"Simon Hawke - Wizard 7 - The Wizard of Camelot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

I simply stared at him. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"My name means nothing to you?" he asked, and then he gave it again, this
time
more fully. "Merlin? Merlin Ambrosius?"

I felt as if there were a slight tug at my memory, for there did seem to be a
vague familiarity about the name, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "No,
sir,"
I replied, "I don't think so. Have we met before?"

"No," he said with a slight shake of his head. "No matter. Do you live
nearby?"

I stammered something about how I lived not too far away, within walking
distance. I wanted to ask him for directions, for I'd lost my way. However, I
couldn't seem to form the words. I could not stop staring at him. It was not
so
much that he looked so damned outlandish, but there was a compelling presence
about him that commanded my attention. In later years, many writers were to
remark upon that, and expend considerable verbiage attempting to define
exactly
what it was about him that produced such an effect, but the long and short of
it
was simply that the man exuded power He was of slightly less than average
height, and he was quite slim then, though he began to put on weight in later
years, and became rather stout and stocky. However, he was by no means
physically imposing, though one somehow received the impression that he was.

"I don't suppose I could impose upon you for something to eat?" he said. "It
has
been a long time since I have tasted any food."

It was not the sort of query I hadn't heard at least a thousand times before.
The streets were teeming with beggars and pathetic, homeless wretches who had
been reduced to sleeping in the alleys and digging through the refuse for
their
sustenance, and though I did not think of myself as either insensitive or
heartless, I had, like most people, become inured to them out of necessity.
To
comply with such requests was not only to invite trouble, but even a saint
would
have been forced to learn how to reject them, because they were so numerous.
Even Christ, deluged with innumerable demands to heal the sick, had responded
with exasperation. And yet, despite all that, with the shadow of James Whitby
still upon me, I found that I could not deny him.

"We haven't very much," I said, more by way of an apology than as an excuse,
"but I'm sure we can come up with something. However, we haven't any wood and