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

The spirit snorted in derision, then tossed his head back and laughed, a move that made the interlocking
silver rings dangling from his ears bob and jingle. "Another dolt," he chuckled. "That is my curse, I suppose,
to be servant to idiots and dolts." With exaggerated deference, he placed the palms of both sets of hands
together and bowed. "If that is all, O master of men and beasts?"
The silver phantom disappeared without waiting for a reply.
"Yes . . . most unusual," Zin repeated. He casually rolled down his sleeves and retied them at the wrist.
"Can you tell me what that was all about?"
"It should be obvious, really. The statue you found was a housing for some sort of phantom servant. The
four arms make him a better guardian, more dextrous at menial tasks, and so on." The scholar pointed to the
medallion. "His name, I believe, is Skuld. The piece has an early forgemark from the city of Bezantur on it,
so I assume it to date from, oh, thirteen to fourteen hundred years ago. I wonder how it got to that ruin in
the Stonelands?"
Artus took a swallow from the mug set beside him. "So he's very old and has a cheery name. That
doesn't help me a great deal. What is Skuld supposed to do?"
Zin sighed. "Their antiquity makes the runes on the back of the medallion difficult to translate, but I
managed a few: protect, danger, and eternity."
"Eternity? You mean I'm stuck with this forever?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The word is part of the inscription, but I can't fathom the context. Skuld reared
his bald head before I could get that far." The scholar buttoned his vest, then cleared his throat noisily.
"Gather your coat if you wish to keep it," he said.
Before Artus could ask why, the owner of the Black Rat stormed out of the kitchens. He was a big
man, with wavy black hair banging into his eyes. Artus might have wondered if the tavernkeeper could see
clearly, save that he headed straight for Zin. Grease and ale stains spotted the apron around his waist and
the shirt that partially covered his hairy chest. In one massive hand the Rat's owner held a meat cleaver.
The other was balled into a fist. "I don't mind magic in my place," he shouted, "but if you scare my
customers away, you're not welcome."
Sure enough, only the barmaid remained in the taproom. The other customers had wisely bolted for the
street the moment the spirit had appeared. The paladin's breakfast remained half-eaten, and the Sembian
sailors had spilled their drinks and toppled their chairs on the way out.
"Sorry for the commotion," Zin offered. He donned his heavy cloak and picked up his satchel. "The
money should cover any loss." Somehow, in all the confusion, he'd taken the time to leave a neat pillar of
silver dragons in the middle of the table. The coins more than covered the trouble. "Come, Master Cimber. I
should get back to the temple."
They left the Black Rat, the sour looks of both the tavernkeeper and the barmaid following them. A few
people stared as they left the placeтАФmost notably the Sembian sailors and a small group of gawkers they
had gathered around them. That crowd scattered when it became clear the Black Rat was not, as the
sailors had suggested frantically, going to be blown into the Inner Sea by a magical explosion or leveled by a
rampaging spirit. They looked vaguely disappointed.
It was getting close to highsun, and the streets near the docks and the marketplace were teeming with
people. Merchants hawked their wares from storefronts or from behind the handles of small carts. Servants
about their masters' business bustled from merchant to merchant, filling their baskets or their arms with
wares. Grubby children playfully chased dogs from houses and shops, or not-so-playfully flushed rats out of
food stalls. Overhead, gulls wheeled and shrieked. No one seemed to notice the chill winter air, though the
carts rattled more than usual as they bumped over the frozen ground. Only a choking snowfall would slow
business, and then only until the snow stopped falling long enough to be trampled into slush.
Zintermi of Oghma passed through the chaotic thoroughfares as if he were surrounded by an invisible
shield. No one bumped into him. No overeager merchants grabbed his spotless sleeves, trying to pass off
sawdust for powdered gryphon claw or some other exotic spell component. Even the children and dogs
seemed ensorcelled to steer well clear of the scholar in their scrambles.
Artus was not so fortunate.