"Richard Harding - Outrider 02 - Fire And Ice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harding Richard)

that men might even consider better than his old ones, but he could never
replace the ones he had lost. But replacements had to be found. Bonner never
cut comers on his arms. He wanted the best and he didn't care what he paid. He
could have gone to the bazaar, that teeming, noisy, cramped shopping center on
the Loop, and buy alongside all the other raiders, smugglers, and riders that
were looking for weaponry. But Bonner was prepared to pay top slate for his
weaponry. Cut corners there and you were cutting your own throat. Bonner went
to the Armorer. The Armorer had a shop over on the South Side and his four or
five dark rooms were filled with weapons of every variety. He rarely left his
lair. The Armorer would not sell to just anyone. He had to be sure you would
take care of his babies and he had to be sure that you knew how to use them,
appreciate them like a connoisseur. "Why should I bust my ass," he would
growl, "to sell to some pile of meat whose only qualification for my stuff is
that he can pay for it?" He would harumph indignantly. "Any fuck can get hold
of money." Bonner saw in the Armorer an embodiment of a certain type of man
the ancient authors had written about with much respect: an artist. If there
was such a thing as an artist in this new, deadly age, the Armorer was it.
Bonner recognized that what the Armorer could do with tubes of steel, pieces
of wood, and tiny wasps packed with gunpowder and lead was as important to
that day as what the great artists of the past had done to theirs. The Armorer
worked within his medium to create those things that would destroy in the
cause of good, or at least, work to the advantage of those men who were not as
bad as most. Men like the Armorer, Bonner, Seth, and Starling sensed that
things were badly out of kilter in the world, that everyone was guilty of
crimes, but that some were guiltier than others. Bonner rapped smartly on the
Armorer's door. His knock rang in the silence. From the other side of the door
there was nothing but quiet. Bonner knocked again. A heavy, even tread
advanced toward the door. ' "Who?" demanded a voice from within. "Bonner." A
lock was snapped, a bolt shot back. "Bonner," said the Armorer, swinging the
door open. He spoke through a dense mat of black beard streaked with gray.
"What brings you to me?" "I need some weapons". The Armorer was a tall man and
always wore a long, lose robe; he looked like the pictures of the Old
Testament prophets that Bonner had seen in his books. He must have weighed
three hundred pounds and his forearms glistened as if they had been oiled. He
spent long hours at his anvil, hammer in hand, and he had arms as strong and
as hard as tree limbs. His vast face darkened. "So what happened to your old
stuff?" "I lost it," Bonner said simply. The huge oaken door slammed in his
face. Bonner looked at the door and smiled. He knocked again. Time passed.
Then, from the other side, the Armorer spoke. "Go away." "Come on," said
Bonner. "Why should I fit you again? You're only going to lose the stuff I
present to you." As far as the Armorer was concerned, he never sold you
anything. He loaned it to you. It was always his, and if you lost it, misused
it, or destroyed it, he considered it as serious as if you had hurt one of his
children. "Armorer," said Bonner, "I need help." A bolt was shot back and
the door swung open. "You're lucky I like you," he said. "Get inhere." The
room smelled of wood smoke and hot metal. Bits and pieces of a thousand
different weapons littered the weighty oak tables. The forge glowed dully,
heating the room. "Take a seat," said the Armorer. Bonner settled himself in
a chair and the Armorer sat across from him and leaned on the table. "Now," he
said, "before we talk about your new stuff, suppose we have a little chat