"Mary Kirchoff. Kendermore ("Dragonlance Preludes I" #2) (angl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

waiting for my next visit, though!" Tasslehoff pushed his empty mug to
the edge of the table for refilling.

Flint's eyes twinkled merrily under his bushy, grayblack brows.
"I'll bet they've been waiting! And I'll bet they've kept busy, too,
working on kender-proof door locks!" Beneath his huge bulb of a nose
and wild, peppery moustache, the old dwarf's mouth opened wide with
laughter, setting his fleshy cheeks to jiggling. Even Tanis, ever the
peacemaker, could not help smirking behind his hand.

"Oh, do you think so, really?" Tasslehoff cried earnestly. As he
smiled, his young face broke into a thousand tiny, spreading creases,
like a shattered pane of stained glass. Facial wrinkles were a
characteristic shared by all kender, which made it very difficult to
accurately guess a kender's age. "Most locks nowadays are so flimsy -
no protection at all! I don't know how anyone expects to keep anything
safe anymore."

"No one does if kender are about," Flint snorted under his
breath. He could tell from Tanis's warning glance that the elf's sharp
ears had caught his words. Tanis liked to defend the kender against
Flint's gratuitous insults, even if Tas was never in the least truly
offended.

Two of Flint's fingers, tightly pressed together, disappeared
under his moplike moustache, and he blew a loud, sharp whistle. The
inn was not busy, so in no time the innkeeper's adopted daughter
appeared. She was a rosy-cheeked girl with eager eyes and
short-cropped, dark, curly hair. Though a slight breeze blew through
large cracks in the inn's few arched, stained-glass windows - in a few
weeks they would be doubly covered with oiled parchment to keep out
the winter - the weather on this day was unseasonably warm for early
fall. Flint called it "summer's last dance." Coupled with the heat
from the ever-present fire in the hearth, the heavy air had pasted the
girl's hair to her forehead and moistened her coarse, graying tunic to
her back.

"Yes, sir?" she inquired eagerly. Her voice carried none of the
weariness so common among seasoned serving wenches. In a few years,
Flint thought sadly, when the impertinence and unwanted attentions of
too many men wore her down...

"Tika, isn't it?" he asked, and she nodded. Flint smiled
encouragingly. "Then, Tika, I need two more -" Tanis quickly drained
the last of his own mug and pushed it forward. "- make that three more
mugs of Otik's fine ale," Flint corrected himself. "On me."

"Very good, sir." Tika's willowy form bobbed once, then darted
skillfully through the closely spaced tables to the bar.