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

the priests asked, even at the cost of my dexterity."

The boy rapped on Gorlen's hand and jerked back smarting knuckles. "I guess you
did what they wanted, or you'd be rock all over."

"Lucky for you I did, too. In spite of myself, I saved the world. Some would
even say, the universe."

Jezzle gazed at him coolly. "Wish I had one like that."

Gorlen smiled up at the woman, and was startled to see her expression. "You
don't have to lie to him," she said as his grin died. "He's a child, not an
idiot."

She seized the boy's hand and pulled him away before Gorlen could say another
word, in his defense or otherwise.

That'll teach me, he thought as he watched them pick their way over the stones.
Hauling out my heroic credentials to impress a lady. Of course she considers me
a fool. Who wouldn't?

I'm going to start saying it's artificial.

Letting the pair precede him some distance into the murk, he finally followed in
the same direction until he reached the inn he'd spotted from across the street.

The place was called the Drydock. Tilted signs, hand-lettered in bright orange
paint and nailed to the facade, proclaimed the merits of the inn:

"Come in & dry off!" "A snug harbor!" "Completely dry inside!" "Boot-warmers
available!" "Heat in every room!" "Dry beds & sheets!" "Your comfort cheerfully
guaranteed!" A huge stone hearth was pictured on the wall; he could almost feel
the heat of the painted flames.

Gorlen grinned and pushed open the door, expecting gusts of warm air. He was met
instead by a clammy draft reeking of mildew. He couldn't be sure whether it was
his soaked boots or the spongy mass of carpet that squelched underfoot as he
stepped into a grotto dim and dank as a frog's den. Scattered lamps glowed with
a weak, watery light, their chimneys all rippled with droplets. The interior
echoed with a steady streaming drizzle; louder than the muffled sizzle of the
rain, it was the sound of countless leaks, of water pouring into tin pails and
teetering saucers. Makeshift gutters lined the walls, carrying run-off to a row
of windows at the rear of the high-roofed room. Tiny cataracts cascaded from the
ceiling, vanishing through holes they had worn in the floor. Spray from the
myriad fountains peppered his face and hands. Mossy stairs rose on either side
to an opposing pair of lofts; above were rows of open doors, all so badly warped
that probably they would never close again.

Across the room, behind a countertop, cloaked in the bright yellow skin of some
no doubt toxic local amphibian, stood a man whom it would have been charitable