"Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legends - Murder In LaMut" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

That wound, and a long red weal on the inside of his thigh, reminded him with
every step that he wasn't as young and nimble as he used to be.

Then again, Durine had been born old. But at least he was strong. He would
just wait. Let the days drift past doing little chores, and it wouldn't be
long before the thaw started and the ship was in port, and he and the others
would be out of here. Somewhere warm - Salador maybe, where the women and
breezes were warm and soft, and the cool beer was good and cheap and flowed
freely as a running sore. About the time they ran out of gold, they could ship
to the Eastern Kingdoms. Nice, friendly little wars. The locals there always
appreciated good craftsmen who knew how to efficiently dispatch the
neighbours, and they paid well, if not quite as well as the Earl of LaMut.
And, from Durine's point of view, the best thing about fighting in the Eastern
Kingdoms was there were no Bugs, which was even better than the absence of
this horrible cold.

Or if they really wanted warmth, the three of them could head back down to
the Vale of Dreams and make some good coin fighting Keshian Dog Soldiers and
renegades for Lord Sutherland.

No, Durine decided after a moment, the Vale of Dreams wasn't really any
better than frozen, muddy LaMut, no matter how it seemed on this cold and
miserable night; last time they were down there he was almost as miserable
with the heat as he was today with the cold.

Why couldn't someone start a war on a nice balmy beach somewhere?

Ahead, bars of light coming through the outer door to the Broken Tooth
Tavern were his marker and guide, promising something approaching warmth,
something resembling hot food, and something as close to friends as a
mercenary soldier could possibly have.
That was good enough for Durine.
For now.

He staggered up from the muddy street to the wooden porch outside the
entrance to the inn.

There were two men huddled in their cloaks under the overhang just outside
the door.
'The Swordmaster wants to see you.'

One pulled his cloak back, as though in the dark Durine would be able to see
the wolf's head emblazoned on his tabard, that Durine knew must be there.
They had been found out.

Looting the dead was, like most crimes, punishable by death (either outright
hanging if the Earl was in a bad mood, or from exhaustion and bad food as you
tried to get through your twenty years of hard labour in the mountain
quarries) although Durine had never seen any harm in looting, himself. It
wasn't as though the dead soldiers had had any use for the few pitiful coins