"Patrick Welch - Rock of Wages" - читать интересную книгу автора (Welch Patrick)

"Perhaps," I said. "But would it not be prudent to have one of your residents verify my
veracity?"
"I'll go," a lad of about nine offered. The constable nodded and we watched as he ran down
the street toward the imposing hill beyond. The constable gave me a ferret smile. "If you are
lying, we will confiscate your belongings and throw you in the stocks. Our village will greatly
enjoy the entertainment."

We waited silently, he confident, myself feigning nervousness. The townspeople started to
laugh when we saw the boy approaching. Their amusement died quickly. "It's true, it's true,"
we could hear the boy yelling well before he reached Imogen. "The giant is halfway up the
hill!"

I fought back a smile as I saw their concern and alarm grow. The constable was the first to
speak. "This is impossible! Quickly; we must see for ourselves!"
The news spread through the village like fleas. I sat patiently in my wagon while everyone in
Imogen made their way towards the hill. Let them observe, let them plan, let them panic. I let
nearly an hour pass before I urged my team forward and steered them towards the hill.
When I arrived, the villagers were congregated at the top. I joined them and looked down.
The man and his boulder were over half-way up, and while his progress was slowed, he was
still moving inexorably onward. I noticed a group of men standing by themselves, conversing
rapidly. I assumed they were the town leaders and approached.

"This is most serious," I heard one say. "What are we to do?"
I allowed them to plan ineffectively for a few minutes before speaking. "If you don't mind, I
might offer a suggestion."

The constable glared at me. "Now what do you want, thief?"
"Thief? I am no thief. I am your benefactor. Who, after all, alerted you to this looming
tragedy?"

"You are at best a charlatan."
Another interrupted our discussion. "Is this man telling the truth?"
"I doubt if it happens very often, but in this case, yes," the constable admitted.

The man, whom I recognized as the tavern owner, appraised me. "I remember you, you tried
to sell me some fake philter."

"There is nothing fake about it. However, I doubt we have the time to debate its efficacy.
Would you like my assistance or no?"
The innkeeper relented. "We are prepared to listen."

"I suggest you pour boiling oil down the hillside. It will make it impossible for him to go any
farther. Indeed it should prevent him from progressing entirely."

I watched the men confer rapidly among themselves. "That might work," the tavern keeper
said as spokesman. "But we have none."
"Fortunately I do. And for a most reasonable fee I am prepared to offer it to you."

The constable frowned. "And what would you consider reasonable?"