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

incompetence or waste -not combat.

A few miscellaneous blows landed on his back and legs as he rose to a crouch
- the wildly flailing feet of two other combatants as they rolled about the
ground - but they didn't slow him down, and at least no knives or swords had
come out, not yet. It was just a tavern fight, after all, and it was unlikely
that, even drunk, the soldiers would escalate it into something more.

Off in the distance, somebody was ringing an alarm bell frantically. Most
likely the tavernkeeper, calling for the Watch, for the alarm bell was quickly
echoed by the Watch whistles. Clearly the Watch had been nearby, supplemented
by a squad of regulars assigned from the garrison for the purpose of keeping
order in the city. The Earl of LaMut might be young and new to his position,
but it would be no surprise to him or his captains that garrisoned soldiers
tended to fight with each other when they couldn't find anything else to do,
and the best of the Kingdom nobility were used to accepting and dealing with
the inevitable.

Neither was it a surprise to Kethol; he was always half-expecting a fight to
break out, and while he hadn't been counting on it, he had been hoping for it.
He made his move.

In a fight, a man being knocked down was nothing to be surprised about, so
as he grunted and fell to the floor, nobody would take particular notice that
his fall hadn't been preceded by a blow. The fact that he fell to the floor
where under a table several dozen of the coins had scattered was simply a
matter of convenience.

He quickly scooped up a handful of coins - not worrying about the sound of
clinking metal carrying over the shouts and grunts; everybody else would be
too busy to notice a small thing like that - and made certain to pick out the
silver reals first, before bothering with the coppers. All of the coins went
into a hidden pocket sewn into the inside of his tunic, and he stuffed a rag
in on top of them before pulling the pocket's drawstring tight.

Then he was on his hands and knees, making for the door as quickly as he
could: he had already taken his pay for this fight, and it was time to be
going.

A tavern fight had a dynamic of its own: after a few moments of free-for-
all, some men would be down, hurting; others would have paired off, working
off new or old grievances of their own with their fists.

Yet others would soon be doing what Kethol was busy doing: not hanging
around for the fight to turn bloody, and particularly not waiting for the
arrival of the Watch, but making themselves scarce. Unsurprisingly, that Milo
fellow had been the first man through the door and out into the night, and
others had followed. Kethol wouldn't be the first, or the last, and that was
just fine.