"Clayton Emery - Card Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

As for his snapping fire, that was unique. Only Byron could do it, and
he didn't know how.

Cerise, on the other hand, was a cardmaster, one of the flamboyant
vagabonds who wielded cards for themselves and others, in small games of
chance or the lords' Great Games. Most were also weapon masters to
protect the cards and wealth they garnered.

But sitting opposite the table, cardsmith and cardmaster, Byron was
again struck by the oddness of it. Cardsmiths were black, cold, and dour.
Cardmasters were splashy, gay, and extravagant. The trades were linked
by magic, but the practitioners were as different as peacocks and pigeons.

Their beer came in foaming pewter mugs. The barmaid, bosom
prominent above a leather bodice, smiled at Byron. Cerise put down
pennies while her free hand stroked the barmaid's rump through her thin
dress. The woman absently slapped the hand away as if shooing flies, and
departed. Byron watched the exchange with bemusement. Cardmasters
supposedly kept a flashy oversexed lifestyle, too.

He sucked down beer but was still thirsty. He wanted to slink behind
the bar and slide into a vat, soak up fluid through his pores like a toad.
But he could only rest a moment before departing. To cover his agitation,
and keep awake, he asked, "What's your dog's name?"

Cerise held her stein below the table so the dog could slurp ale.
"Magog."

"Magog the Dog?"

A black glance flared under black brows, and Byron backpedaled.
"Good name. Magog was a giant in legend, wasn't he?"

"Right. Now a legendary dog. Except she's a bitch."

"UhтАж what kind of dog?"

Cerise pulled the jack away. The dog's tongue followed hungrily. Her
shaggy head hit the underside of the table and knocked the planks up a
foot. "A wolfhound. We used them at home in packs to destroy wolves.
There aren't many wolves left."

"I believe you." Byron watched the dog yawn and flop on the stone floor
with a crash. The dog was brindled with short curly hair, wore a studded
collar four inches wide. The dog probably outweighed Byron.

Cerise still hadn't drunk. She drew her heavy pistol and tipped beer
down the barrel. The pistol was long as Byron's forearm, chased with silver
over dark wood, with a curious wheel mechanism on the side. She told
him, "Wheel lock pistol. They're new, expensive. Instead of slowmatches