"James Lowder - The Harpers 05 - The Ring of Winter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowder James)

your tongue." He glanced around the chamber nervously. "I'll concede the argument about the curse, just
don't mention him again."
Cyric of Zhentil Keep had once been a questor for the Ring of Winter, like the others Pontifax named.
Yet tragedy had not befallen Cyric. Far from it. During the Time of Troubles, in which the gods were cast
from the heavens for their transgressions of cosmic law and made to walk Faerun in mortal avatars, Cyric
had been partially responsible for the destruction of three powerful evil deities. He had then claimed the
right to take their place in the heavens, and he resided there still, Lord of the Dead and Master of Strife,
Murder, and Tyranny. To take his name in vain was to invite swift and terrible retribution.
"Sorry, old friend," Artus said. "I should know better than to talk about the ring when we seem so very
far from finding it." Gesturing to the mage's bloodied forehead, he added, "I hope that looks worse than it
is."
"Oh, the beastie did me little real harmтАФ" Pontifax touched the lump on his head and winced "тАФapart
from this egg. It'll take a few days to heal, that's all. Hopefully, that's more time than you'll take to shrink
back to size."
Artus mumbled his agreement and settled in for a long wait. "Wounds and disaster all around," he
muttered. "As usual."
 One
Patrons' pipes and the small, poorly stoked fireplace on the northern wall worked together to create a
haze that hung heavy in the Black Rat. Daylight crept into the tavern through two grimy windows, casting
long, dark shadows. Regulars of the Rat could tell the time of day by watching those lines of darkness on
the pegged floor, but on cloudy days even the barmaids were hard-pressed to tell morning from night
without opening the door.
For all its murk, though, the Black Rat offered more genuine hospitality than any other tavern near
Suzail's waterfront. The smell of meat simmering in the kitchens, the sounds of unhurried conversations and
friendly laughter, the sight of sailors and teamsters, artisans and noblemen sharing tables without
complaintтАФall these were quite common. Fights were few, and those few were ended quickly and without
bloodshed by the soldiers who frequented the place, the Purple Dragons of King Azoun IV. It was even
rumored Azoun himself visited the Black Rat from time to time, his royal identity hidden by the guise of a
commoner.
Artus Cimber was reasonably certain Azoun was not among the half-dozen men and women in the
tavern this particular morning. The frumpy, redheaded barmaid who seemed to live in the taproom was
chatting amicably with a pair of sailors, twins in fact, from a Sembian merchantman. A few tables away, a
man wearing the holy symbol of the God of Justice picked at a meager breakfast; Artus knew him to be
Ambrosius, a paladin of high standing in the church of Tyr. Counting Artus himself, that left one other.
"Please sit still and stop looking around. Master Cimber," the sixth occupant of the taproom said. "I
cannot be held accountable for any mishaps that might result from your fidgeting." He chicked his tongue.
"After all, we wouldn't want to repeat that unhappy incident from the ruins. The owner of the Rat would not
take kindly to a giant crushing his tables and chair to splinters, don't you agree?"
The man sitting across the table stared fixedly at Artus. His face was caught up in a look of casual
disinterest, though his green eyes revealed the excitement he felt at examining the Mulhorandi pendant. He
turned the silver disk over and over in his brown-skinned hands.
"Well, get on with it, Zintermi," Artus sighed. "Go ahead and blow us up."
The man nodded, brushing off his friend's ill humor with a practiced air. He'd known the explorer for
almost twenty years, from the time Artus had entered the House of Oghma as a student. The boy had
taken readily to the subjects Zintermi taughtтАФthe history and lore of Faerun. Sadly, though, he'd lacked the
discipline necessary to become an instructor himself. "Close your eyes, Master Cimber," the scholar said.
"This should take but a moment."
Zintermi untied the silken cords holding his sleeves closed at the wrists, then rolled the sleeves to his
elbows. Gingerly, he took a vial of powder from the pocket of his black vest, then unstoppered it and poured
the contents onto the fat tallow candle that flickered between him and Artus. With a hiss, puffs of gold,