"Brian Lumley - Necroscope 2 - Wamphyri!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

'Here and there,' the other shrugged, nodded. He was swarthy as smoke-grimed leather,
wrinkled as a walnut from extremes of weather, lean as a wolf. Not young by any standards, still his
hair was shiny black, his eyes too, and he seemed to have all of his teeth. But he moved his limbs
carefully and his hands were very crooked. 'I'd be doing it still if my bones hadn't started to seize
up. We had a cart of two wheels wrapped in leather, which we'd break down and carry when the
way was rough. Upon the cart we took our house and goods along with us: a big tent with rooms,
and cooking pots, and tools. We were - we are - Szgany, gypsies, and became Szgany Ferengi
when I built this place here.' He craned his neck and looked up, wide-eyed, at one interior wall of
the house. It was a look half respectful, half fearful. There was no window but the Wallach knew
that the old man stared up at the mountain peaks.


'Szgany Ferengi?' Thibor repeated. 'You ally yourself to the Boyar Ferenczy in his castle,
then?'


The old gypsy lowered his eyes from the unseen heights, drew back a little, took on a
suspicious look. Thibor quickly poured him more of his own brandy. The other remained silent and
the Wallach shrugged. 'No matter, it's just that I've heard good things of him,' he lied. 'My father
knew him, once...'


'Indeed!' the old man's eyes widened.


Thibor nodded. 'One cold winter, the Ferenczy gave him shelter in his castle. My father told
me, if ever I passed this way, I should go up and remind the Boyar of that time, and thank him on
behalf of my father.'


The old man stared at Thibor for long moments. 'So, you've heard good things of our master,
have you? From your father, eh? And you were born under the mountains...'
 'Is something strange?' Thibor raised a dark eyebrow.


The other looked him up and down. 'You're a big man,' he said, grudgingly, 'and strong, I can
tell. Also, you look fierce. A Wallach, eh, whose fathers were Ungars? Well, perhaps you are,
perhaps you are.'


'Perhaps I am what?'


'It's said,' the gypsy whispered, drawing closer, 'that the old Ferengi's true sons always come
home to roost. In the end they come here, seek him out - seek out their father! Would you climb up
to see him?'