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

Madelyne drew aside the blanket that she had wrapped around me, and exposed my hip. There, quite
plainly, was a most unusual birthmark. It was in the shape of a small burst of flame. "You see? I was
right. I witnessed the flaming death and rebirth of the phoenix...and here is a sign upon him. It's more than
a birthmark, I'll wager. It's a linemark, a sign of lineage. Of greatness. Could there be any more clear a
sign than that? Oh look..." she said as I began to whimper and squirm, "I think he's hungry." She held me
up to her breast so that I could nurse.
 "You know...that mark might still be a plain old birthmark...it could just be coincidence," Astel said
doubtfully.

"No. No, Astel...there is no coincidence. There is simply..." She paused for dramatic effect.
"...destiny."

I bit her.

It seemed apropos.




Chapter 4



The area around Stroker's Inn was hardly a hive of industry, but nonetheless, after a period of time, a
village started to develop. I suppose it shouldn't have been much of a surprise. As near as I can tell, men
were showing up in the evening, drinking well into the night, and then resenting the distance they had to
stagger to get home (to say nothing of those who were drinking and riding, tumbling off their horses and
being dragged behind when their feet snagged in the stirrups). Faced with the prospect of choosing
between home and pub, a large number of men opted to combine the two, and relocated their homes to
within easy staggering distance. Naturally their assorted businesses went with them, and that was more or
less how the town was spawned.

There was some debate over what the town should be named. There was a sizable group of annoyed
wives who advocated the name "Drunken Bastardville," and believe it or not, a number of the men
embraced it as well before someone explained to them that the women were making fun of them. Finally
they called it "the Town," so that even the most inebriated of men could remember it. As towns went, it
wasn't much. Then again, it was probably what you would expect from a town that was created and
centered on a tavern. Fortunately, as it turned out, the Town was well positioned along some of the more
traveled paths, and so did a fairly brisk trade from transients. Furthermore, people procreated as is their
habit, and a decent next generation of Townies sprang from the diseased loins of the founders.

My mother continued to ply her trade with willingness, if not great abandon. She didn't especially care
one way or the other as some new passer-through huffed and puffed atop her. The only thing she was
capable of feeling, really, was that she was helping to fulfill some sort of great destiny that awaited me,
and she dedicated herself to that end. She told me about it repeatedly enough as I grew. She likely
emphasized that for two reasons. First, she felt some sort of need to justify her activities to me, her son,
since she probably felt that sooner or later I would judge her trade and find her wanting (a reasonable
concern). And second, she wanted me to feel better about myself since I had to cope with my deformity.

A misshapen right leg is not something that one tends to grow out of. I was far slower to learn how to