"Christopher Stasheff - Rogue Wizard 06 - A Wizard in Chaos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)

drivers plucked an arrow from his quiver and nocked it in one smooth motion
while the other drivers swung their bows around from their backs and strung
them.
"Peace, peace!" Gar held up his hands. "I'm no bandit! My name is Gar Pike, and
I'm a mercenary looking for honest work!"
"What did you say?" The merchant frowned. "Oh--'honest work.' I can scarcely
understand you, your accent's so thick."
He wouldn't have understood Gar at all, a week before. The local dialect had
drifted so far from Galactic Standard that Gar had taken quite a while puzzling
out the vowel shifts, wandering through markets and sitting in taverns
listening, then trying a halting imitation of their words. Now he could at least
be understood.
The spear and bow held steady, and the rest of the drivers nocked arrows and
drew.
"A soldier for hire?" The merchant frowned with suspicion. He was lean and tall,
as these people went, looking hard enough to be a bandit himself, though his
tunic and leggins were of broadcloth instead of homespun, with a sleeveless,
knee-length robe over them. His colors were all brown and green, the better to
blend into the forest around him. "How can we be sure you're honest, not some
bandit sent to strike from inside while your mates attack? What proof can you
give?"
"No proof at all," Gar said cheerfully, "except for this letter." He had tucked
the rolled parchment into the collar of his tunic, where they could see it
easily; now he drew it out slowly and tossed it to the merchant. The man caught
it and unrolled it, frowning as he studied it.
Gar studied him in return. He'd been surprised to see anything resembling a
merchant in such a war-torn country, but he couldn't think what else a commoner
with a string of mules loaded with huge packs might be, especially since he was
dressed a bit better than his helpers. A merchant had to look prosperous, after
all, or no one would have confidence in the goods he sold. With the warlords
constantly battling each other, trade should have been very risky indeed-a
merchant could never know when a band of. soldiers would descend on him to
confiscate his gods. He guessed that this man, and the few others like him, must
have become very good at finding out where the battles were, and planning routes
that kept them far from the skirmishes.
"I can scarcely make out these words," the merchant complained.
"It comes from very far away," Gar explained. It did-about fifty light-years.
"They don't speak the language the way you do here."
"Hardly the same language at all," the merchant grumbled.
One more strike against the possibility of any sort of law or order on this
planet. A strong government would have tried to keep things from changing too
much, and words would take on new forms very slowly if at all. The fact that
Galactic Standard had evolved into a local dialect whose speakers could scarcely
understand its parent language meant there wasn't anything to put the brakes on
the headlong rush into confusion.
"Never heard of this Paolo Braccalese,". the merchant grumbled.
"As I say, he's very far away," Gar told him. "But he speaks well of you." The
merchant rolled up the parchment with sudden decision and thrust it back at Gar.
"And we can surely use someone of your size. All right, you're hired. I'm Ralke,
and I'm your master now-but if you betray as, you'll be looking for some new