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

"They're very fine, aren't they?" Garion observed.
"They seem to think so," Wolf said, his expression faintly amused. "I
think it's time that we found something to eat, don't you?"
Though he had not realized it until the old man mentioned it, Garion
was suddenly ravenous. "Where will we go?" he asked. "They all seem so
splendid. Would any of them let strangers sit at their tables?"
Wolf laughed and shook a jingling purse at his waist. "We should have
no trouble making acquaintances," he said. "There are places where one may
buy food."
Buy food? Garion had never heard of such a thing before. Anyone who
appeared at Faldor's gate at mealtime was invited to the table as a matter
of course. The world of the villagers was obviously very different from
the world of Faldor's farm.
"But I don't have any money," he objected.
"I've enough for us both," Wolf assured him, stopping their horse
before a large, low building with a sign bearing a picture of a cluster of
grapes hanging just above its door. There were words on the sign, but of
course Garion could not read them.
"What do the words say, Mister Wolf?" he asked.
"They say that food and drink may be bought inside," Wolf told him,
getting down from the cart.
"It must be a fine thing to be able to read," Garion said wistfully.
The old man looked at him, seemingly surprised. "You can't read, boy?" he
asked incredulously.
"I've never found anyone to teach me," Garion said. "Faldor reads, I
think, but no one else at the farm knows how."
"Nonsense," Wolf snorted. "I'll speak to your Aunt about it. She's been
neglecting her responsibility. She should have taught you years ago."
"Can Aunt Pol read?" Garion asked, stunned.
"Of course she can," Wolf said, leading the way into the tavern. "She
says she finds little advantage in it, but she and I had that particular
argument out, many years ago." The old man seemed quite upset by Garion's
lack of education.
Garion, however, was far too interested in the smoky interior of the
tavern to pay much attention. The room was large and dark with a low,
beamed ceiling and a stone floor strewn with rushes. Though it was not
cold, a fire burned in a stone pit in the center of the room, and the
smoke rose errantly toward a chimney set above it on four square stone
pillars. Tallow candles guttered in clay dishes on several of the long,
stained tables, and there was a reek of wine and stale beer in the air.
"What have you to eat?" Wolf demanded of a sour, unshaven man wearing a
grease-spotted apron.
"We've a bit of a joint left," the man said, pointing at a spit resting
to one side of the fire pit. "Roasted only day before yesterday. And meat
porridge fresh yesterday morning, and bread no more than a week old."
"Very well," Wolf said, sitting down. "And I'll have a pot of your best
ale and milk for the boy."
"Milk?" Garion protested.
"Milk," Wolf said firmly.
"You have money?" the sour-looking man demanded.