"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 3 - The Unwilling Warlord" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

THE UNWILLING WARLORD
by LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS (1989)


[VERSION 1.1 (Oct 08 03). If you find and correct errors in the text, please
update the version number by 0.1 and redistribute.]


CHAPTER 1

The dice rolled, smacked against the baseboard, then bounced back and
skittered to a stop. One showed five pips, and the other two each showed six,
clearly visible even in the flickering light of the tavern alcove.
The paunchy farmer in the greasy gray tunic stared at the dice for a
moment, then snapped his head up and glared suspiciously at his opponent. He
demanded, "Are you sure you're not cheating?" His breath carried the warm,
thick aroma of stale wine.
The thin young man, who wore a patched but clean tunic of worn blue
velvet, looked up from raking in the stakes with a carefully contrived
expression of hurt on his face. His dark brown eyes were wide with innocent
dismay.
"Me?" he said. "Me, cheating? Abran, old friend, how can you suggest such
a thing?"
He pushed the coins to one side, then smiled and said, "Still my throw?"
Abran nodded. "Make your throw, and I'll decide my wager."
The youth hesitated, but the rules did allow a losing bettor to see the
next roll before wagering again. If Abran did decide to bet, though, it would
be at two-to-one instead of even money.
That probably meant the game was over.
He shrugged, picked up the bits of bone again, and rolled them, watching
with satisfaction as the first stopped with six black specks showing, the
second seemed to balance on one corner before dropping to show another six,
and the last bounced, rebounded from the wall, spun in mid-air, and came down
with five spots on the top face.
Abran stared, then turned his head and spat on the grimy floor in
disgust. "Seventeen again?" he growled, turning back. "Sterren, if that's
really your name," he said, in a more natural tone, "I don't know what you're
doing -- maybe you're just honestly lucky, or maybe you're a magician, but
however you do it, you've won enough of my money. I give up. I'm leaving and I
hope I never see you again."
He stood, joints creaking.
An hour earlier the purse on his belt had been bulging with the proceeds
of a good harvest; now it clinked dismally, only a few coins remaining, as he
walked stiffly away.
Sterren watched him go without comment and dropped the coins of the final
wager into the purse on his own belt, which had acquired much of the bulge now
missing from Abran's.
When the farmer was out of sight he allowed himself to smile broadly. It
had been an exceptionally successful evening. The poor old fool had stuck it
out longer than any opponent in years.