"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 1 - Black Sun Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

hanging garments and treelike accessory displays; Damien had to push aside a
rack of beaded belts to get far enough back from the mirror that the whole of his
bulk could be reflected within its narrow confines.
He glanced at Ciani - who was managing not to smile - and then at the
fluttering moth of a proprietor who picked at his clothes periodically, as though
searching for pollen between the patterned layers. And back at the mirror.
And at last said: “I hope you’re joking.”
“It’s the height of fashion.”
The image that stared back at him was draped in multiple layers of purple
cloth, each of a slightly different hue. The layered ends of vest over half-shirt
over shirt proper, triple-tiered upper sleeves and cuffed pants - each in a
different shade of plum, or grape, or lavender, some in subtle prints of the same
- made him look, to his own eyes, like a refugee from some dyer’s scrap heap.
“What all of those in the know are wearing,” the proprietor assured him. He
plucked at Damien’s vest front, trying to pull the patterned cloth across the bulk
of the stout man’s torso. The thick layers of muscle which comprised most of
Damien’s bulk had been further padded by the eastland’s rich foods and
seductively sweet ale; at last the man gave up and stepped back, diplomatically
not pointing out that fashions such as these were designed for considerably
smaller men. “Subtly contrasting hues are the fashion this season. But if your
taste runs more to the traditional,” he stressed the word distastefully, as if to
indicate that it wasn’t normally part of his vocabulary, “I can show you
something with more color perhaps?”
“I doubt that would help.”
“Look,” Ciani was grinning. “You told me that you wanted to dress like a
Jaggonath cleric-”
“A Jaggonath cleric with taste.”
“Ah. You didn’t say that.”
He tried to glare, but the obvious merriment in her eyes made it difficult.
“Let me guess. You got paid by some pagan zealot to make me look like a fool?”
“Now, would I do that?”
“For the right price?”
“I’ll have you remember I’m a professional consultant; First coin, sound
contracts, reliable service. You get what you pay for, Father.”
“I’m not paying you for this.”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes sparkled mischeviously. “There is that to consider.”
“Please!” the proprietor seemed genuinely distressed by their exchange.
“The lady Ciani is well known to us, your Reverence. She’s helped clothe some of
the most important people in Jaggonath-”
He stared at her in frank astonishment. “A fashion consultant? You?”
“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”
“But, for real? I mean - professionally?”
“You don’t think me capable?”
“Not at all! That is - yes, I do . . . but why? I mean, why would someone pay
an adept’s consulting fee just to have you help pick out their clothing? One
hardly needs the fae to get dressed in the morning.”
“Ah, you are a foreigner.” She shook her head sadly “Everything here
involves the fae. The mayor runs for reelection, he wants his sartorial
emanations assessed. Some power-hungry businessman itches to close the deal
of a lifetime, he needs someone to tell him which outfit will best serve that