"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 17 - Prison of Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

hundred died on Craig. The details? What do they matter?"

"Even so, brother, I would like to know."

For a moment the mercenary hesitated then, shrugging, said, "It's the old story; two men snarling at each
other over a strip of land on a world not worth a woman's spit. Each turned to force and hired men. A
minor war and dangerous only to those involved. Or so it should have been but accidents happen. And
the locals were stubborn and refused to evacuate their villages."

And so they had died in blossoms of flame as shells had burst in crude houses and fragmentation bombs
had torn air and flesh with whining shards of metal. An old story and one common on Ilyard where men
came to talk and rest and seek employment. Common too on worlds cursed with ambitious rulers who
thought of men as pawns to be used in a complicated game.

"Craig," said the monk. "You said that was the name of the world?"

"Yes. One lying on the edge of the Rift. A bleak place of rock and water and cold. A world where the
rich burn turf to keep warm and the poor huddle together. But one the wealthier now for the bodies of
good men fertilizing the soil."

"But you are not one of them, brother," reminded the monk and lifted his empty bowl a little. "Those who
give to the poor often enjoy good fortune."

A direct appeal to the superstition inherent in all gamblers, and what was a mercenary but a man who
gambled with his life? Yet the monk felt no pride of achievement as Gartok plunged a hand into a pocket.
Trained in the art of psychology it was simple for him to manipulate the emotional triggers which all men
carried and to which they could not help but to respond. And the mercenary, like all his breed, must have
inner weaknesses, hidden guilts, invisible cracks in his external armor of competence.

As he threw coins into the bowl Gartok said, "It's all I can give, monk. If it isn't enough to buy a blessing
at least spare me your curse."

"I curse no one, brother."

"Then you are more saint than man. I curse people often. Captain Blasco who has a taste for killing. The
fool who hired us. The swine whoтАФwell, never mind. What is done is done and what point to dwell in
the past? But you, Brother, have you any news?" Then, as the monk made no reply, "I forgot, you do not
trade in war. But at least tell me thisтАФhave any persons of consequence and wealth arrived recently?
High lords with ambition and money to hire men?" His eyes narrowed as they searched the old face. Like
the monk he had a knowledge of psychology but could read nothing. Then a flicker of the eyes gave him
a clue. "They have? You do not deny it? Good. Fortune could be smiling on me at last Where are they
staying?"

"You can find out where, brother," said the monk. "As you say, I do not trade in war."

***

He shivered a little as the mercenary strode away, the wind was increasing and its chill numbed skin and
bone. He could barely feel the bowl in his hands and his feet were like blocks of wood yet he welcomed
the discomfort as a reminder of times past when, as a young man newly taken into the Church, he had