"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Deathgate Cycle 4 - Serpent Mage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

But not now. No, not now.

Haplo's mouth was dry, had a foul taste in it. He swallowed, but it did no
good. He reached out his hands to the steering stone and was startled to see
his fingers tremble. Time was running out. The Lord of the Nexus would have
received his report by now. He would know that Haplo had lied to him.

"I should leave . . . now," Haplo said softly, willing himself to place his
hands on the stone.

But he was like a man who sees dreadful doom coming upon him, who knows he
must run for his life, yet who finds himself paralyzed, his limbs refusing to
obey his brain's command.

The dog growled. Its hackles rose, its eyes shifted to a point behind and
beyond Haplo.

Haplo did not look around. He had no need. He knew who stood in the doorway.

He knew it by countless signs: he'd heard no one approaching, the warning
sigla tattooed on his skin had not activated, the dog had not reacted until
the man was within arm's reach.

The animal stood its ground, ears flattened, the low growl rumbling deep in
its chest.

Haplo closed his eyes, sighed. He felt, to his surprise, a vast sense of
relief.
"Dog, go," he said.

The animal looked up at him, whimpered, begged him to reconsider.

"Get," snarled Haplo. "Go on. Beat it." The dog, whining, came to him, put its
paw on his leg. Haplo scratched behind the furry ears, rubbed his hand beneath
the jowl.

"Go. Wait outside."

Head lowered, the dog trotted slowly and reluctantly from the bridge. Haplo
heard it flop down just outside the doorway, heard it sigh, knew it was
pressed as close against the door as was possible to do and still obey its
master's command.

Haplo did not look at the man who had materialized out of the twilight shadows
inside his ship. Haplo kept his head lowered. Tense, nervous, he traced with
his finger the runes carved upon the steering stone.

He sensed, more than heard or saw, the man come near him. A hand closed over
Haplo's arm. The hand was old and gnarled, its runes a mass of hills and
valleys on the wrinkled skin. Yet the sigla were still dark and easily read,