"Peter David - Sir Apropos 01 - Sir Apropos Of Nothing" - читать интересную книгу автора (David Peter)

point, my means of salvation.
 Several knights had pushed Granite's corpse out of the way like so much refuse, and they were talking
to me pridefully of honor and bravery. I said nothing in reply, because really, there was no point. They
were speaking to hear their own voices, not to elicit comments from me. I bobbed my head, smiled,
stated my appreciation for their well wishes, and counted myself damned lucky all in all.

I wasn't like the others, you see. I had no particular dreams of glory, no desire to do great things, go
off on dangerous quests and the like. I simply wanted to survive, get some lands, acquire a title perhaps,
avenge myself on my father, and find one particular man and kill him, all in the least hazardous means
possible, and then retire in comfort. Until I managed to do that, I intended to keep my head down
whenever and wherever I could.

One, however, attains power by being noticed. So I was walking a fine line, drawing attention to
myself and casting myself to be as brave as any of the lords of the manor, while at the same time taking
care to keep my head on my shoulders. That was my goal: the illusion of danger, as I liked to call it.

"Apropos..."

I turned and saw that the king had reentered. All became silent once more.

"I have a fairly hazardous mission to be assigned. I think you are just the man for it. Report in one
hour." He nodded as a means of indicating that the meeting was over, and then exited once more.

"You lucky bastard," said Coreolis.

"Handpicked by the king for a dangerous job," Justus said. "I remember the first time I drew such an
honor." He held up his right hand, which was missing three fingers. "Got off lightly for it. Damned lucky to
have my opportunity. And now you'll get yours."

And as I felt a chill down my spine, I couldn't help but feel that the ghost of Granite was thinking that
exact same thing, and laughing in anticipation of me getting mine.




Chapter 2



I am by trade neither writer nor historian; I am merely a master of fabrication, which I am told is all
one requires to take up either of the aforementioned pursuits. I am also told that readers require
something of an immediate nature--preferably something involving action--to draw them into a narrative.
If nothing else, apparently, it gives the reader an idea of where the story is going to go. I can sympathize
with that requirement. I have lived my life with not the faintest clue as to where it was going, walking an
extremely angled and treacherous path in order to arrive at no place that I actually started out to get to.
I've had no choice in doing so since, of course, it was my life and I had to live it. You, the reader, on the
other hand, are entering my life voluntarily, and it would be the greatest cruelty to subject you to the same
aimless sense of confusion that has permeated my existence. So the preceding chapter existed primarily
to give you some footing, some certainty about my life, which is certainly more than I ever had.
 Now that, ideally, you have been drawn into what I laughingly refer to as my career, I shall go back