"MacLeod, Ian R - Sealight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macleod Ian R)

"Have you not heard of scissors?"

"I, er . . . can you remind me, please?"

"Scissors are used by the comfortably off and the well educated to cut their
hair. Of course, the poor use a razor . . . " He gazed at Ran. The eyebrow went
up again. " . . . if they use anything at all. But this pair, I would not like
to guess at their intended use, or their value. See the way the blades fit
together, so tightly? Yet they slide apart like oil on water if the pressure is
applied just so." Snip. "The work is finer than the finest smithy in this city
could produce. They are dwarfen, I would guess, although you would need the word
of an expert to be sure. For all I know, they have some magic cast into them;
certainly the level of craftsmanship suggests it. Scissors such as these might
be used to cut a lock from the mane of a unicom . . . " He gazed absently into
the gloom. " . . . that kind of thing." Snip. "So I must repeat my question.
Where did a lout like you find them?"

Ran lunged forward. He snatched the scissors from the jeweler's hand, narrowly
avoiding serious injury to them both. He was out of the shop and off down the
maze of alleys before the jeweler had a chance to cry out or raise the alarm. It
was only when Ran was catching his breath in the darkness half a mile off that
it occurred to him that he really had no reason to run or feel guilty. The only
other creature who could possibly claim ownership was the octopus -- and that
was dead.

So the knife -- the scissors -- might be valuable. If he was lucky, he told
himself firmly, they would bring enough for a down payment on a boat . . . or a
new wheelchair for his mother. Or a crib for the baby. He turned the golden
blade over in his hands. Dwarfen . . . magic . . . unicoms . . . he couldn't
help thinking that these scissors were just the kind of thing that a hero might
carry . . .

Ran slid the cold metal back into his belt and glanced around. He saw decrepit
high-gabled buildings. He had run further than he realized; their ornate style
was characteristic of the ancient Eastern Quarter. Only a few lights glowed from
the highest floors or flickered through the gaps in the sag-roofs, and those
were pale and cold; as likely a sign of ghosts as habitation.

He picked his way through the litter of moonlight and rubble. He was lost, but
he knew where he was going. Tomorrow might be the biggest day of his life, but
this last night was his alone. Ran's feet crunched the broken remains of mosaics
and stained glass, passed over bridges and through courtyards. This had once
been the wealthiest district of the city, where the barge sails were silk and
the water sellers sang bel canto. Here, Lady Jolenta would once have walked,
drawing all eyes, all dreams, all envy. Hardly anyone lived here now, just the
ancient and the insane, muttering over days of past glory. He saw two such
creatures fighting over the corpse of a cat washed up in the scum of a canal.
Opinions varied as to the reasons for the decline of the Eastern Quarter. Some
said it was no more than the drift of fashion and problems with the seadrains.