"David Eddings. Pawn of prophecy queen of sorcery magician's gambit (The Belgariad, Part one)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"You only have one name so far," the old man explained. "In time you
may get another - or even several. Some people collect names as they go
along through their lives. Sometimes names wear out just like clothes."
"Aunt Pol calls you Old Wolf," Garion said.
"I know," the old man said. "Your Aunt Pol and I have known each other
for a very long time."
"Why does she call you that?"
"Who can say why a woman such as your Aunt does anything?"
"May I call you Mister Wolf?" Garion asked. Names were quite important
to Garion, and the fact that the old storyteller did not seem to have one
had always bothered him. That namelessness had made the old man seem
somehow incomplete, unfinished.
The old man looked at him soberly for a moment, and then he burst out
laughing.
"Mister Wolf indeed. How very appropriate. I think I like that name
better than any I've had in years."
"May I then?" Garion asked. "Call you Mister Wolf, I mean?"
"I think I'd like that, Garion. I think I'd like that very much."
"Now would you please tell me a story, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked.
The time and distance went by much faster then as Mister Wolf wove for
Garion tales of glorious adventure and dark treachery taken from those
gloomy, unending centuries of the Arendish civil wars.
"Why are the Arends like that?" Garion asked after a particularly grim
tale.
"The Arends are very noble," Wolf said, lounging back in the seat of
the cart with the reins held negligently in one hand. "Nobility is a trait
that's not always trustworthy, since it sometimes causes men to do things
for obscure reasons."
"Rundorig is an Arend," Garion said. "He sometimes seems to bewell, not
too quick of thought, if you know what I mean."
"It's the effect of all that nobility," Wolf said. "Arends spend so
much time concentrating on being noble that they don't have time to think
of other things."
They came over the crest of a long hill, and there in the next valley
lay the village of Upper Gralt. To Garion the tiny cluster of gray stone
houses with slate roofs seemed disappointingly small. Two roads, white
with thick dust, intersected there, and there were a few narrow, winding
streets besides. The houses were square and solid, but seemed almost like
toys set down in the valley below. The horizon beyond was ragged with the
mountains of eastern Sendaria, and, though it was summer, the tops of most
of the mountains were still wrapped in snow.
Their tired horse plodded down the hill toward the village, his hooves
stirring little clouds of dust with each step, and soon they were
clattering along the cobblestoned streets toward the center of the
village. The villagers, of course, were all too important to pay any
attention to an old man and a small boy in a farm cart. The women wore
gowns and high-pointed hats, and the men wore doublets and soft velvet
caps. Their expressions seemed haughty, and they looked with obvious
disdain at the few farmers in town who respectfully stood aside to let
them pass.