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

square. From the way everyone kept their distance Jacob knew that this had to be the magician. But why
were there three? He supposed that a magician always traveled alone.

The three were like nothing he'd imagined. None were giants, nor was their appearance out of the
ordinary, or so it appeared at his first appraising glance.

The tallest threw back the cowl of his frayed and tattered, travel-stained cloak to reveal a face the color
of dark leather and in sharp contrast to his white beard and hair. Small white marks, as if he'd been
burned with a brand, marched across both cheeks. There were deep creases around his eyes and mouth,
as if he'd spent a lifetime of peering into the distance. His hands were as dark as his face, and as callused
as a farmer's. His erect posture and quick movements were at odds with the signs of age. There was
such an air of authority, of competence about him that Jacob knew that this was not a man easily ignored.

The shorter, stockier magician on white beard's right wore a dull brown cloak that was only slightly less
travel-worn. His beard was black as night and trimmed closely to follow the curve of his jaw. His eyes
were hidden behind the mirrored goggles that reflected the square's colored lanterns in miniature. His
head swiveled from side to side, watching the crowd. Only one of his hands was visible, for he kept the
other tucked deep inside his cloak.

In sharp contrast to massive bulk of the dark man, the third magician was slight of frame and had a long
cascade of bronze hair that spilled from the back of a red cap. It was a woman, Jacob realized with a
start. Somehow he had never imagined that a magician might be a woman! As she turned her head to
glance in his direction he noticed that her eyes were very large and a wondrously luminous green. Even
from this distance he could tell that those bright eyes were sprinkled with tiny golden flecks, much like his
own. A slight smile played on her lips. Her movements were fluid and graceful, as if she were dancing to
some languid, silent fiddler. She was the most beautiful woman Jacob had ever seen.

“Who speaks for the town?” the older magician asked quietly, but with sufficient force that his voice
could be heard clearly throughout the square.

William Moore, the village headman, was roughly propelled into the empty space surrounding the
threesome. He stumbled for a bit, as if he'd not expected to be so rudely presented as spokesman. To his
credit he recovered quickly.

“Who be you?” he asked in his booming voice and then repeated it even louder, just in case he had not
made the question sufficiently forceful. “And what be your reason for coming to our town?” He smiled, a
darting, nervous, insincere little twitch at the corners of his fat mouth that disappeared in an instant.

“I am Arthur Thomas,” white-beard answered as forcefully. “I am a magician and in your service.” His
tone made the bland statement sounded like a rebuke for the chill greeting. “I hear there is a tower on a
farm nearby. Where can I find the owner?”

“There!” William Moore replied quickly and pointed directly at Jacob's father. “George Kettleman, over
there, the demon's tower's on his farm.” He did not sound pleased that anyone would want to see the
tower. Like most villagers, he felt that such a mystery was better left alone.

The woman with the magician casually glanced where William Moore had pointed and then jumped as if
a thorn had pricked her. She started to open her mouth to say something, and then closed it. Her hand
darted nervously to the arm of the white-bearded man like a bird seeking a branch.