had put it down on the floor next to him. He glanced at it in irritation. "I'd like to."
"But we have never seen one like it," persisted Fillip.
"Never," agreed Sot.
"Can we touch it, High Lord?" asked Fillip.
"Yes, can we?" pleaded Sot.
Ben glared. "I thought we were here to discuss trolls. You seemed anxious enough to do so earlier. You practically cried to do so. Now you don't care anymore?"
Fillip glanced hastily at Sot. "Oh, we care a great deal, High Lord. The trolls have mistreated us grievously."
"Then let's get on..."
"But the trolls are gone for now and cannot be found again immediately in any case, and the bottle is right here, right in front of us, so can we touch it for a moment, Great Lord--just for a moment?"
"Can we, Mighty High Lord?" echoed Sot. Ben wanted to take the bottle and beat them over the head with it. But instead he simply picked it up and handed it over. It was easier than arguing. "Just be careful," he cautioned.
There really wasn't much to worry about on that count, he realized. The bottle was heavy glass and looked as if it could endure a good deal of mistreatment. Actually, it seemed almost something more than glass--almost a metal of some sort. Must be the paint, he thought.