"Rosenberg,.Joel.-.Guardians.Of.The.Flame.06.&.07.-.To.Home.And.Ehvenor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

My name is Walter Slovotsky.
As near as I can figure, I should be turning forty-three in the next tenday or so, and maybe it's time I
grew up. I've spent the past couple of decades as, variously, a hero, a trader, a farming consultant, a
thief, and a Jeffersonian political fanatic. Oh. And a killer. Both retail and wholesale. I'm sort of a jack of
all trades.
In addition, I've managed to father two daughters (that I know of; I, er, get around a bit), generate a few
hundred interesting aphorisms, and sleep with an even more interesting variety of women than I did in
college (see above), including my second-best-friend's wife-to-be (we weren't all that friendly at the time.
When he found out about it he almost killed me, but we all ended up as friends) and, some years later, his
adopted daughter (he never found out about it; I'm not sure how that turned out, not yet).
But here I am, getting on in years, about to make some major changes in my life, and I thought I'd do it
this way. May as well start with food.
Food's an important part of my life.
* * *

The early morning crowd, plus me, was gathering for breakfast.
Settling into a new castle makes for long hours and hefty appetites. I've always had the latter, anyway,
hangover or no.
"Please pass the bacon," I said. I don't miss the taste of nitrites; they do good things with smoking pig
parts in Bieme. Just the thought of beans and hocks, Biemestren style, makes my mouth water.
"In a hurry?" Jason Cullinane gestured with an eating prong. "Father used to say that death is always
willing to wait until after breakfast." He looked disgustingly fresh for this pre-goddamn-dawn hour of the
morning: face washed, dark brown hair damp and combed back, eyes bright. I wouldn't have been
surprised if he sprouted a bushy tail.
My mouth tasted of bile and stale whiskey, and my head ached. I'd had a bit too much to drink the night
before, but only a bit, I decided: my head was only thumping, not pounding.
It's a sin to let good food go to waste, and I like to pick my sins carefully—I chomped into a thick piece
of ham, then washed it down with a swallow of milk from a glazed mug. The milk was fresh, but not
nearly cold enough. Milk should be cold enough to make your teeth hurt.
"Kid," I said, "your father stole that line from me. Like most of his good ones."
I was rewarded with a flash of teeth, the sort of smile that his father used to have.
Despite the tenday's growth of beard darkening his cheek and chin, it was hard to think of him as an
adult. He looked so damn young.
His gaze went distant, as though he was thinking about something, and just for a moment a flash of the
other side of his father crossed his face, and there was something distant and cold in his expression. But
the moment passed, and he looked about fifteen again, even though he was a couple of years older.
Good kid.
Jason Cullinane favored his mother, mainly. I could see Andrea's genes in his cheekbones and the
widow's peak, and in the warm dark eyes. But there was more than a little of Karl Cullinane visible—in
the set of his chin and shoulders, mainly. I'd say that it frightened me, sometimes, but everybody knows
that the great Walter Slovotsky doesn't frighten.
Which only goes to show that everybody doesn't know a whole lot.
"The bacon?" I gestured at the platter.
Tennetty finally passed it. "What's the hurry this morning?"
"Who said there's a hurry? I'm hungry."
The first time I'd seen Tennetty, years ago, when Karl and I were running a team of Home raiders, she
had just staggered out of a slave wagon, a plain skinny woman of the sort your eye tends to skip over.
No character lines in her face, no interesting scars.
Even from such a start, Tennetty hadn't worn well as the years had gone by; her bony face sagged in the