"Eric Flint - The Philosophical Strangler" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Was Actually Conceived Over There In What's Now Called Ferdie's Folly.
My spot, this. Always has been, since I was old enough to prop my chin on the Bar Itself.
And that's the end of the tour. I'm thirsty, and enough's enough.
***
"Welcome back, Ignace," said Leuwen, shoving a mug across the bar. I contemplated the sacred
object for a moment, before its contents disappeared into my gullet. Leuwen was obviously bursting
with curiosity, but he's the best barkeep in New SfinctrтАФhands downтАФand so he waited for me to
quaff two more full mugs before he started questioning me.
"So, how's Prygg?" he asked. This, of course, was a meaningless question, nothing more than
dancing around before he got into the juicy stuff. Leuwen's interest in Prygg ranked somewhere below
his interest in the taxonomy of flatworms.
I could dance too.
"Still there," I replied.
"Glad to hear it," he intoned cheerfully. "How's Magrit? Still the same old proper witch?"
We were now bordering on a real question. Normally, I would have responded with a polite and
reasonably informative answer, but the truth was that Magrit happened to be on my shit list at the
momentтАФvery high up on the list, in point of factтАФand so I satisfied myself with a noncommittal
grunt.
Leuwen wouldn't let it go. "Hear she had to take it on the lam."
Another grunt.
I didn't think it would work. And it didn't.
"Word is," Leuwen plowed on, "she was mixed up in that business that brought in the Ozarine
troops."
Now we were treading on dangerous ground. I decided a grunt would be worse than an answer, so I
tried to head Leuwen off.
"Yeah, that's what I hear," I said casually. "Wouldn't know myself, Greyboar and me only bumped
into her the once orтАФ"
"Word is," interrupted Leuwen, "she had some help in that little business. Real serious help. Serious
muscle-type help, in fact."
I sighed. It's just as the wise man says: "Wisdom drops dead. Stupid shit'll haunt you forever."
There was no point dancing around it. Leuwen looked like a walrus, but nobody had ever accused
him of having anything between his big ears but brains.
"All right," I growled. "What've you heard?"
 Leuwen grinned and started wiping his hands on the rag he always kept tucked into his belt. I
watched the project carefully. The experienced Trough-man could gauge Leuwen's exact mood and
manner by the precise way in which he wiped his hands on that rag. Don't ask me to explain the
subtleties. Can't be done. You either knew how to read them or you didn't.
The hand-wiping looked ominous. I could read avid interest combined with rabid curiosity
combined withтАФthis was badтАФshrewd deductions combined withтАФthis was worseтАФexperienced
surmises combined withтАФoh, woe!тАФdetailed half-knowledge of way, way, way too many facts.
"Well, let's see," he mused. "First off, I heard the proper witch managed to get into the Ozarine
embassy and wreck the gala affair being held there to celebrate the recent wedding between Prygg's
very own Princess Snuffy and the Honorable Anthwerp Freckenrizzle III, scion of Ozar's third richest
multi-zillionaire. Trashed the social event of the season, she did. Or so people say."
I frowned. Bad, but I could live with it.
"But," continued Leuwen, as I feared he would, "the word is that Magrit's little comet strike on high
society wasn't nothing but a cover. A diversion, people say, so that other parties could sneak into the
top-secret super-security part of the Ozarine embassy and steal one of Ozar's three Rap Sheets."
I tried to control the wince, but I couldn't. Leuwen didn't miss it, of course, and the hand-wiping
went into high gear.