"P. N. Elrod - Adventures Of Myhr" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

"See ya," he said, then his dark gray eyes rolled up so only the whites showed. He took long, slow
breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He'd be meditating for hours, which he usually did
instead of sleeping. Just as well, for it meant I had the one bed to myself, and I liked to stretch out. I
wanted to crash now, but had to go to work. Midnight on the last world, noon on this one. I'd be
jet-lagged for a few days, or is that travel crystal-lagged? Oh, well, I could sleep tonight. With that
curfew thing going on it would be quiet.

Changing into my show-time look, which consisted of a clean, pirate-style white shirt with some fancy
black embroidery, polishing my boots, and fluffing my mane, I went downstairs to get started.

I was a hit in Rumpock, which happened to be the name of the city. The language spell usually translated
names to a home-Earth equivalent, but not all the time. That often gave me a clue as to what songs to
sing. What goes over well in Winnipeg can flop in L.A. You can't go wrong with the Beatles, though, so I
shamelessly, and without paying royalties, sang one after another of those songs that lent themselves toa
capella recitals. If I'd had a guitar, I could have done more, but hauling my backpack all over was as
much luggage as I wanted to carry.

Into the afternoon and early evening I sang, answered questions about my looks with jokes, invited
people inside, then sang some more and told stories. It was a good thing for me that back home I'd park
myself in front of the TV and soak up countless old movies. Retelling all those tales saved me a lot of
work making up my own. I'd spin them out with some reenactment, sometimes getting a member of the
audience up there with me to help out. That always went over well, especially when I'd doRomeo and
Juliet , because I'd try to pick out a cute, unattached girl for the other lead and feed her the lines. That
was always good for a giggle. I was careful to improve the story by always giving it a happy ending. The
one time I did it Shakespeare's way bombed totally. When it comes to dinner theater, people like a
feel-good finish to go with their dessert.

That day's take was pretty good, and Clem let me keep half the tips. Tomorrow would be even better as
word got around, he predicted. I hoped so. You can make a decent living telling stories—especially in a
society without TV, computer games, radio, or a lot of books. From what I heard and observed, this
town was definitely pre-Gutenberg, and I don't mean Steve. (I bet he spells his name different, anyway.)

Afterwards, while sharing the family's late meal, I played wide-eyed tourist with lots of questions,
learning more about the ins and outs of Rumpock. Speculation about my cat's face led around to the
topic of magic, just like I wanted. A few people in town were considered to be Talents. Whether it was
of the stage show variety or the real deal like Terrin's remained to be seen. Clem and his wife, Greta, had
only heard rumors of wonder-workings and were inclined to disbelieve them. I didn't press too hard for
information.

Terrin and I had to be careful; some places were very anal about magic, so he usually kept a low profile.
We'd hit more than one spot where wizards were the dishdu jour . Those places weren't too healthy for
me, either. Sometimes peoples' fears can be a real pain.
I trudged upstairs for a well-earned collapse, my brain pleasantly buzzed by exhaustion and Clem's own
beer. As brews went, it would go over big-time in Dallas.

Terrin was still in the middle of the floor doing his meditation thing, oblivious to my entrance. He hadn't
moved a muscle since I'd left hours ago, but I was used to that. I prefer the old-fashioned kind of spacing
out, which requires I fall into bed and check my eyelids for light leaks. Putting the candle I'd brought on a
table by the bed, I gave in to a mighty stretch, loving the muscle-creaking agony. What a day, all umpteen
hours of it.