"David Gemmell - Morningstar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

lovers. I felt for them, but said nothing. I was being paid six silver pennies for my
performance and this, at the time, was more important than true love thwarted.

The evening was dull and the guests, filled with good wine, became maudlin. I
collected my fee, which I hid carefully in a special pocket in my right boot before
setting off for my lodgings in the northern quarter.

Not a native of Ziraccu, I soon became lost, for there were no signs to be seen, no
aid to the wanderer. I entered an ill-smelling maze of alleys, my heart pounding. My harp
was slung over my right shoulder, and any who saw me would recognize the clothes of a
bard - bright yellow shirt and red leggings. It would be most unusual to be accosted, for
bards were rarely rich and were the only gatherers of news and gossip. We were welcome
everywhere -especially those of us who knew a little magick. But - and this is the
thought that occupied me - there were always those who knew nothing of tradition. Some
mindless robber who would plunge his knife into my belly before he realized his mistake.

Therefore I walked with care through the dark alleyways, drawing myself up to my
full height, pulling back my shoulders so as to appear tough, strong and confident. I was
not armed - not even with a short knife. Who would need a knife at a wedding?

Several rats scurried across my path and I saw a corpse lying by the entrance to a
short tunnel. In the bright moonlight it was easy to see that the corpse had been there
for some days. His boots were gone, as was his belt.

I turned away my gaze and strode on. I never did like to look upon corpses. No man
needs such a violent, visual reminder of his mortality. And there is no dignity in death.
The bladder loosens,

the bowels empty and the corpse always assumes an expression of profound idiocy.

I walked on, listening for anything that might indicate a stealthy assassin
creeping towards me. A foolish thing to do, for immediately the thought comes to you the
ear translates every sound into a footfall, or the whisper of cloth against a wall.

I was breathing heavily when at last I came out on to a main thoroughfare I
recognized.
 Then the scream sounded.

I am not by nature heroic, but upbringing counts for much in a man's life and my
parents had always made it clear that a strong man must defend the weak. The cry came
from a woman. It was not born of pain, but of fear, and that is a terrible sound. I swung
round and ran in the direction of the cry; it was a move of stunning stupidity.

Turning a sharp corner into a narrow alley, I saw four men surrounding a young
woman. They had already ripped her dress from her, and one of the attackers had loosened
his leggings, exposing his fish-white legs and buttocks.

'Stop that!' I shouted. Not the most powerful opening line, I'll admit, especially
when delivered in a high-pitched shriek. But my arrival stunned them momentarily and the
naked man struggled to pull up his leggings, while the other three swung to face me. They