"Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legends - Murder In LaMut" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

nearby - Kethol was never sure if there was some magic involved, but it was
consistently better than any humans brewed - it was clear that the local human
brewers had only one mandate: make the beer as cheaply as possible, treating
such things as good barley, unrotted hops, and washing out the vats in between
batches as unnecessary fripperies. So when someone else bought, Kethol ordered
dwarven ale; when he paid for it himself, he took the cheap stuff. It wasn't
as if he was going to drink a lot of it, after all. He was only going to look
as if he was drinking a lot of it.

It was an investment, as Pirojil would say. A small investment to make his
opponent think him slightly in his cups, perhaps not as attentive to the game
as he might be. A sip now and again, spilling most of the vile brew on the
floor from time to time, and when he sat down to gamble, several empty ale
jacks would testify to his being ready to be taken in a game. Then he could
indulge in some serious gambling. Yes, it was an investment.

As much of an investment as their three swords. Blades that would chop
through leather and flesh and into bone rather than chip and bend had proven
their worth more than once. Saving money was a good thing, but just about the
worst place Kethol could think of for economies was in the tools of the trade.

In his mind's eye, he could still see the widened eyes of the Tsurani whose
blade had shattered on his shield, moments before he had slid his own sharp
point under the enemy's arm, and into the soft juncture under the armpit that
was protected on the sides by the pauldrons. He didn't have anything personal
against the Tsurani, but then he had never had a personal grudge against any
but a small percentage of the men he had killed. Besides, he had a lot in
common with the Tsurani - they had invaded Midkemia for metal, so the strange
story went, and a man who made his living killing with steel to earn gold and
silver could understand that. If Kethol had a choice of metals, he would
choose steel ten times out of ten - steel, in his experience, could get you
gold more reliably than gold could get you steel. Besides, his skills were
useful here.
 Blending into the scenery was a skill that a man who had started life as a
forester's son could use on other grounds, as well.

The trick was not to overdo it, not to try to be too local, and be spotted
as a phoney, arousing suspicion. Just add a little of the thick accent, throw
in an occasional use of the local flick of the fingers that meant never-mind-
it's-not-important, taking care to be friendly and smiling but not trying to
be too comradely, and they wouldn't even notice that they barely noticed him.

It had worked when he was fist-boxing in that small village outside of Rodez
- before Pirojil had killed that annoying little sergeant, and the three of
them had to take to their heels, again - and it worked when he was learning
how to roll dice in Northwarden.

Just learn the game, learn how to blend in, and be sober while seeming less
than sober, and they would only notice that he had beaten them after it was
accomplished and he was gone. Somebody had to win, after all. Why not Kethol?