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

floor.
Ten minutes later he was studying a copper bit, trying to decide whether
it had been clipped or not, when he heard a disturbance of some sort in the
front of the tavern. It was probably nothing to do with him, he told himself;
but, just in case, he swept his money back into the purse. The clipped coin --
if it was clipped -- didn't really matter; even without it he had done better
than he had realized and had enough to pay his bills with a little left over.
Only a very little bit left over, unfortunately -- not quite enough for a
decent meal. He would be starting with a clean slate, though.
The disturbance was continuing; loud voices were audible and not all of
them were speaking Ethsharitic. He decided that the situation deserved
investigation and he peered cautiously around the end of the curtain.
A very odd group was arguing with the innkeeper. There were four of them,
none of whom Sterren recalled having seen before. Two were huge, hulking men
clad in heavy steel-studded leather tunics and blood-red kilts of barbarous
cut, with unadorned steel helmets on their black-haired heads and swords
hanging from broad leather belts -- obviously foreigners, to be dressed so
tackily, and probably soldiers of some kind, but certainly not in the city
guard. The kilts might possibly have been city issue -- though if so, some
clothier had swindled the overlord's officers -- but the helmets and tunics
and belts were all wrong. Both of the men were tanned a dark brown, which
implied that they were from some more southerly clime -- somewhere in the
Small Kingdoms, no doubt.
A third man was short and stocky, brown haired and lightly tanned, clad
in the simple bleached cotton tunic and blue woolen kilt of a sailor, with
nothing to mark him as either foreign or local; it was he who was doing most
of the shouting. One of his hands was clamped onto the front of the
innkeeper's tunic. The other was raised in a gesture that was apparently
magical, since a thin trail of pink sparks dripped from his raised forefinger.
The group's final member was a woman, tall and aristocratic, clad in a
gown of fine green velvet embroidered in gold. Her black hair was trimmed and
curled in a style that had gone out of favor years ago, and that, added to the
shoddy workmanship of the embroidery and her dusky complexion, marked her as
just as much of a foreign barbarian as the two soldiers.
"Where is he?" The sailor's final bellow reached Sterren's ears quite
plainly. The innkeeper's reply did not, but the finger pointing toward the
curtained alcove -- toward Sterren -- was unmistakable.
That was a shock. It was obvious that the foursome meant no good for
whomever they sought, and it appeared they sought him. He did not recognize
any of them, but it was possible that he had won money from one or all of them
in the past, or perhaps they were relatives of some poor fool he had fleeced,
come to avenge the family honor.
He tried to remember if he had won anything from any barbarians lately;
usually he avoided them, since they were reputed to have violent tempers, and
the World was full of gullible farmers. He did not recall playing against any
barbarians since Festival, and surely nobody would begrudge anything short of
violence that had happened during Festival!
Perhaps they were hired, then. In any case, Sterren did not care to meet
them.
He ducked back behind the curtain and looked about, considering