"K. D. Wentworth - Hallah Iron-Thighs and the Hall of the Puppet King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

we'll bite."
Zimbolini looked pained. It wasn't the last time.
***
Unfortunately, the journey to Bamffle proved endless. Mounted on a placid mule, Prime Counselor
Zimbolini seemed to have no sense of direction at all, leading us first up one road, then down another, so
that we kept crisscrossing the countryside.
The fourth time we forded the River Vallat, Gerta balked and jumped off her gray gelding, Slasher.
"I think you're just trying to get us alone so you can have your way with us," she told Zimbolini, then
grinned ferally and drew her dagger. "Well, come ahead! It might just be your lucky day!"
He paled, then patted his forehead with a white lawn handkerchief. "Nothing could be farther from
my mind."
Gerta looked baffled and her dagger sagged.
I crossed my hands on the pommel of my saddle. "You know," I said, "I don't think the Prime
Counselor finds us appealing."
Her blue eyes widened. "You mean he's a sissy?"
"Got it right the first time." I winked at Zimbolini.
Rigid with indignation, he kicked his mule into a plod.
"Let's kill him," Gerta said that evening as Zimbolini laid out his red satin bedroll, then tied his beard
up in curling papers. "I haven't killed anyone all week, and I don't believe he knows the route anyway.
He keeps muttering 'it has to be around here somewhere.' We could say bandits did him in."
"There aren't any bandits," I said. "They're all down at the seaside right now, plotting out ambush
scenarios in the sand."
"The king doesn't know that," she said, "or he wouldn't have hired us."
She had a point, but I refusedтАФfor the moment. There might, after all, be some gold in this deal,
and the Mercenary Code recommends that you never kill a client before he pays.
The next morning, when I roused Gerta, she sat up and blinked groggily at the tree line. The sun
was just rising and the sky was an annoyingly cheerful orange-pink. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"That mountain wasn't there yesterday."
I glanced at a single majestic peak in the distance, grey granite interspersed with alpine meadows,
the odd stream cascading off the rocks here and there. I must have been more tired than I thought the
night before. I hadn't noticed the damned thing either. "Oh, so I suppose it's following us."
"Not necessarily," she said. Her face brightened. "Maybe we're going in circles."
"Never mind," I said. "I'll watch the trail. You just keep an eye on that mountain. It's probably up to
no good."
The curling papers in the royal messenger's beard crinkled as he turned over in his bedroll, groaned,
then sat up and gazed fixedly over our shoulders. "Well, finally!"
"What?"
"Mount Bleer." He pulled the papers out of his beard. "The ancestral seat of Bamfflian royalty.
Keep your voice down orтАФ"
Gerta frowned. "Or what, squishy little toad-man?"
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Or it will get away."
My hand went to Esmeralda's hilt. "Are you having us on?"
"No, I swear!" He bit his lip. "Due to certain extenuating circumstances, Mount Bleer is
quiteтАФelusive these days."
I stared moodily at the mountain. It seemed farther away than just a few minutes ago.
 "See?" he said. "It's heard us. We'd better hurry!"
"Let me get this straight," I said, as Gerta buckled on her sword. "We're chasing a sodding
mountain?"
"I'm afraid so," Zimbolini said as he saddled his mule. "Our court magician is quite incompetent. His
spells rarely go right, such as this one, which was supposed to protect us from invasion. The wretch