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

possibilities.
There weren't very many.
The alcove was absolutely simple, composed of three gray stone walls and
the curtain, the plank floor with betting lines chalked on it, and a beamed
wooden ceiling, black with years of smoke, that undoubtedly served as a floor
for an upstairs room. There were no doors, no windows, and no way he could
slip out. No hiding places were possible, since three wooden chairs were the
only furniture. Smoky oil lamps perched on high shelves at either end provided
what light there was, as well as the fishy aroma that combined with stale ale
in the tavern's distinctive stench.
No help was to be had in here, that was plain, nor could he hope to rally
the tavern's other patrons to his aid; he was not popular there. Gamblers who
usually win are rarely well-liked -- especially when they play for stakes so
low that they can't afford to be lavish with their winnings.
Sterren realized he would have to rely on his wits -- and those wits were
good enough that he knew he would rather not have to rely on them.
They were, however, all he had, and he had no time to waste. He flung
back one end of the curtain and pointed at the door to the street, shouting,
"There he goes! There he goes! You can still catch him if you hurry!"
Only two of the foursome paid any heed at all, and even those two treated
it only as a minor distraction, giving the door only quick glances. The two
immense soldiers did not appear to have heard him. Instead, upon seeing him,
they turned and marched heavily toward him, moving with a slow relentless
tread that reminded Sterren of the tide coming in at the docks.
The other two, the sailor and the foreign noblewoman, followed the
soldiers; the sailor flicked his forefinger, and the trail of sparks vanished.
Sterren did not bother ducking back behind the curtain; he stood and
waited.
It had been a feeble ruse, but the best he could manage on such short
notice. As often as not, similar tricks had been effective in the past; it had
certainly been worth trying.
Since it had failed, he supposed he would have to face whatever these
people wanted to do with him. He hoped it wasn't anything too unpleasant. If
they had been sent by one of his creditors he could even pay -- if they gave
him a chance before breaking his arm, or maybe his head. Even if someone
demanded interest, there was no one person he owed more than he now had.
The quartet stopped a few feet away; one of the soldiers stepped forward
and pulled aside the curtain, revealing the empty alcove.
The sailor looked at the bare walls, then at Sterren. "That was a stupid
stunt," he said in a conversational tone. His Ethsharitic had a trace of a
Shiphaven twang, but was clear enough. "Are you Sterren, son of Kelder?"
Cautiously, Sterren replied, "I might know a fellow by that name." He
noticed the tavern's few remaining patrons watching and, one by one, slipping
out the door.
The spokesman exchanged a few words with the velvet-clad woman in some
foreign language, which Sterren thought might be the Trader's Tongue heard on
the docks; the woman then spoke a brief phrase to the soldiers, and Sterren
found his arms clamped in the grasp of the two large barbarians, one on either
side. He could smell their sweat very clearly.
It was not a pleasant smell.