"Realms of the Deep - Philip Athans.2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthologies)

"Who's to say they weren't fleeing something larger and darker themselves?"
The second clutched his coral amulet in his fist, but the gray-beard was carved
from stouter stuff. "Let them try Waterdeep Harbor. One eye blind, and they'll
still meet their match. Outnumbered, you say, but they took a loss and you
survived. Let them tell that to the sharks, if they dare."
The gray-beard swept out an arm to clap Shemsen on the shoulder. Through his
wounds, Shemsen braced for the blow. His heart rate doubled and his muscles
relaxed, even so he flinched as it fell.
"I have salve," the gray-beard said as one of the two juniors swam over with a
wax-sealed shell.
Shemsen shrugged off the merman's hand and offer. Til tend myself when I get to
the harbor."
"You can swim, then, and not fall behind?"
"I'll keep up or fall behind. I've swum alone before. I waited here only until
you or someone else came to investigate and relieve me. This was my post for
Waterdeep. I'd not have it said that I abandoned it."
The gray-beard shook his head. Mermen kept their own customs. They were brave
enough, when riled, and dutiful, but no two pairs of eyes saw honor the same way
in air or water.
"Call for a mount, if you need one," the gray-beard said from his seahorse, "or
hitch onto the dorsal."
All four mermen rose from the silt.
"You're leaving no one behind?"
"The beacon's gone, sea elf. A dark spot, true, but a small one. If the sahuagin
are clever enough to return without catching another beacon's eye, then let them
try the inner defenses. Until after Fleetswake, any one posted here is as
isolated as he'd be in Umberlee's Cache. I'll not leave men where they can do no
good."
Cold water surged over Shemsen's gills as he sighed. Only a fool refused what
Umberlee provided.
* *
There were no reefs in Waterdeep harbor, no kelp forests or gardens, and despite
the concerted efforts of all those living above and below the waterline, an
unpleasant taste or texture wasn't uncommon. Shemsen never forgot he was a
refugee. Even his home-quarters reminded him. When sea elves first sought
sanctuary here, the mage-guild had carved straight-lined niches into the cliffs
that gave the harbor its name. A woven
net was fastened over the niche, lest the scouring tides steal what little he'd
accumulated during his ten-year exile.
Shemsen shared the niche with another sea elf. Eshono had been shark-mauled
during their long retreat to Waterdeep. Their surviving healer had done her
best, but what Eshono had needed most, a month's rest and regular meals, were
beyond provision. Eshono's leg had withered. He got around well enough in the
harbor, but he couldn't handle the long patrols that the refugees claimed as
both right and obligation. Instead, he'd trained himself as an advocate who
labored on the lubber's dry ground, mediating the disputes and confusions that
plagued the sea elf refugees in their safe, but utterly strange, sanctuary.
They were an odd pair, Shemsen and Eshono, with little in common but a destroyed
village and a harrowing journey to cold water. These days, though, that was
enough.