"Christopher Golden - Outcast 01 - The Un-Magician" - читать интересную книгу автора (Golden Christopher)

the nearby homes and shops as the carriage climbed through the winding street that led up into August
Hill, the most exclusive neighborhood in Arcanum. How often as a young man had he trod the
cobblestones and steps of this hill on his way to Argus's home? Still each doorway, each sign hanging
outside the window of a pub, was familiar.

The navigator slowed the carriage as the street twisted once more, rising up toward the pinnacle of
August Hill, where homes hung alongside the ground itself, magic woven into every bit of architecture to
keep them aloft. Lower down, the buildings were constructed upon the ground, but as the terrain became
steeper, the houses were merely anchored to the earth, jutting out at level angles from the side of the hill.
 The sadness in his heart made Leander close his eyes again. He had been here only three nights
past... the very night that Argus had died. With his eyes closed he could not stop his mind from slipping
back in time, from reliving again those tragic final hours of a great man. Argus had been in his bed, the
lamps burning low, a gloom settling upon his chamber. He had always been thin, but Argus had become
almost skeletal. His long, hooked nose even more prominent than usual, jutted from his sallow,
weathered face.

From time to time Argus would open his eyes and there would be a light in them, a spark, and he
would laugh and reminisce about the days when he had first met Leander. As a professor at the
University of Saint Germain, Argus had taken the burly, leonine man under his wing, and when they were
seen together, other mages would remark on what an odd pair they made.

In later years, well after the death of Argus's beloved wife, Norah, the mage had grown withdrawn,
keeping his own counsel, and allowing only Leander into his private thoughts. Other than his household
servants, the outside world saw Argus only rarely, though he made his opinions known to Parliament and
to the heads of the guilds often enough. Leander was a professor at the university himself, now, in the
very chair Argus had once held. He had been the great sorcerer's student, his apprentice, and his only
real friend.

Leander felt blessed to have had Argus Cade in his life.

But there were things other than grief haunting him now, though all of them connected to Argus's
death. Not all of the old mage's ramblings had been sensible, not all of them accompanied by that spark
in his eyes. Indeed, some of the things he had said as his spirit was slipping away, as his body and mind
were failing ' him, had confounded Leander greatly.

The hum of the carriage grew louder and the world outside its windows darker, with only the faintest
hint of red hues. There were only a few homes this high upon August Hill and, this far from the ground, it
required great effort and magical skill for the navigator to carry them here.

Leander barely noticed. His thoughts had been in turmoil ever since Argus's death, but in among that
jumble there was something more subtle that was bothering him. Though it was nonsense, it haunted him
more with each passing hour.

In his rambling Argus had said things that were . . . simply impossible. The ravings of a fevered
brain.

They had to be.

Several times Argus had seemed to be on the verge of sleep, eyelids fluttering, only to have his eyes
snap open and stare into the dim bedchamber and to whisper, as if afraid someone would hear: