"Ed Greenwood - Spellfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

Deep but sharp, boy, deep but sharpтАФ dont let the world around escape your
notice, lest it sticks a blade in your ribs while your wits are off somewhere
considering Xult's Seven SigUs! Got it?"
"Aye, Lord," Narm replied, sighing inwardly. It was to be one of those
evenings. Even if this inn was nice, he'd scarcely have the chance to enjoy
it, with Marimmar holding forth on all of Nairn's many shortcomings. Narm
could see now why the Mage Most Magnificent had so readily agreed to take on
an apprentice. Marimmar needed someone around to belabor, and no doubt few
stayed long to listen. His master's art was good, though; Narm knew enough of
magic to be certain of that. But Marimmar certainly knew how to ruin the
delight and enthusiasm of any adventureтАФ or even daily chores, for that
matter. Narm turned into the yard of The Rising Moon, pronouncing silent
curses upon his master. Maybe there would be pretty girls inside. . . .
After the hares and four pheasants and too many carrots and potatoes to count,
Shandril stole away for another look at the inn's guests. The company of
adventurers might talk of their deeds, or even show off some treasure.
Moreover, she might learn who the two ladies were. Flitting barefoot down the
passage in her greasy tunic and apron, Shandril peered out cautiously into the
noise and bustle.
SPELLFTRE
Across the smoky taproom sat an imperious man in fine gray robes, a thin pipe
between his fat fingers as he spoke to his companion, a much younger man. This
one was handsome, even in nondescript gray robes that were too large for him.
He was dark-haired and slim, with a very serious face. His eyes were intent on
the cup of wine he clasped on the table before him. Shandril was about to turn
away when suddenly his gaze met hers.
Oh, his eyes! Belying that stern face, they were dancing. They met hers
merrily and did not ridicule her wild-tousled, long blonde hair and greasy
garb, but winked at her as an equalтАФone, moreover, lucky to be in the shadows
and not facing a steady barrage of questions.
Shandril flushed and tossed her headтАФand yet could not go. Snared by his gaze,
by being regarded as aтАФperson and not a servant, Shandril stood watching,
mute, hands clenching in the folds of her apron. Abruptly, the youth's gaze
was jerked away, as a hooked fish is pulled from the water regardless of its
will to stay, by the impatient snapping of the older man's fingers.
Shandril stood alone in the shadows, as always, trembling with excitement and
hope. These folk who traveled about the world outside were no greater than
herself. Oh, they were rich enough, and had companions and business of import,
and experienceтАФbut she could be one of them. Someday. If ever she dared.
Shandril could look no longer. Bitterly she turned back to the kitchen,
railing inwardly at the fear that always held her there, despite the endless
pots and scalding water, despite Korvan.
"Get in!" Korvan rumbled, red-faced, as she came to the kitchen. "There's
onions to chop, and I can't do it ail, you know!" Shandril nodded absently as
she walked toward the chopping board at the back of the kitchen. Korvan's
bruising, pinching fingers as she passed, and the roar of uneven laughter that
followed, were expected now; she hardly noticed. The knife rose and fell in
her hands, twinkling. Korvan stared at her. Shandril had never before hummed
happily while chopping onions.
EDGHEENWOOD