"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 4 - The Blood of a Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

finally took their bows and the crowd called out polite applause.
As they were marching down through the stone corridors, on their way back to
the street, the elder Doran remarked, "Well, Dumery, I hope you enjoyed that.
Seemed like a good way to mark your birthday."
Dumery nodded, not really listening, and totally unaware of the annoyed look
his lack of enthusiasm received.
"WhenI turned twelve," his father continued a moment later, "I didn't get any
trip to the Arena, let me tell you! I spent the day in the hold of a ship,
cleaning up the mess where a storm at sea had broken open a dozen crates of
pottery and herbs."
Dumery nodded. "You own that ship now," he pointed out. He had heard the story
before-several times, in fact.
"Damn right I do!" Doran replied. "I was lucky, and I worked hard for it, and
the gods blessed me-I own that ship. And if she's still afloat when I die,
she'll go to your brother Doran, becausehe was lucky, and was born into the
right household. You boys don't appreciate what you've got, because you've
always had it, you didn't have to work for it."
"I appreciate it, Dad," Derath interrupted.
"No, you don't," the elder Doran snapped. "Maybe you think you do, but you
don't really, because you've never been poor. Your mother and I saw to that!"
Derath and Doran the Younger exchanged glances.
"You've never had to work for anything in your lives," their father continued,
and Dumery wondered whether he was complaining, or boasting, or both.
They reached the street and turned north in the golden twilight, joining the
loose-packed throng that was strolling up Arena Street, a hundred sandals
slapping the hard-packed dirt in a patter like falling rain. Shopkeepers were
lighting their storefront torches, and the familiar, friendly scent of burning
oil reached Dumery's nose. As a rule he never noticed the city's ubiquitous
odor, which had been a constant in his life since the day he was born, but the
smoky smell of the torches seemed to emphasize that distinctive mingling of
spices and ordure that always flavored Ethshar's air. As he remembered the
wizard's performance, the fading light and that complex odor suddenly seemed
magical, transforming the familiar avenue into something exotic and wonderful.
"Never worked a day, any of you," his father muttered suddenly, breaking the
spell cast by the sunset and smoke.
"Andthey never will!" Dumery said, annoyed, jerking a thumb at his brothers.
Doran of Shiphaven looked at him, startled, then back at Doran and Derath, and
then at Dumery again.
"No, they won't," he agreed. "And I don't suppose Dessa will, either, if she's
careful."
Dessa threw him a startled glance, but then went back to watching the shops as
they passed, ignoring the rest of the conversation.
"Just me," Dumery said, trying to sound flippant, rather than resentful.
"Well," his father said, "I don't know. We could find you a way out of
working, I'm sure."
"Oh? Like what?" Dumery replied, making less of an effort to hide his
bitterness. "Doran's getting the ships, and Derath's getting the money, and
Dessa's getting the house-what do I get, if not an apprenticeship fee? What
else is left? And every apprentice I ever heard of works hard enough!"
"Maybe we could dower you..." Doran began.