"DeChancie,.John.-.Castle.07.-.Castle.Spellbound" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dechancie John)

"Sorry, that one I have to handle myself. Still interested?"
Trent took a long drink, then said, "Yes. Yes, I think I am.
"I'll have my operational staff brief you in the morning. Okay?"
"Okay. And thanks, Inky-
"You look like you need something to get the blood rushing. Besides, you're getting a paunch."
Sheila shook her head. "You two keep talking as though he's going to be fighting this war."
Trent pulled his wife closer. "Woman, you are not to worry, hear? This is strictly a desk job. Right, Inky?"
"Right."
"Though I might have to pay a few visits to this world to get the feel of things," Trent dissembled.
"He won't have to go anywhere near the actual fracas," Incarnadine lied blackly.
"Right."
"Well, okay," Sheila said dubiously.
A band struck up a Caribbean beat. Couples took to dancing.
"Let's dance," Sheila said, dragging her husband away.
"Sure. See you later, Inky."
"Have a good time."
The king slurped up the last of his Slammer and turned back to the bar.
"I think I will try a Kamikaze."
"You're quite sure, my liege lord?"
"Banzai!"





?KING'S TOWER - CELLAR

THORSBY TOOK ANOTHER PULL On the bottle of cooking sherry and put a foot up on the old carved table at which he sat. He belched loudly.
Not far away, Fetchen swept the floor desultorily, pushing dust back and forth.
"You missed a spot," Thorsby told him, pointing.
"Up yours," Fetchen said pleasantly.
Thorsby laughed. Then he yawned. "I never seem to get enough sleep," he complained. "Think I might bed down on that old settee over there, catch a wink."
"You could sweep just a little." Thorsby looked around. "Well, there's only one broom, isn't there?"
"Now that's a fix." Fetchen threw the broom at him.
Grinning, Thorsby caught it neatly and laid it aside. "Sit down," he said. "Take a load off."
Fetchen came over and snagged the bottle from him. "You've just about drunk the whole bloody thing."
"Wasn't much left."
Fetchen guzzled the dregs of the sherry and tossed the bottle among some heaped rags and boxes in a corner.
"Look at him making a filthy mess."
Fetchen glanced around at the piles of crates, stacks of musty books, battered antique furniture, and other junk. "What are you puling about?"
Thorsby belched again. Then he farted.
"First intelligent comment we've had out of you all day."
"Shut your hole. I need a drink."
"That sherry's bleeding awful."
"Yes, quite. Let's conjure something."
"You do awful stuff. Undrinkable."
"Well, it's alcohol, isn't it?"
"Marsh water."
"You do it, then." Fetchen scowled.
Thorsby chuckled. "Not so easy, eh? Food magic's hard enough, but drink magic-well, now."