"John DeChancie - Castle 08 - Bride of the Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dechancie John)

of tumbled block, here and there a long column, sometimes two together holding up the remains of a
shattered pediment. There were, however, a few intact structures. One was an ancient convenience
bazaar. The sign read, in ancient demotic script:
STOP 'N' HAGGLE.
He had his eye on the stepped pyramid at the edge of the plain. A tomb, perhaps. Unrifled? He doubted
it, but there could be scraps left behind: an interesting potsherd, perhaps a whole urn; even a bauble of
some sort, some souvenir that would fetch a good price back in Corcindor. Maybe some trading stamps
and a bottle opener.
He would make camp soon, perhaps on this ridge ahead, so he could survey the land below for targets
of opportunity. He continued on.
He followed a narrow pass between two craggy outcrops. When he reached its end and came out onto
the slope of the hill, he was astonished to find a small town. He had thought nothing lived here.
His mount whickered nervously. He turned his head and watched a vague shadow take on shape and
substance. A quaint tavern lay on his right. The rest of the little town had a bad case of the quaints as
well, for all that it might have sprung into existence a moment ago-as indeed he suspected was the case.
But the spell had likely been cast centuries before, set here to trap the unwary intruder.
He ignored it all. His mount sidestepped, neighing and quivering. He searched the land below for
possibilities. He needed money, and badly. There had to be something below that generations of grave
robbers had overlooked.
"Hello, cutie! Have the time?" He looked up. A fair-haired woman with a hard but attractive face was
smiling at him, leaning out of an upper-story window.
"Time is what I have least of, woman."
She shrugged. "Not even a moment to spare?" She parted her blouse and exposed heavy, pink-nippled
breasts.
"I . . ." He looked again. As breasts went, they were very nice indeed.
But his better judgment told him nay. He turned away from her.
She sniffed. "Well, all right for you."
He kneed his mount, and the beast bolted forward. He had to rein it in.
"Some men just haven't got what it takes."
He ignored that comment and others directed at his back. The town seemed to bunch up ahead, blocking
his path, a jumble of shop fronts and houses.
"You look a mite hungry, sir. Care to bide awhile?"
He regarded the portly, white-aproned man walking toward him, then turned his head. Another-tall,
gaunt and grim-faced-approached from the opposite direction.
"I care to pass through, if you good people will let me."
"Certainly, honored sir," the innkeeper said, "but you do look a bit peckish. I've just put on a pot of stew.
It'll be done after a few mugs of good beer."
"Thank you, no."
The other grabbed the reins. The eyes were dead.
His sword was a flashing reflection of the sun, brief and brilliant. The tall one suddenly lacked a right
hand. He screamed and backed away, the stump spurting blood.
The man-if indeed he was a man-stood in wide-eyed astonishment, watching bright blood splash into the
dust. "Hey! You . . . you cut off my hand!"
"Uh . . . Yes, I did, yes," Rance said.
"I don't believe . . . Did you see that? He cut off my hand. He cut off my frigging hand, just like that!"
"Hardly friendly," the innkeeper commented.
"I don't believe you actually cut off my hand!"
"Take warning," Rance said, moving on.
The man turned indignant. "Warning? Did you say warning?" He held up the fountaining stump. "This is a
warning? Is that what you're telling me? What do you do when you get really pissed off?"