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

dawn, when the enemy would all be sleeping, the best time to gamble was late
at night, when the others' minds would be clouded with too much drink and too
little sleep.

And if that seemed ungentle and unsporting, well then, that was just fine
with Kethol. He was, after all, a mercenary, serving his betters for pay, and
like the whores upstairs he tried to be as well paid for as little service as
he could manage.

So he nodded, sat down, and threw a couple of coppers in the middle of the
table, and received his placards from the dealer's heavy hands.

He was just about to make his first play when the fight broke out at the
table behind him. You would think that men who made their living fighting
would have better things to do in their time off than recreational brawling.

What was the point of it, after all? If it was practice, it was stupid
practice. Neither the Tsurani nor the Bugs nor anybody else Kethol had taken
up sword and pike against would have gone at it with bare fists if there was
something sharp or blunt or big to hit the other with. And if it was really
worth fighting over, it was worth killing over, and if that made you an
outlaw, well, Midkemia was roomy enough that you could be declared an outlaw
in more than a few places and still be able to earn a living, something that
Kethol knew from personal experience.

Usually it was about one of three things: money, a woman, or I-just-feel-
like-acting-like-an-idiot. Often it was all three.

Kethol had no idea what this fight was about, but grunts quickly turned into
shouts and shouts were followed by the meaty thunk of blows landing.

He saw something out of the corner of his eye, and ducked quickly enough to
avoid the flying chair, but the motion brought him into full contact with the
burly regular on his right, and instinctively the Mut responded with a
backhanded fist that caught Kethol high on the right cheekbone.

Lights went off in Kethol's right eye, but reflexes worked where vision
couldn't; he lowered his head and lunged, catching the Mut around the waist in
a tackle that brought both of them to the hard wooden floor. Kethol landed on
top, hoping he had knocked the wind out of the other. He bashed his fist into
the soldier's midsection, just below the ribcage, for a bit of insurance. Hope
was a fine thing, but certainty was better. He had nothing personal against
the man he was fighting, but he was used to killing people he had nothing
against, so just roughing up one didn't count. Then he slammed his knee into
the other man's groin and rolled away. This brawl was a matter of self-
protection, not anger.
 That was the thing about other people that Kethol never had understood:
other people - even Pirojil and Durine - often got angry during a fight,
letting their anger fuel them. For Kethol, it was all a matter of doing what
you needed to. You got angry over other things - cruelty, or cheating, or