"David,.Peter.-.Sir.Apropos.3.-.Tong.Lashing" - читать интересную книгу автора (David Peter)

in some manner?"
"Would you be satisfied if I drank a mug of water while he spoke?" asked Sharee
condescendingly before turning her attention back to Mordant. "Most intriguing.
Your voice is strangely accented."
"So is yours," retorted Mordant.
"Who cares about his accent? He's a blasted talking animal!"
"So are you," Mordant said.
I had no immediate response to that, which was annoying in and of itself. Bad
enough to find oneself lagging behind in an oral battle of wits with an
accomplished human opponent. Being bested by a creature who, for all I knew,
hadn't truly began vocalizing until a minute or so earlier was a new low in
personal esteem.
Mordant's voice was thin and reedy, and without the sibilance that one would
have expected from such a creature, presuming one was fanciful enough to imagine
him speaking at all. He also did indeed have an unidentifiable accent, as Sharee
had noted. She seemed to be adjusting to this revelation far faster than was I,
considering that the expression of astonishment she'd shared with me had melted
into simple amusement. I was annoyed by that. If I was going to be dumbfounded,
it would have been nice to have a companion in bewilderment.
"Why haven't you spoken before this? Openly, I mean?" I asked.
He didn't smile. I don't think he had the muscular ability to do so. His tongue
flicked out quickly several times, which I decided was what he did when giving
an answer some thought. "Because you're interesting," he said at last.
"I am?"
"He is?"
"Yes. You are. And you know he is," he said to Sharee with faint disapproval.
"So don't pretend otherwise." His triangular head shifted back to me. "You're a
lost soul, Apropos of Nothing, and I think you're only just now starting to
realize it. But you're not sure yet what to do about it. It was entertaining to
hear you go on and on about whatever deep emotional conflicts were shredding
you. But the only reason you would vent your spleen in my presence was because
you didn't really think I could understand you. You might have suspected it at
some level, but you did not truly believe it. So on and on you would talk, and
it was all rather riveting. You should think about writing it all down."
It was the very first time anyone (or anything, for that matter) had ever
suggested that I chronicle my adventures. My immediate reaction was to dismiss
the concept out of hand. I thought, Who in hell would be so foolish as to want
to spend time involving themselves in the tortured, horrific joke that is my
life? And now, having set down my escapades in two volumes so far, with this
being the third, I find that I've come no closer to being able to answer that
question than I ever had.
"I've often told Apropos he had potential," Sharee admitted. "That he had a
destiny. He never seemed to believe it, though," and she looked at me sharply as
if daring me to disagree.
I couldn't. Despite the fact that my late mother had said much the same thing,
it was a notion I had traditionally rejected, and then later fought against with
every fiber of my being. I firmly believed that "destiny" was the excuse given
after the fact by people who were losers seeking a way of rationalizing all the
disappointments that were their life.
Lately, though, I had begun to wonder. The concept of free will versus what the