"Jude Fisher - Fool's Gold 01 - Sorcery Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fisher Jude)

had to be said that if this were the case, the peoples of Elda must confer most arbitrary
value to the different rocks, for some of the so-called worthless ones (which were
extensive in the tunnels) were remarkably close in appearance to those that men fought
over in the old stories.
Fourth passage: dead end; take the first door past the hanging icicle; go down three
steps; press the wall behind the tapestry.
Once in the vicinity of the Master's suite of rooms, Virelai became furtive. He lifted the
metal dome that covered Rahe's meal and sniffed it again, although he was careful not to
take the vapors too deep into his lungs for fear that even in steam they might do their
damage. But despite the virulent ingredients he had added to the stew from the old
parchment's recipe, he could sense none of them, through any of his senses, natural or
attuned. He smiled.
When he reached it, the door to the Master's chamber was slightly ajar and he could
hear voices within. His heart hammered.
Balancing the tray carefully, Virelai applied his eye to the door crack.
What he saw almost made him drop the dishes. The blood rushed to his head, his
chest, his loins. His jaw sprang open like an unlatched gate. He stared and stared, taking
in detail after detail of the scene. Then he grinned wolfishly. To the opportunist shall be
granted opportunity, and he who takes Destiny by the throat shall be rewarded
threefold: was that not what the books said? Virelai counted his blessings. Threefold
indeed.
He knocked smartly upon the door.
"Your supper, lord."
There was a hush, followed by a soft scuffle, the rustle of heavy fabrics. Then: "Leave
the tray outside, Virelai," came the Master's voice, a trifle querulous. "I am somewhat
engaged just now."
"Indeed, lord: may you have pleasure of it."
 Bëte the cat emerged from the Master's chamber and watched Virelai retreat down
the long corridor. She hovered for a moment beside the tray, sniffed at the covered dish,
and recoiled with a sneeze.
***
THE only witnesses the next morning to Virelai's departure were the terns that
frequented the bay beneath the Sanctuary, and a single storm petrel, the light of the
brassy winter sun lending its wings an oily iridescence. The petrel flew on, uninterested in
the drama that was being played out below; it had many miles of berg-strewn ocean to
cross on its long journey. The terns, though, were curious as to the nature of the large
wooden chest the cloaked figure was manhandling into a single-masted sloop that looked
perilously close to overturning. They dipped and wheeled in expectation of a tidbit or two.
Bëte the cat, swaddled unceremoniously in a blanket laced with leather ties, lay
motionless save for the flick of her eyes as she watched the flash of their plumage, their
bright black eyes, their pretty red beaks—so close but so infuriatingly inaccessible.
Virelai, having eventually succeeded in his battle to stow his oversized cargo, boarded
the little vessel himself, untied and shoved off from the natural breakwater, and rowed
inexpertly out into the ocean, followed by the birds, distracted from their search for food,
in a stream of white. Once out of the shelter of the icewall, the chop of the waves made
the boat roll alarmingly. The cat, splashed with freezing seawater, mewed piteously.
Virelai missed his stroke, cursed, shipped his oars, and after a certain amount of fiddling
around, managed to put up the sail. For some moments the sail hung as slack as a
turkey's wattle. Then, a little breeze bellied the fabric and began to drive the sloop slowly,
inexorably, back to shore, until the prow, its painted eye staring blindly ahead, bumped