"Sorcerer's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phyllis Eisenstein)

They passed through several villages and then, at the very edge of the great swamp, through a market town. At mid-afternoon, the market was bustling, men and women hawking everything from pigs to pots, cloth to cough remedies, and everywhere they offered the flapping, clip-winged waterfowl of the swamp. Cray and Sepwin stopped to buy a little wine to cheer their journey, but not the birds, which Cray thought he would be able to net easily enough once they were inside the swamp. As they stood sipping their first measure of wine, a vendor approached them, a bolt of fine, white gauze slung over his shoulder.

“Netting,” he chanted. “Netting for the night, netting for travelers sleeping under the stars. Netting.” He measured Cray and Sepwin with a glance. “I have enough here for a fine tent, young sirs, for you and your horses. Only two silver pieces.”

Cray waved him away. “We’ve no need of a tent.”

“If you plan to sleep in the open anywhere near this market, you’ll need one. And after sunset, there won’t be anyplace to buy it.”

“Why not?”

“Because we all go to bed at sunset, when the insects come out,” he said, “and we won’t come out from behind our nets just to keep strangers from being bitten.”

“Bitten? Well, what are a few insect bites? I’ve had my share.”

“A few, young sir?” He smiled and wagged his head. “They rise from the swamp by night, in their millions, hungry for blood. Why… a man was found dead in the swamp only last month. Stayed out past dark, hunting birds. He didn’t take any netting at all, poor fellow. His wife said he must have gotten lost.” He lifted the bundle of gauze from his shoulder and held it out to Cray. “You’d best buy, young sir, or else ride west past the hills to be safe; they don’t fly that far.”

“We came from those hills this morning,” said Cray, “so we know they don’t fly that far.

Now we are east-bound, but we won’t need your netting, thank you.”

“If you’re taking the road into the swamp, you will surely need it.”

“Again, I thank you, but we won’t need it.”

“Reconsider, young sir! The biting will drive your horses mad! And if you should escape the swamp before succumbing, the ride to the hills would be a long and terrible one. Or the walk! If your horses should bolt from their agony and leave you behind… !

Reconsider, I beg you!”

Cray drained his wine cup, and set it on the counter of the wine stall. He bowed formally to the vendor and said, “Good day to you, sir,” then walked away. Sepwin scuttled after.

At the horses, as Cray was preparing to mount, Sepwin whispered, “Don’t you believe him?”

“About the man found dead in the swamp?”

“Well, yes, that and the insects.”

Cray swung into the saddle. “There may have been a man found dead in the swamp, though possibly not from insect bites. I’m sure there are any number of deadly things in the swamp.”

“And we are going into the swamp?”

“The road crosses it. We can, too.”

Sepwin looked up at him anxiously. “Master Cray, I fear my heart fails me. At least…

buy some netting!”

Cray stared down at his companion. “Do you really believe I need some of his netting to keep me safe?”

“But… what about me?”