"Simon Hawke - Sorcerer 2 - The Inadequate Adept" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

throat.

"From now on, each and every brigand will possess a piece of this magic soap," said Shannon. "And
each of you will use it, understood?"

There was a chorus of grumbled, "Ayes." With a satisfied nod at Brewster, Shannon sheathed her sword,
turned on her heel, and strode out of the room.

"Well," mumbled Pikestaff Pat, as the remainder of them filed out, "at least we found a use for the bloody
spams."

Sean MacGregor had spent the better part of the evening sharpening his blades by the campfire. It took a
while because he was meticulous about their being sharpened properly and because he had better than a
dozen of them, of various shapes and sizes, worn on his belt and in crossed bandoliers over his chest. He
also had his sword, which was a true work of art indeed, as was only fitting for MacGregor the
Bladesman, who had yet to meet his match.

Attached to the breast of his brown, rough-out leather tunic was the coveted badge of the Footpads and
Assassins Guild, in the shape of a double-edged dagger. MacGregor's badge was different from all the
others, in that it also had a star inscribed upon its blade, which identified him without question as the
number-one assassin in the Guild, entitled to command top rates. He had been the number-one assassin
ever since he had assassinated the previous number-one assassin, which was generally how rank was
determined in the Guild. Since inept assassins did not usually last very long as a result, this practice
ensured a consistent, high level of professionalism.

Seated across from him, on the other side of the camp-fire, were his three apprentice henchmen, the
brawny brothers Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh. They were as alike as peas in a pod, and hardly anyone but
Mac could tell them apart. They were strapping, young bruisers with straw-colored mops of hair and
amiable, round, peasant faces that generally wore expressions of bovine placidity, except for when they
had to fight or think. When they were forced to think, their faces contorted into such pained expressions
that one might have thought they were suffering from terminal constipation. But when faced with a fight,
their ploughboy faces lit up with an innocent, childlike joy.

Mac had first met them in a Pittsburgh watering hole known as The Stealers Tavern, famed hangout of
assassins, cutpurses, and alleymen. The three brothers had just finished taking on all comers and the
tavern was a shambles, with limp bodies slung about all over the place. Recognizing potential when he
saw it, Mac had offered them positions as his apprentices and they had eagerly jumped at the opportunity
of learning a good trade, and from no less an accomplished instructor than the famous Mac the Knife.

They had been on the road for several weeks now, on the trail of three men sought by Warrick the
White, who was paying not only Mac's top rate, but offering an attractive bonus, as well. This was the
first actual assignment in the field the three brothers had ever participated in, and they were eager to learn
as much as they could. The only problem was, there was only so much their dense craniums could handle
at any given time, and instructing them in the finer points of stalking and assassination was a taxing
process. It was fortunate that MacGregor was a patient man.

He grimaced as he glanced across the campfire at his three apprentices, who were busily stuffing
themselves with roasted spam. They had killed two of the creatures earlier that afternoon, and despite
Mac telling them that spams didn't make good eating, the brothers had cooked them up anyway and now
they sat mere, chewing and belching happily, brown fat juices dribbling down their chins onto their tunics.