"Lackey, Mercedes - Bedlam's Bard 01 - Knights of Ghosts and Shadows (with Ellen Guon) 1.4" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

He reached a hand out without opening his eyes, and felt around the floor of the tent; when his hand encountered the coolness of glass, he picked up the whiskey bottle, shaking it slightly.

No, strike that againЧI couldn't have drunk too much. There's some still left in the bottle.

He opened his eyes long enough to take a healthy swallow from the half-empty whiskey bottle. Mmm, good old Irish Breakfast. I'll bet this is the only reason they never conquered the world.

He swigged again, and sighed.

I think I'm going to live. Which means I'd better get on 'site.

He pried both eyes open again and crawled out of the sleeping bag, blinking blearily. Eric found his faded brown breeches on the other side of the tent, where he had discarded them last night, then rummaged through his backpack. A fresh Faire shirt, one that used to be white but now was a shade between gray and brown, replaced the one he had slept in last night. He pulled breeches and shirt on, and scratched his head, trying to remember what came next.

Feet. First, find your feet. Then find what you put on your feet. New socks came out of the bottom of the pack; he pulled his moccasin boots on over them without jarring his skull too much. After a brief moment of panic, he found his belt beneath the jumble of assorted props and costumes on the floor in the "storage" corner of his tent.

Erie fastened the money pouch, wooden comb, and flask on the belt, took another swig of whiskey, and he was ready to face the world again.

Well, maybe not, but I'll give it a try . . .

Taking a deep breath, he unzipped the door to the tent, stepping outside. As he expected, it was a beautiful morning, clear blue skies over the green-brown hills, with almost everyone in sight already in costume and heading into the Fairesite.

He staggered to the large water tank at the edge of campsite, and braced himself.

Here goesЧ

He stuck his head beneath the faucet and turned it on. The water, cold as a mother-in-law's heart, hit him like a hammer on the back of the skull, and froze him all the way down to his toenails. He was shivering when he straightened up again.

Much better. I think.

He used the metal side of the water tank as a mirror as he combed his hair, trying without success to make the shoulder-length brown mop look presentable.

Some day I'll shave it all off, honest to God. Hell, it worked for Yul Brynner, didn't it?

"Good morning, Eric!" one of the dancers from the Irish show called to him from across the sink.

Some people are just too damn awake in the morning.

"Bah, humbug," he replied, somehow managing to sound cheerful enough.

Brigid, that's her Faire name, if I'm remembering correctly. Don't remember her Mundane name. He gave her a long, appraising look as she sauntered away from him with a definite swing to her hips. Scenic. Very scenic. Lovely from the front, lovely behind, terrific dancer's legs. Well, now that I'm a bachelor again . . .

Oh, hell. Maureen, that should be you wiggling your hips at me . . .

He watched the dark-haired dancer start towards the Main Gate with morose appreciation for a moment, then returned to his tent for his flute.

Besides, Brigid's a morning person. I could never cope with somebody who's that happy at nine in the morning, never.

He slipped the flute case into his embroidered gig bag (gift of Kathie, late of the Texas Faire, two girlfriends before Maureen) and started down the hill towards the Main Gate.

I've had my Irish Breakfast; I'd better get a real one before I fall on my nose.