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

Royal Academy of Officiousness. Desk clerks get three years' postgraduate training. What I mean is,
we can't very well march in and announce we've come to throttle the King of the Sundjhab. We'll need
help getting in. Are you staying there too?"
Hem, haw, squirm, squirm. Customers. Eventually, they confessed to a small room tucked away in
an obscure corner of the Hospice, practically a broom closet in the maids' quarters, to listen to them.
"Fine. There's a rear entrance, leads off the kitchen. At midnight, tonight, one of you will be there
to let us in."
 Of course, they squawked and quibbled, but they finally gave in. Greyboar and I arose. "Our
business is then concluded, for the moment," I said. "We'll meet you here the night after tomorrow,
same time, for the balance of the fee."
***
"It's the wizard what bothers me," said Greyboar some time later, as we discussed the job over pots
of ale at The Trough. "The soldiers are meaningless, and the martial artist will be interesting. But
sorcerers are tricky, and besides, I hate to extinguish any bit of knowledge that brightens this dark and
murky world."
"Oh, give me a break! That so-called wizard is nothing but another pretentious trickster. 'Secret
lore,' 'hidden mysteries,' 'opaque purports of the unknown'тАФit's all rot for the weak-minded. Reality's
what is, and the truth is there for all to see it. A pox on all philosophy!"
Greyboar would have continued the argument, but I cut him off. "I'll deal with the sorcerer. I've got
just the thingтАФa small potion Magrit made up for me the last time we were in Prygg."
"Really?" Greyboar's curiosity was aroused; best way to distract him. "What is it?"
"How should I know? Since when does Magrit divulge trade secrets?"
"True," mused the strangler. "A proper witch, she is."
"Best in the business. None of your epistemology for old Magrit! Cuts right to the quick, she does.
As for the potion, all I know is that when she gave it to me she said it was tailor-made to take out any
obnoxious wizard that got in the way."
"But how will you get him to drink it?"
I snorted. "Intravenous injection, that's the thing."
In the blink of an eye, I whipped out the little blowpipe from its pouch in my cloak. A second later,
a dart was quivering in the bull's-eye of the dart board against the far wall. The crowd playing darts
looked over, frowning fiercely, but when they saw who the culprit was they relaxed. Fergus even
brought the dart over and handed it back. I was popular with the lads at The Trough.
"If that big gorilla wasn't here, I'd bust your head," grumbled Fergus.
"Don't let me stop you," said Greyboar instantly. I cast him an aggrieved look. Fergus smiled, then
shrugged.
"Ah, what the hell? The shrimp's good for comic relief. And if we ever get bored with darts, we can
always use him to play toss-the-midget."
A round of laughter swept The Trough. I was not amused. After a while, my glare finally quieted
Greyboar's bass braying.
"Oh, stop glaring," he chuckled. "It serves you right, showing off like that. All this fancy stuff you
do with darts and knivesтАФit's just overcompensation 'cause you're such a little guy. Now, if you'd
apply yourself to a study of philosophyтАФ"
And there he was, off again. Injury added to insult.
***
At midnight, Greyboar and I slipped through the back door of the Hospice. Rashkuta was there to
let us in, as promised. It was obvious, from his twitchy face and trembling limbs, that his nerves were
not of the best. A bloodthirsty lot, your strangler's customers, when it comes to the theory of the thing.
But when the deed's to be done, their knees turn to water. Else why hire a chokester? It's a simple
enough matter, all things considered, to shorten a man's life.
Quickly, Rashkuta guided us through the Hospice's maze of stairways and corridors. We