"Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 2 - Elminster In Myth Drannor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

"Got a name?" the stout owner of the face demanded, resting one fat and hairy arm on the
windowsill.
For a brief moment El was moved to reply merely "Aye," but prudence made him say instead,
"El, out of Athalantar, and bound for the Rapids."
The face bobbed in a nod. "Mine's Drelden. Built this place myself. Bread, dripping, and cheese
on the mantel. Draw yourself a tankard and tell Rose your wants. She's got soup ready."
The face vanished, and as the grunts and thuds of barrels being wrestled about floated in through
the window, Elminster did as he'd been bid.
A forest of wary faces looked up as he entered the taproom, and watched in silent interest as the
youth quietly adorned his cheese with mustard and settled into a corner seat with his tankard. Elminster
gave the room at large a polite nod and Rose an enthusiastic one, and devoted himself to filling his
groaning belly and looking back at the folk who were studying him.
In the back corner were a dozen burly, sweaty men and women who wore smocks, big
shapeless boots, a lot of dirt, and weary expressions. Local farmers, come for a meal before bed.
There was a table of men who wore leather armor, and were strapped about with weapons.
They all sported badges of a scarlet sword laid across a white shield; one of them saw Elminster looking
at his and grunted, "We're the Red Blade, bound for the Calishar to find caravan-escort work."
Elminster gave his own name and destination in reply, took a swig from his tankard, and then held
silence until folk lost interest in him.
The conversation that had been going on in a desultory way before his entrance resumed. It
seemed to be a "have ye heard?" top-this contest between the last two guests: bearded, boisterous men
in tattered clothes, who wore stout, well-used swords and small arsenals of clanging cups, knives,
mallets, and other small tools.
One, Karlmuth Hauntokh, was hairier, fatter, and more arrogant than the other. As the young
prince of Athalantar watched and listened, he waxed eloquent about the "opportunities that be boilin' up
right now- just boilin', I tell thee-for prospectors like meself- and Surgath here."
He leaned forward to fix the Red Blades with wise old eyes, and added in a hoarse, confidential
whisper that must have carried clear out back to the stables, "It's on account o' the elves, see? They're
moving away-no one knows where-jus' gone. They cleared out o' what they called Elanvae . . . that's the
woods what the River Reaching runs through, nor'east o' here ... last winter. Now all that land's ours for
the picking. Why, not a tenday back I found a bauble there-gold, and jools stuck in it, clear through-in a
house that had fallen in!"
"Aye," one of the farmers said in a voice flat with disbelief, "and how big was it, Hauntokh?
Bigger'n my head, this time?"
The prospector scowled, his black brows drawing together into a fierce wall. "Less o' that lip,
Naglarn," he growled. "When I'm out there, swingin' m'blade to drive off the wolves, it's right seldom I
see thee stridin' boldly into the woods!"
"Some of us," Naglarn replied in a voice that dripped scorn, "have honest work to do, Hauntokh
. . . but then, y'wouldn't know what that was, now would you?" Many of the farmers chuckled or grinned
in tired silence.
"I'll let that pass, farmer," the prospector replied coldly, "seem' as I like the Horn so well, an' plan
to be drinkin' here long after they look at thy weed fields an' use thy own plow to put thee under, in a
corner somewheres. But I'll show thee not to scoff at them as dares to go where thee won't."
One hairy hand darted into Hauntokh's open shirt-front with snakelike speed, and out of the
gray-white hair there drew forth a fist-sized cloth bag. Strong, stubby fingers thrust its drawstrings open,
and plucked into view all it held: a sphere of shining gold, inset with sparkling gems. An involuntary gasp
of awe came from every throat in the room as the prospector proudly held it up.
It was a beautiful thing, as old and as exquisite as any elven work Elminster had ever seen. It was
probably worth a dozen Herald's Horns, or more. Much more, if that glow betokened magics that did
more than merely adorn. El watched its inner light play on the ring the prospector wore-a ring that bore