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

lesser terrors of things he could do battle with to the unalterable destructive
power of Erna’s frequent tsunami.
He prodded his horse through the city streets with an easy touch, content to
take his time, eager to see what manner of place he had come to. Though night
was already falling, the city was as crowded as a Ganji marketplace at high
noon. Strange habits indeed, he mused, for people who lived so near a focal
point of malevolence. Back in Ganji, shopkeepers would already be shuttering
their windows against the fall of night, and making ward-signs against the
merest thought of Coreset. Already the season had hosted nights when no more
light than that of a single moon shone down to the needy earth, and the first
true night was soon to come; all the creatures that thrived on darkness would be
most active in this season, seeking blood or sin or semen or despair or whatever
special substance they required to sustain themselves, and seeking it with vigor.
Only a fool would walk the night unarmed at such a time - or perhaps, Damien
reflected, one who lived so close to the heart of that darkness that constant
exposure had dulled all sense of danger.
Or was it that there was simply safety in numbers, in a city so large that no
matter how many were taken in the night, the odds were good that it wouldn’t
be you?
Then something caught his eye; he reined up suddenly, and his three-toed
mount snorted with concern. Laughing softly, he patted it on the neck. “No
danger here, old friend.” Then he considered, and added, “Not yet, anyway.”
He dismounted and led the dappled creature across the street, to the place
that had caught his eye. It was a small shop, with a warded canopy set to guard
the walkway just outside, and a marquee that caught the dying sunlight like
drops of fire. Fae Shoppe it said, in gleaming gold letters. Resident loremaster.
All hours.
He looked back over his shoulder, to the gradually darkening street. Night
was coming on with vigor, and God alone knew what that would mean. The
sensible thing to do would be to find an inn and drop off his things, get his
mount under guard, and affix a few wards to his luggage . . . but when had he
ever done the sensible thing, when curiosity was driving him? He took a moment
to remove his most valuable bag from the horse’s back - his only valuable bag, in
fact - locked the beast’s lead chain to a hitching rack, and went inside.
Into another world. The dying sunlight gave way to orange and amber, the
flickering light of tinted lamps. Warm-toned wood added to the sense of
harmony, possibly aided by a ward or two; he could feel his travel-weary
muscles relax as he entered, but the Working that made them do so was too
subtle to define.
All about him were things. Marvelous objects, no two of them alike, which
filled to overflowing the multitude of shelves, display cases, and braces that lined
the interior of the shop. Some were familiar to him, in form if not in detail.
Weapons, for instance: his practiced eye took in everything from blades to
pistols, from the simple swords of his own martial preference to the more
complicated marvels that applied gunpowder in measured doses - and just as
often misapplied it. Household items, of every kind imaginable. Books and
bookmarks and bookstands, pen and paper. And some objects that were clearly
Worked: talismans etched with ancient Earth symbols, intricately knotted wards,
herbs and spices and perfumes and oils, and all the equipment necessary to
maximize their effect.