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

To Peshhet," Eshono said, saluting the dead sea elf with a paste-filled shell.
"While we live, we remember him."
He swallowed the paste. Shemsen mirrored the other sea elf's movements.
"I tell you, my friend, you must take a wife before there's no one left to
remember us," Shemsen joked bleakly.
Him, Shemsen the Drifter, telling jokes! His gill slits fluttered in disbelief.
Against all odds, he'd come to think of crippled Eshono as a friend.
"When you do," Eshono replied, scooping another portion of paste from the bowl
floating between them. "And not a day sooner."
Too old."
"How old? Four hundred? Five?"
"I feel older," Shemsen replied honestly.
"All the more reason. Take a wife. Make a family before it's too late."
Shemsen lowered his head, a gesture most refugees understood. All carried scars
and secrets and guilt for surviving what so many others had not. Shemsen had
more than most. His friendship, such as it was, with Eshono survived because the
other man had a keen understanding of where the uncrossable boundary lay.
"I have salve," Eshono said, changing the subject. He retrieved a pot from
beneath his hammock. "I got it from one of the lubber temples. It's not as good
as Auld Dessinha made, but it seals you up. This one's almost empty. Take what's
left, if you wish."
Eshono had lost so much meat to the shark that his wound would never quite heal.
His over-taut skin seeped and cracked whenever he exerted himself. He went
through pots of salve and had become a connoisseur of priests, healers, and
potions.
Shemsen, who'd been slashed to the bone in several places, accepted the
fist-sized pot. "I'm going out."
"So soon? Your body needs rest-"
"My mind needs it more. I'll be back when I'm back." Shemsen took up his trident
and kicked toward the open corner of the netting. He was halfway through before
turning back to say, "Thanks for the salve. You're a good man, Eshono. Don't
follow me."
"I wouldn't ever," Eshono assured him, a look of boyish anxiety across his face.
"Be careful, Shemsen. We're so few now. Everyone's precious."
Shemsen kicked free of the niche. His thoughts were heavy, and he sank down and
down, until he passed the deepest of the niches. Here, a man needed
a lantern to see past his own feet, unless his eyes weren't his only navigation
senses. Of course, such a man who didn't rely on his eyes, even though he might
look exactly like a sea elf, couldn't possibly be a sea elf.
Shemsen daubed a bit of Eshono's paste on the least of his gouges. A man who
wasn't a sea elf couldn't tolerate Auld Dessinha's salves. But a lubber's
salve-a pitchy salve that stung but didn't burn-wouldn't harm him if it didn't
harm Eshono. Shemsen slathered his wounds and let the emptied jar sink to the
harbor bottom. When the sting was gone, he swam away.
Ships cast shadows through the water. Shemsen hid in darkness until he reached
the main channel. Stealth, even deception, was habit with his kind. No one,
including Eshono, suspected him. Entering Waterdeep for the first time, he'd
been touched by one of Faerun's mighty mages-all the refugees were before they
were granted sanctuary. He'd raised his heartbeat, relaxed his skin, and
expected to die, but the mage had passed him through.