"Laidlaw-Dankden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laidlaw Marc)

the rooflines for anything resembling a gargoyle, Gorlen stepped onto the slimy
planks of one such raft and began to pull himself against the muddy current. He
had taken no more than three strong pulls -- a lurching mode of progress made
more difficult by the fact that he had but one hand to clench with -- when he
heard a cry from the sidewalk (or bank) he had just deserted. Turning, he saw a
woman and a boy, both wrapped in shiny dark cloaks, only their white faces
visible. The woman beckoned for him to return.

Something more than courtesy compelled him to obey: his one flesh palm was
already blistering. At this rate, he would be unable to play the eduldamer by
the time he reached the far row of stepping stones, and thus unable to earn a
living. He stepped aside to let the pair aboard; the woman gave him a smile and
her thanks. The rain and chill had brought a flush to her cheeks; her eyes were
dark and gleaming reflecting some source of light invisible to him in the gloomy
afternoon. She looked too young to be the boy's mother, for which, seeing her
beauty, he was suddenly glad.

As they crowded past him into a comer of the raft, Gorlen realized that he was
expected to haul them. His spirits felt as sodden as his underwear, the strength
drenched out of him, but making a show of it, he grasped the rope once more and
yanked them out into the mudflow, turning his face into his dripping sleeve to
hide the grimaces he made with every painful draw.

The short voyage must have gone more slowly than the Dankden woman was used to.
Gorlen's palms were barely burning before he felt her beside him and saw her
gloved hands reaching up to grasp the rope. The palms of her gloves were heavily
reinforced, and with good reason. She pulled with such strong and practiced
strokes that the rope was nearly tom from his hand. The raft scudded over the
street in a dozen pulls, to which Gorlen made only a token contribution.

At the far bank, somewhat chastened, he tipped his hat, spilling a small flood
of rainwater down his front, and thanked the woman. He caught her staring at his
right hand, embarrassed, she looked away.

"What happened to your hand?" the boy said sharply.

The woman turned on him with a cry -- "Jezzle! Please don't mind my brother,
sir."

"That's all right," said Gorlen, offering his flesh hand to her as she stepped
onto the stone landing. "Children always say what's in their minds. When do we
lose that innocence, I wonder?"

"It's none of his business," she said, "that's all."

"I'll tell you, though," he said. "I got in trouble with the priests of Nardath
a few years back. They laid a task on me -- and one of their pet gargoyles
turned my pinky to stone as a reminder. Every time I dawdled on my errand, or
deliberately headed in the wrong direction, the blackness spread. Finger by
finger, it swallowed my hand. As you can see, I was reluctant to do exactly as