"Joel Rosenberg - Paladins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenberg Joel C)

That's the beginning.

Knowing Cully, it'll likely be the end.
—Gray




"Leave the child alone," Cully said quietly, barely above a whisper.
Cully didn't sound like he had been looking for a fight. He never did—although he had certainly
found more than enough.
Gray hadn't been looking for a fight, either. Gray was looking for Cully; he had been doing just that
for weeks, all up and down the Pironesian coast, and far enough up into the hills to come down on the
other side of more than one of the bigger islands.
Given that they were looking for Cully in the city of Pironesia itself, and particularly given Cully's
background, there was no need to try any of the estates nestled high in the hills, so they had made the
obvious split: Bear wandered through the markets and the warehouses, while Gray took the taverns.
There were advantages to rank, and, besides, Bear didn't seem to mind.
Gray had quickly made his way through the various dockside sections that catered to Shqiperese,
Boyaliri, Italians, and the local trade, on the grounds that Cully would likely prefer to hear English
spoken while he was drinking, but also that likelihood was not a certainty, and diligence a virtue.
Still, eventually, Gray had found himself on English Row, where the readable letters on hanging
placards, the drunken sea chanties that would have been comprehensible if they hadn't been quiteso
drunken, and above all the ever-pervasive smell of roast mutton felt almost homey. With the narrow,
twisty streets and the tall, three-story buildings concealing the hills that rose beyond the city, he could
have squinted and almost have fooled himself that he was back in Londinium, if it wasn't for the pleasant
smell of fish oil emanating from the too-dim lanterns, rather than the bitter reek of black whale oil that
would have filled the air at home. But this wasn't Londinium, and he didn't try to fool himself. Gray
prided himself on very few things, but a lack self-deception was one of them.
The Dangling Sacerdote was the fifth of those dockside taverns that Gray had checked out as
afternoon was already giving way to evening.
Gray had been on his way in through the mudroom when he had heard the quiet sound of the blow
and the loud cry of pain, and quickened his pace, making his way through the men streaming for the exit
without more pushing than necessary. More than a few pairs of eyes widened at the sight of his two
swords, but none of the men stopped to ask about that, not knowing—or, more likely more interested in
getting away than finding out—if the two swords and his distinctive clothing meant what they should have
meant.
It hadn't quite started yet, not quite.
Cully stood between the three sailors and boy; a fourth sailor lay on the floor in a disgusting puddle
of something that was probably his own vomit, trying to breathe.
Cully himself was dressed in a loose woven sailor's tunic over calf-length breeches and sandals, the
tunic belted with a length of rope, but other than that, he was about the same as he had been the last time
Gray had seen him.
Oh, there were a few more lines in his face, but the collection was already large enough that a few
additions didn't much matter. His dull gray hair might have been a little thinner, although what with it
being tied back in a sailor's ponytail, it was hard to tell. His hooked nose hadn't any new breaks, and the
deep-set eyes still seemed to see everything without moving. When Gray had been in first form, the
novices used to say that Father Cully could see more out of the corner of an eye than most priests could
during a focused meditation.
It figured that Gray would find Cully standing between the wolves and their prey. He should be