"Mercedes Lackey - It Takes A Thief" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

in more prosperous households, sifting out the ashes for sale to the tanners
and
soap makers, and selling the clinkers and partially-burned ends of logs to
people like Londer Galko, keeper of the Hollybush Tavern. Nor would Uncle
Londer
actually buy a decent firestarter, much less keep a candle or banked coals
going
overnight; Skif had to make do with a piece of flint and one of some other
rock.
The fact that at least half of this тАЬfirewoodтАЭ had been doused with waterтАФ
which
was, in fact, the lawтАФbefore the ragmen picked it up didn't make it any easier
to light.
Before he could do anything about a fire, Skif went to the pile of sweepings
from the floor of the common room that he'd collected last night after the
last
drunken lout had been rolled out the door. Every bit of dust and fluff that
looked as if it might possibly catch fire became his tinder. At worst case,
he'd
have to sacrifice a precious bit of the straw stuffed into his boots for
warmth.
Heh. Sommun' been trackin' in straw. Hayseed from country, prolly. Oh, ayahтАФ
here
be nice dust bunny, too.
Swearing under his breath, Skif hacked his two bits of rock together, trying
to
generate sparks, hoping one of them would land in the tiny patch of lint and
fluff. When one finally did, and finally cooperated with his efforts, he
coaxed
it into a tiny flame, then got the flame to take hold of the driest of the
wood.
He nursed it tenderly, sheltering it from the drafts along the floor, begging
it
to take. Finally, he set it on the sooty hearth, surrounded it with what was
left of the dry wood from last night, and slowly fed it until it was large
enough to actually cook over.
Only when the kitchen fire was properly started did the slattern used by Uncle
Londer as a cook, dishwasher, and general dogsbody finally shuffle down the
stairs from the loft where she slept into the room, scratching head and
buttocks
at the same time without ever dislodging any of the vermin who called her
тАЬhome.тАЭ Skif often wondered why so few people who ate here died. Perhaps it
was
only because their stomachs were already full of the acidic potions his uncle
sold as wine and beer, and once a stomach was full of that rotgut, nothing
that
came in from the food lived long enough to cause sickness.
The kitchen door stood open to the cold courtyard; Kalchan came in that way
every morning, bringing the day's supplies. Uncle Londer never bought more of
anything for the inn than he absolutely had to. Now Skif braced himself to