"L. Sprague De Camp - The Goblin Tower" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Camp L Sprague)

found him a great talker—too much so for his own good,
methinks, but amusing to listen to."

The Chancellor nodded absently, for the procession had now
come close enough to recognize faces. First came the royal band,
playing a dirge. Then paced the white-bearded Chief Justice of
Xylar in a long, black robe, with a golden chain about his neck.
Four halberdiers, in the midst of whom towered the king,
followed. All those near the lane through which the party
proceeded, and many in other parts of the field, sank to one knee
as the king passed them.

King Jorian was a tall, powerful young man with a ruddy skin,
deep-set black eyes, and coarse black hair that hung to his
shoulders. His face, otherwise shaven, bore a fierce mustache
that swept out like the horns of a buffalo. A prominent scar
crossed his nose—which had a small kink in it—and continued
diagonally down across his left cheek. He was stripped to his
suppers and a pair of short, silken breeches, and his wrists were
bound behind his back. A crown—a slender band of gold with a
dozen short, blunt, erect spikes—was secured to his head by a
chin strap.

Prince Vilimir murmured: "I have never seen a crown with
a—how do you say it—a strap of the chin."

"It is needed, to keep crown and head together during the
casting of the Lot of Imbal," explained Turonus. "Once, years
ago, the crown came off as the head was thrown. One man
caught the crown, another the head, and each claimed the
throne. A sanguinary civil war ensued."

After the soldiers came a small, lean, dark-brown man in a
coarse brown robe, with a bulbous white turban on his head. His
long, silky, white hair and beard blew about. A rope was wound
around his waist, and he bore a kind of satchel by a strap over
his shoulder.

"The king's spiritual adviser," said Chancellor Turonus. "It
seems hardly meet that the king of Xylar be sent off by a heathen
from Mulvan, rather than by one of our own holy priests. But
Jorian insisted, and it seemed but just to grant his last request."

"Who—how did the king come to know the fellow?" asked
Vilimir.

Turonus shrugged. "For the past year, he has entertained all
sorts of queer persons at the palace. This mountebank—your
pardon, the Holy Father Karadur—drifted in, doubtless having
fled in disgrace from his own land after having been caught in