"Patrick Welch - Statue of Limitations" - читать интересную книгу автора (Welch Patrick)

beautiful."

"Then I shall return on the morrow," I returned his smile. "Traveling all this way, I would certainly not
want to miss that."
He nodded. "That is what they all say, and most delighted they are when they witness the holy event.
Praised be Our Sister."

Later that evening I relaxed in one of the inns. Crowded it was, and not just with the residents. Clothing
and accents told me that most of the patrons were from elsewhere. Which meant something in Cardinaul
had attracted them and I was confident the Weeping Nun was the reason. I considered my options. Now
I knew why the Guild was cautious about the contract; outright theft was impossible. It would take a
team of men, equipment and horses to haul it away. And what use would the statue be to Harjung? Once
it was discovered, the good citizens of Cardinaul would demand its return. After another hour of
consideration I could come to only one conclusion: the citizens of Cardinaul must give me the Weeping
Nun.


The growing din from outside woke me much earlier than I desired. I looked down from my room and
saw a crowd amassing near the statue. If I hurried I could probably still find a good place to stand.
Instead I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and left the inn well before noon.

By now the village square was bursting with the curious and the faithful, and I tingled with greed as I
made my way amongst them. If I wasn't under contract, I could have easily come into possession of a
wealth of jewelry and purses. Since I was, I could only admire and sigh in frustration.

I noticed a group of red-robed men standing off to one side, gathered near the moat. They were engaged
in casual conversation, ignoring the growingly-impatient crowd around them. I also noticed that it was
getting increasingly warm and uncomfortable, that some among me had neglected to bathe, that flies were
beginning to gather. If something didn't happen soon, I was going to have to return to the inn and relieve
myself.

Suddenly trumpets blared from behind us. Everyone hushed as the men in robes made an arc near the
statue. I turned and saw the crowd parting as another group of brightly-clad men started a procession to
the statue. The leader was an old man wearing a tall white hat and carried a golden staff; his retinue were
clad in the same red robes as the men now standing at the moat. No one said a word as they made their
slow way to the Weeping Nun. The leader turned and stepped forward, his followers fanning out behind
him. Then they stood silent and waited.

The crowd was waiting as well, as silent and still as well-behaved schoolchildren. And waited and
waited. I noticed a drop of sweat on the end of my nose and began to wonder when it would fall when I
felt a slight tremor.

It wasn't my imagination or my breakfast. The leader suddenly raised his staff, then abruptly turned and
pointed it at the statue. And the crowd gasped and screamed as the statue suddenly began to weep.

It only lasted a minute, but there was no question. Water streamed from her eyes, down her robes, into
the moat below. The crowd was silent throughout the spectacle, then broke into cheers and tears. Their
work done, the robed entourage made their slow way back through the rapidly dispersing crowd. I
lingered, watching as the faithful approached the moat, knelt before it and prayed. I was growing
impatient when the last of the pilgrims finally left, leaving only a small group of the robed men to remove