"George R. R. Martin - With Morning Comes Mistfall (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Sanders did nothing of .the sort. He merely sulked, glared at, us in the
castle corridors, and gave us less than full cooperation at all times.
After a while, though, he began to warm up again. Not toward Dubowski
and his men. Just toward me.
I guess that was because of my walks in the forests. Dubowski never went
out into the mists unless he had to. And then he went out reluctantly, and
came back quickly. His men followed their chief's example. I was the only
joker in the deck. But then, I wasn't really part of the same deck.
Sanders noticed, of course. He didn't miss much of what went on in his
castle. And he began to speak to me again. Civilly. One day, finally, he even
invited me for drinks again.
It was about two months into the expedition. Winter was coming to
Wraithworld and Castle Cloud, and the air was getting cold and crisp. Dubowski
and I were out on the dining balcony, lingering over coffee after another
superb meal. Sanders sat at a nearby table, talking to some tourists.
I forget what Dubowski and I were discussing. Whatever it was, Dubowski
interrupted me with a shiver at one point. "It's getting cold out here," he
complained. "Why don't we move inside?" Dubowski never liked the dining
balcony very much.
I sort of frowned. "It's not that bad," I said. "Besides, it's nearly
sunset. One of the best parts of the day."

Dubowski shivered again, and stood up. "Suit yourself," he said. "But
I'm going in. I don't feel like catching a cold just so you can watch another
mistfall."
He started to walk off. But he hadn't taken three steps before Sanders
was up out of his seat, howling like a wounded rockcat.
"Mistfall," he bellowed. "Mistfall!" He launched into a long, incoherent
string of obscenities. I had never seen Sanders so angry, not even when he
threw me out
of the bar that first night. He stood there, literally trembling with rage,
his face flushed, his fat fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
I got up in a hurry, and got between them. Dubowski turned to me,
looking baffled and scared. "Wha-" he started.
"Get inside," I interrupted. "Get up to your room. Get to the lounge.
Get somewhere. Get anywhere. But get out of here before he kills you."
"But-but-what's wrong? What happened? I don't "
"Mistfall is in the morning," I told him. "At night, at sunset, it's
mistrise. Now go."
"That's all? Why should that get him so-so-.-'
"GO!"
Dubowski shook his head, as if to say he still didn't understand what
was going on. But he went.
I turned to Sanders. "Calm down," I said. "Calm down."
He stopped trembling, but his eyes threw blaster bolts at Dubowski's
back. "Mistfall," he muttered. "Two months that bastard has been here, and he
doesn't know the difference between mistfall and mistrise."
"He's never bothered to watch either one," I said. "Things like that
don't interest him. That's his loss, though. No reason for you to get upset
about it."