"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

except that expressions played across them like shifting light. Lines appeared
and disappeared, making his age hard to guess; early forties, maybe, by the
lines about the eyes. Below them the remains of a tan welded together a great
blaze of freckles across his cheekbones. His eyes were calm, wide and
intelligent. The look in them seemed remote and far-seeing, till I caught the
twinkle that matched the mercurial expressions and the wry smile. I rarely
take to people on sight, men especially; but there was something instantly
likeable about him. Which was pretty damn surprising, as I couldn't have
placed him in any way. Liking, of course, doesn't have to mean trusting; but
right then I'd very little choice in the matter.
Together, like a pair of companionable drunks, we staggered down towards the
seaward end of the lane; but before we reached it my old mate Jyp, whoever he
was, manouevred us across the road and down a dank and evil-smelling back
alley to emerge into a much wider street, like all too many I had tramped down
that night. In this one, though, was what I'd been looking for all along; a
single building bright with lights, and the unmistakeable look of a pub, or
perhaps even a proper restaurant, about it. Grimy diamond-leaded windows
glowed a warm gold between peeling shutters, and above them a sign spanned the
building, brightly painted even in the dim light of the flickering lamps on
the wall below. My head was clearing in the cold air, and I stared at it,
fascinated; this must be one of the little specialty places. The sign read
TVERNA ILLYRIKO in tall letters, red upon black, and beneath them lllyrian
Tavern - Old Style Delicacies - Dravic Myrko, Prop. On a board above the door
I saw repeated Taverne Illyrique, Illyrisches Gasthof, the name in every
language I could recognize, and a good few I couldn't.
'Come along, we'll get you fixed up here!' said Jyp cheerfully, and added
something else I wasn't sure I'd heard.
'What was that?'
'Not a bad place, I was saying, so long as you steer clear of the
sea-slugs.'
I closed my eyes. 'I'll try to. Where are they? On the floor?'
'On the menu.'
'Christ!'
That did it; I had to stop and retch, painfully and unproductively, while
Jyp watched with sympathetic amusement. 'Guts empty?' he enquired. 'Pity; a
good puke can help, when you've had a dunt on the head. Like with seasickness;
if you're going to throw up, at least get something inside you to throw,
that's what I always tell 'em. Ammunition, as it were.'
'I'll remember that,' I promised, and he chuckled.
'All right now? Mind the steps, they're worn.' He kicked open the faded
red door with a ringing crash. 'Hoi, Myrko! Malinka! Katjka!' he shouted, and
bundled me inside.
Half an hour earlier I might have welcomed the gust of smells that came
boiling out. There were a hundred I couldn't put a name to and a few I didn't
care to, but there was also garlic and paprika and beer and frying onions.
Now, though, the mix made my aching stomach shrivel.
'It's you, is it, pylotV came a hoarse answer from inside. There was the
sound of somebody shovelling coal into a stove. 'Malinka's out, you'll just
have to make do with me.'
'Got a friend here, Myrko,' Jyp shouted. 'Hey, what's your name, friend?