"J. V. Jones - Sword of Shadows 2 - A Fortress of Grey Ice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones J. V)

the leather through his half-closed fist. He was a big man, hardmouthed and fair-skinned, with broken
veins in the whites of his eyes and the shineless teeth of a diamond miner. Although Crope had seen him
many times, hecouldnтАЩt remember his name. That was ScurvyтАЩs job, the remembering. Scurvy knew the
names of every man inPipeTown; knew what theywere called and what theywere.

The Bull Hand thrust the whip into his belt. тАЬYou stink like the slop pots when your mindтАЩs not on the
wall.тАЭ

Crope kept his head down and continued to break rock. He was aware of many eyes upon him, of
Bitterbean and Iron Toe and Soft Aggie down the line.And of Scurvy Pine beyond them, watching the
Bull Hand, yet not seeming to, his eyes so cold and hard they might have been mined in the pipe.

ScurvyтАЩs gaze flicked to the chains at CropeтАЩs feet. Iron they were, black with tar and dead skin, and
they ran from ankle to ankle, from digger to digger, joining every man in the line. тАЬDonтАЩt you go
forgetting, giantman. You be ready when I give the word.тАЭ

Crope felt ScurvyтАЩs will working upon him, warning him to keep swinging his ax. Eight yearsago theyтАЩd
met, in the tin pits west of Trance Vor. Crope never wanted to go back there again. He hated the low
ceilings of the tin caves, the darkness, the stench of bad eggs, and thedrip, drip, dripof the walls.
Spineless,thatтАЩs what everyone had called him, before Scurvy had made them stop. Scurvy had picked
no fight nor raised a weapon; he had simply told the other tin men how it was going to be. тАЬHe carved the
eyes out of an ice master who cheated him at dice,тАЭ Bitterbean had once told Crope. тАЬButthatтАЩsnot the
reason they тАШprisoned him.тАЭ

Out of the corner of his eye, Crope thought he saw Scurvy nod minutely toHadda the Crone.

Time passed. The diggers continued breaking the wall and the hags kept sifting through the dust.
CropeтАЩs lash wound began to burn with the hot sting of salt. Softly, so softly that hewasnтАЩt even sure
when the sound began, Hadda the Crone began to sing. It was like no song Crope had ever heard,high
and wavering and strange to the ear. It made the hairs around his wound stand upright. Other diggers felt
it too. At CropeтАЩs side, Soft AggieтАЩs chains rattled as he stamped his feet in the mud. Bitterbean and the
others slowed their strikes, and the sound of breaking rock lessened asHaddaтАЩs song began to rise.

If she sang in words Crope did not recognize them, yet fear entered him all the same. High and higher,
her song rose, keening and wailing, her voice disappearing for brief moments as she reached pitches that
only dogs could hear. Other hags joined in, chanting low whereHadda soared high, rough where she was
as clear as glass.

Crope felt a queer coldness steal into the pipe. He watched as the shadow cast by .his ax lengthened
and darkened, until the shadow seemed more real than the ax. One of the pitch lamps blew out, and then
another.And then one of the Bull Hands cracked his whip and shouted, тАЬStop that fucking wailing, bitch.тАЭ

Crope risked a glance at Scurvy.Wait, his eyes said.Be ready when I give the word.

HaddaтАЩs song turned shrill. The diamond drilled into her front tooth was the only thing that glinted in
the darkening pipe. Crope felt sweat slide along his fingers as he raised his ax for another strike. A
memory of a time long ago possessed him, a night roaring with flames. People burning alive, precious
stones popping from their jewelry in the heat, smoke curling from their mouths as they screamed. Bad
memories, and Crope did not want to think of them. Driving his ax deep into diamond rock, he sent them
smashing against the wall.