"Fritz Leiber - Ill Met in Lankhmar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leiber Fritz)

he saw one start to over-balance. Should he yank Slevyas
out of harm's way when that happened? It was something
to think about.
His restless attention fixed next on the porticoes and
pillars. The latter, thick and almost three yards tail, were
placed at irregular intervals as well as being irregularly
shaped and fluted, for Rokkermas and Slaarg were most
modern and emphasized the unfinished look, randomness,
and the unexpected.
Nevertheless it seemed to Fissif, that there was an in-
tensification of unexpectedness, specifically that there was
one more pillar under the porticoes than when he had
last passed by. He couldn't be sure which pillar was the
newcomer, but he was almost certain there was one.
The enclosed bridge was close now. Fissif glanced up
at the right-hand statue and noted other differences from
the one he'd recalled. Although shorter, it seemed to hold
itself more strainingly erect, while the frown carved in its
dark gray face was not so much one of philosophic brood-
ing as sneering contempt, self-conscious cleverness, and
conceit.
Still, none of the three statues toppled forward as he
and Slevyas walked under the bridge. However, something
else happened to Fissif at that moment.
One of the pillars winked at him.
The Gray Mouser turned round in the right-hand niche,
leaped up and caught hold of the cornice, silently vaulted
to the flat roof, and crossed it precisely in time to see the
two thieves emerge below.
Without hesitation he leaped forward and down, his
body straight as a crossbow bolt, the soles of his ratskin
boots aimed at the shorter thief's fat-buried shoulder
blades, though leading him a little to allow for the yard
he'd walk while the Mouser hurtled toward him.
la 'the instant that he leaped, the tall thief glanced up
over-shoulder and whipped out a knife, 'though making
no move to push or pull Fissif out of the way of the
human projectile speeding toward him.
More swiftly than one would have thought he could
manage, Fissif whirled round then and thinly screamed,
"Slivikin!"
The ratskin boots took him high in the belly. It was like
landing on a big cushion. Writhing aside from Slevyas'
thrust, the Mouser somersaulted forward, and as the fat
thief's skull hit a cobble with a dull bang he came to his
feet with dirk in hand, ready to take 'on the tall one.
But there was no need. Slevyas, ibis eyes glazed, was
toppling too.
One of the pillars had .sprung forward, trailing a vol-
uminous robe. A big hood had fallen back from a youthful