"Zelazny, Roger - Amber Short Story 02 - The Salesman's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

fact, I was almost sure of it, since that's where the action was. So if I wanted
to be back in action quickly I should just stay here long enough for my hand to
heal.
But really, how badly could the Pattern want me? How much would I actually
matter to it? What was I in its view? King of a minor Golden Circle realm.
Assassin of one Prince of Amber. Son of the man who had once sought to destroy
it... I winced at that, but reflected that the Pattern had let me live my entire
life up to now without reprisal for dad's actions. And my part in the current
business had been minimal. Coral had seemed its main concern, and then Merlin.
Perhaps I was being ultra-cautious. Likely, it had dismissed me from its main
considerations the moment I had vanished. Still, I wasn't going to step out of
here without that disguise.
I finished eating and sipped at the wine. And when I did step out? What
exactly would I be about then? Numerous possibilities tumbled through my mind. I
also began yawning and the sleeping bag looked very good. Lightning flashed,
blue wave through the walls. Then the thunder came, like surf. Tomorrow then.
Tomorrow I would plan... I crawled inside and got comfortable. In a moment, I
was gone.
I've no idea how long I slept. On rising, I made the rounds to establish a
security habit, ran through a vigorous routine of exercises, cleaned myself up,
then ate a leisurely breakfast. I felt better than I had the day before, and my
hand had already commenced healing. Then I sat and stared at the wall, probably
for hours. What was my best course of action?
I could rush back to Kashfa and the kingship, I could hunt after my
friends, I could simply go underground, lie low, and investigate until I learned
what was going on. It was a question of priorities. What was the most important
thing I could do for everybody concerned? I thought about it till lunchtime and
then I ate again.
Afterwards, I took up my small sketchpad and a pencil and I began recalling
a certain lady, feature by feature. I fiddled with it all afternoon, to pass the
time, though I knew I had her right. When I knocked off for dinner the next
day's activities had already taken shape in my mind.
The next morning my injury was considerably diminished, and I conjured
myself a mirror upon a smooth surface of the wall. Using an oil lamp so as not
to waste an illumination spell, I conjured that tall, dark, lean figure upon my
own form, cast those aquiline features upon my own--complete with beard--and I
looked upon my work and saw that it was good. I transformed the appearance of my
garments then, also, to keep the new me company--this latter a single spell. I'd
have to fetch real garments as soon as I could. No use wasting a high-powered
working on something that trivial. I did this all first thing, because I'd
wanted to wear the guise all day, let it soak in, see whether there were any
hidden weaknesses to my working. Then I wanted to sleep in it, for the same
reason.
That afternoon I took up the sketchpad again. I studied my pervious day's
work, then turned to a fresh page and executed a Trump. It felt exactly right.
The next morning, following the usual routine, I reviewed myself in the mirror
again, was satisfied, and mounted the ladder to emerge from the cave. It was a
damp, cool morning with a few blue breaks in the cloud cover high overhead.
Could rain again. But what the hell did I care? I was on my way out.
I reached for my pad, then paused. I was reminded of other Trumps I had