"Esther M. Friesner - Homework" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

Your ghastly uncle put a price on my head ages ago, and his filthy flunkies have been trying to collect on
it ever since. Why, last year alone I was thrown into the dungeons of Earl Plagueworthy, Baron
Somberdrear of the Sickly Marshes, and the mad Lord Ahk-Ahk, Viceroy of Tandoori. Now there was
a man who knew what torture's all about!" A peculiarly fond look touched the prince's eye, but as
quickly vanished. "I have withstood the barbarous ministrations of some of the most direly talented
torturers in all the Ebon Empire. I have been restrained by fetters made from every substance imaginable,
from silk to steel, including suntoo fur." There was that odd look again. "If you want to make me suffer,
then for the sake of all the gods combined, at least use the proper equipment. Perhaps your uncle won't
let you near his first-rate tools, but couldn't you make the effort to steal a few second-string
thumbscrews? How difficult is it to scare up a used Wreath of Infinite Weeping in a place this big? And
by the four heavens, this stronghold has a library. There are at least ten excellent sourcebooks on how to
make your own garotte, and those are just the editions that are still in print! Do the words 'be prepared'
mean nothing to you?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't care. I got time. As long as I'm torturing you, I don't have to do my real
homework, and if Uncle Morby catches me, I can show him I was doing something constructive." He
tried the points of the salad fork against the ball of his thumb gently. Then he tried them a bit harder. Then
he attempted to stab himself in the fleshy part of his palm. All three essays yielded the same results, or
lack thereof. Andy snorted in disgust and flung the salad fork aside. This time he settled on a dinner fork,
though only after pausing long enough to nip a teaspoon which he hung by its breath-warmed bowl from
his nose. "Now you'll be sorry," he informed the prince. He took one step forward and the teaspoon
dropped.
"Oh, forтАФ!" Prince Gallantine rolled his eyes in exasperation and then, with a single flex of his
abounding muscles, tore his shackles from the wall. Bits of pastel-colored plaster flew like confetti. The
debauched eunuchs shrieked and ran, but they did not get very far. Pouncing upon the place setting of
doom before him, the prince nabbed a pair of butter knives and flung them after the retreating minions
with such force and precision that they lodged in the soft spot at the base of the skull, killing them
instantly. They fell face-forward with a massive thud, underscored by the tinny *doooiiinnnnng* of the
still-vibrating cutlery.
"Wow," Andy breathed. A gap-toothed grin stretched itself out from ear to ear. "Neat." His green
eyes shone with a tender and adoring light as he gazed at Prince Gallantine and begged: "How'd you do
that? Wouldja teach me, huh, wouldja, huh, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease? I mean, golly, that was just
soтАФsoтАФso super. Honest. I meanтАж wow!"
Prince Gallantine instantly recognized the force transforming the Dread One's nephew-apprentice. It
was nothing new to him. He had seen it many times, on the faces of many boys of about Andy's age
when they learned that the supposedly humble wayfarer spending the night in their family's wretched
cottageтАФoften with their family's comeliest daughterтАФwas in fact that Prince Gallantine of whose
exploits the bards all sang. (They had better; he paid them enough for their hero-worshiping warbles, the
lyrical leeches.)
Now, studying the lad's doting looks, Prince Gallantine rubbed his chin in thought as a fresh
inspiration struck him. Hmmmm. Perhaps the gods have chosen to smile upon me in sooth. Now
might I readily effect the destruction of the Dread One and all the heinous abominations for which
he stands. Aye, and single-handedly, what's more! No need to call upon the Resplendent Alliance,
no need to pay off the legions of dwarvish mercenaries nor share the honors of conquest with
those glory-hog elves. And when the bards sing about this little picnic, I won't even have to bribe
them to get my name right. They'll get it right for free. His grin was wide, but cold as an edge of
tempered steel. They'd better.
He let his smile warm and soften like lard in the sun as he turned it upon Lord Morbidius'
nephew-apprentice. "Son," he drawled, "would you really like to learn how I did that?"
The boy's head bobbed like a duckling in a whirlpool.
"Good. I could use an apprentice."