"Bud Sparhawk - Magic's Price" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sparhawk Bud)

he wondered, were some of the shadows green instead of black? After a few moment's consideration he
realized that each shadow's color was the complement of whichever lamp threw it. Not only that but it
varied in intensity with the distance from each lamp. He moved back and forth, fascinated by the
changing colors.

Evangeline, his older sister, rudely pulled him back into reality and an awareness of the crowd. She
glanced around to see if anyone had been watching his antics. “Why are you doing that? Dancing around
like a fool,” she scolded. “Act your age for once, would you?”

He started to explain but stopped. Ev was smiling over his shoulder, no longer paying him a bit of
attention. When he turned he saw that Lars Torfsen had captured her attention. Just as well, Jacob
thought; Ev would never understand about the lights and, even if she did, she'd probably dismiss it as of
no practical use.

He watched her walk toward Lars with that peculiar swaying motion she had adopted of late. “Huh, and
she thinks I looked silly,” he muttered.

The crowd's din assailed Jacob's ears. Everyone was in a festive mood. The group at the kegs were
cheerily toasting one another and each passerby with raised mugs and shouts of recognition. The more
sober among them were scarcely less restrained than those well into their mugs.

People pressed in on Jacob from every side, so close that he could smell their sweat and foul, malty
breath. He couldn't understand how anyone could enjoy being so jammed together in this suffocating,
constricting, and uncomfortable crowd. But he would endure it for the chance to see a magician.

His family's arrival caused no little commotion. People crowded around them, shouting and extending
hands to be shaken and presenting cheeks to be kissed. A bustle of women greeted his mother and Pam
with shrieks and embraces, then led the two away, all jabbering at once and so swiftly that Jacob couldn't
understand a word they said. Nor did he want to.

Jacob winced whenever one of the villagers pinched his cheek or remarked about how tall and
handsome he had gotten. He bridled at their constant observations on his red hair and striking lack of
resemblance to his father. He held his tongue, wishing the whole while that he could escape. But no, for
the possibility of watching a magician at work he would bear all this unwanted attention, all this squeezing,
embracing, squealing, shouting, laughing, farting, sweating, overeating crowd of packed humanity.

Jacob looked around, alert for any sign of a stranger, for a glimpse of the bearded face that his father
said always marked a magician. But how could he tell if a stranger were a magician? Most travelers, and
many of the local farmers, wore beards, so that was no distinction. Would the magician be taller—larger
than life? Would he be handsome or ugly, young or old? Would his hair be silver or gold? How would his
appearance differ from the too-familiar faces of these people he'd known all his life? What would his
clothing be like? How would he speak, walk, or laugh?

Jacob's imagination ran rampant, building a mental pastiche that changed with every random supposition.
Perhaps the mage would come as a giant and loom over the town like a storm cloud; lightning bolts for
his hair and thunder for his voice. That startling image came from a childish fantasy that he had long ago
thought he'd outgrown.
 While the carpenter was droning endlessly about how his son was about to become the mason's
apprentice and asking how soon Jacob was to be apprenticed to the town's tinker, there was a
commotion on the far side of the square. The crowd parted. Three strangers walked to the middle of the