"Andrew J. Offutt - Cormac 02 - The Tower of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

His name was Syagrius. Consul Syagrius; King Syagrius.
He no more approved of pirate forays along his shores than did Alaric of Toulouse.
For this reason, Wulfhere took his galley up the Loire with secretive care, and anchored her two miles from
the city. The plunder was loaded into a fishing boat he had paid for, grudgingly, as he was robber by
profession. It was CormacтАЩs advice, crafty and well-reasoned as usual, to do this remarkable thing. It was
certain as aught could be that the fisherman who received their coins would not run bleating to the law. The
law would question him by increasingly strong methods as a matter of course. That was assurance enow of
his shut mouth, and less like to attract attention than his death or disappearance.
In darkness the fishing boat came to the waterfront of Nantes.
Its precious load was covered with sacking and old fish-nets. The three who rode in it wore long enveloping
cloaks of coarse wool, under which they carried their helmets. One was a flame-haired giant; another was
dark, scarred and leanly muscular; the third likewise black-haired, the single Dane of such colouring in
WulfhereтАЩs crew. Black Thorfinn, he was named.
They moored the boat before a dockside warehouse. One end of it had been made into living quarters and a
grog-shop, where any might come and go with a ready excuse, if not always without suspicion.
Wulfhere and Cormac were too striking to show themselves even in such a place, and made their way to a
less public door. There they knocked in a certain rhythm. A balding Gallo-Roman in stained tunic came to let
them in. He did not look at all a financial match for Philip or Desiderius Crispus, which was as he liked it.
тАЬCormac,тАЭ he said in greeting. тАЬSkull-splitter.тАЭ
тАЬOur very selves. And Thorfinn yeтАЩll not be knowing.
He has no word of Latin, Balsus, but give him to drink and he will not pine for conversation. HeтАЩs here to help
with our load.тАЭ
More than that, he provided excuse for them to talk among themselves in Danish if they wished. The
advantage was that Balsus Ammian would comprehend not a word. CormacтАЩs early life had not left him a
trusting man.
тАЬPlunder,тАЭ the merchant said, closing the door and replacing the bar. He found the word about as enticing as
gout, to hear him, but his dark eyes gleamed. тАЬIt is a bad time for trade, Captain, but aye, we can discuss it.тАЭ
To the brutal-faced hulk attending him he said, тАЬBack to your bouncing, and tell Clodia we have guests
warranting our best. Hungry, thirsty guests new from a sea voyage.тАЭ
The chucker-outтАЩs nose had told him as much. With a grunt, he went through to the grog-shop, whence were
borne odours of sausage, ale, wine, tar and sweat on gusts of argument, laughter, bawdry and alleged song.
Balsus led the way up creaking stairs to a room hung with cheap tapestry and rugged with sheepskins. Its
odour was musty, but the pirates had sat in far worse. The lamps Balsus lit from his candle, puffing, burned
scented oil. Cormac wondered idly how much could be got from rendering their host, and him wheezing like a
walrus ashore after a rise of stairs...
They threw off their wadmal cloaks, and seated themselves with a creak and chime of battle-harness. The
chairs held firm, even WulfhereтАЩs. They had been in this house erenow.
тАЬWell, Captain,тАЭ Balsus said, тАЬIтАЩd never ask youтАФno, no, far from me the thoughtтАФto talk business neither
drunk nor dined. You are famished, not so?тАЭ
A nod from Cormac and a vehement rumble of WulfhereтАЩs belly assured him it was.
тАЬBut a hint, an intimation while you eatтАФperchance a sample?тАЭ The hand of Balsus flashed in air, fingers
partway curled into graspy claws.
Cormac, who yet carried his helmet in the crook of his arm, produced from it a wooden casket, and
something else. That something glinted in the lamplight with gold and lapis lazuli and breathtaking jewellerтАЩs
art.
It certainly took their fenceтАЩs breath, and his face showed agony at the need to handle it casually. The bauble
dangled, turning on its fine chain, from his graceless fingers, the sigil of a writhing winged serpent. His skin
seemed to tingle at its nearness. It had not the look of mere ornament, though it was that, and wrought by a
master; it impressed as a formal talisman.
Might it be? Cormac, watched him closely.