"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 1 - The Misenchanted Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

means empty. Shelves and cabinets lined every wall, and free-standing sets of
shelves occupied much of the floor. Every shelf and cabinet was crammed to
overflowing with bottles, jars, boxes, vials, and bizarre paraphernalia. It
was obvious why the hermit had been able to identify the Spell of Sustenance
so easily.
"You're a wizard, aren't you?" Valder said. Only a wizard had any use for
such things as mummified bats and bottled organs, so far as Valder was aware.
Sorcery, witchcraft, demonology, and theurgy all had their own ceremonial
trappings, but those were not among them.
The old man glanced at the cluttered shelves as he sank into the wicker
chair. "Yes, I am," he said. "Are you?"
"No," Valder answered, "I'm just a soldier."
"You've got that spell."
"They issue that to any scout who's going out on patrol for more than a
day and a night." He looked around again, impressed by the arcane bric-a-brac.
"Sit down," the hermit said, pointing at the wooden chest. "Sit down, and
tell me what's happening in the world."
Valder's feet were tired and sore -- in fact, his entire body was tired
and sore. He settled gratefully onto the wooden trunk, allowing himself to
forget momentarily that he had no time to rest while the northerners were
after him. His boots made a wet squeaking as his weight was removed.
"Get those off," the wizard said. "I'll light a fire and you can dry them
out. And I'm hungry, even if you can't eat; I don't use that charm if I can
help it. It wears you down if you keep it going too long, you know; it can
ruin your health. If you don't think the smell will break the enchantment, I'm
going to make my dinner."
"A fire would be wonderful," Valder said, reaching down to remove his
boots. "Please don't let me interfere; you go right ahead and eat."
As he pulled off his second boot, however, he suddenly remembered his
pursuers. They might, he realized, arrive at any moment, if he had not lost
them by entering the marsh. "Ah... Wizard?" he asked, "Do you speak the
northern tongue?"
The sun had set and the light was beginning to fade; the old man was
lighting a fish-oil lamp with a flame that sprang from the tip of his finger.
When the wick was alight, he curled his finger into his palm, snuffing the
flame, and turned to look at his guest. "No," he said. "Haven't needed it.
Why?"
"Because there's a northern patrol after me. I should have told you
sooner. They spotted me four days ago and have been following ever since.
There are three of them; one's a sorcerer, and at least one is shatra."
"You led them here!" The old man's voice became a screech.
"Well, I'm not sure of that. I may have lost them. I'm hoping they
wouldn't expect me to try and cross the marsh and that their trackers, if they
have any, can't follow me across water. If you could speak their language, I
was hoping you could convince them that I'm not here; after all, this far
north, one of their people would be just as likely as one of ours, even out
here on the coast. If you hadn't spoken Ethsharitic when I hailed you, I
wouldn't have known which side you were on and I might have gone around you.
Maybe you can convince them that I did go around."
"I wish I hadn't spoken Ethsharitic! I don't know any of their speech; I