"Joan D. Vinge - The Storm King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vinge Joan D)

“I can see that,” the stranger muttered, staggering in ankle-deep mud. He
climbed back onto the boards with some difficulty and obvious disgust. “Maybe if
they did you’d have streets and not rivers of muck in this town.” He turned away in
anger, almost stumbled over a mud-colored girl blocking his forward progress on
the boardwalk.

“You priests should bow down to the Storm King!” The girl postured
insolently, looking toward the priest. “The dragon can change all our lives more in
one night than your gods have done in a lifetime.”

“Slut!” The priest shook his carven staff at her; its neck-lace of golden bells
chimed like absurd laughter. “There’s a witch for you, beggar. If you think she can
teach you to tame the dragon, then go with her!” He turned away, disappearing into
the temple. The stranger’s body jerked, as though it strained against his control,
wanting to strike at the priest’s retreating back.

“You’re a witch?” The stranger turned and glared down at the bony figure
standing in his way, found her studying him back with obvious skepticism. He
imagined what she saw—a foreigner, his straight black hair whacked off like a serf’s,
his clothes crawling with filth, his face grimed and gaunt and set in a bitter grimace.
He frowned more deeply.

The girl shook her head. “No. I’m just bound to her. You have business to
take up with her, I see—about the Storm King.” She smirked, expecting him to
believe she was privy to secret knowledge.

“As you doubtless overheard, yes.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the
other, trying fruitlessly to ease the pain in his back.

She shrugged, pushing her own tangled brown hair back from her face. “Well,
you’d better be able to pay for it, or you’ve come a long way from Kwansai for
nothing.”

He started, before he realized that his coloring and his eyes gave that much
away. “I can pay.” He drew his dagger from its hidden sheath; the only weapon he
had left, and the only thing of value. He let her glimpse the jeweled hilt before he
pushed it back out of sight.
 Her gray eyes widened briefly. “What do I call you, Prince of Thieves?” with
another glance at his rags.

“Call me Your Highness,” not lying, and not quite joking.

She looked up into his face again, and away. “Call me Nothing, Your
Highness. Because I am nothing.” She twitched a shoulder at him. “And follow me.”

****

They passed the last houses of the village without further speech, and followed the
mucky track on into the dark, dripping forest that lay at the mountain’s feet. The girl