"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Dus 3 - Sword Of Bheleu" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

ordered her to accompany him and remain silent. Finally, there was the
bewitched sword; he was hesitant to handle it directly, since he well knew
that, even when he was not actually touching it, it was able to exert
considerable control over his emotions and actions. There seemed no good
alternative, however, so at last he pulled it from the warbeast's harness,
using only one hand and keeping a layer of cloth wrapped about the hilt so
that his flesh was never in direct contact with the metal or the black
covering of the grip.
At Garth's command, Frima led the way into the bright, clean interior of
the tavern; she was less able to run away with him immediately behind her. He
carried the sack in his left hand and the sword in his right; but had she made
any suspicious move, he could have dropped them quickly and grabbed her.
The inn's main room was a pleasant contrast to the noisome alley; it was
just as Garth remembered it, warm and clean and worn. The walls were paneled
in dark woods, and light came from several oil lamps on tables and overhead
beams, as well as from an immense fireplace that occupied much of the
right-hand wall. Glassware and pewter sparkled faintly on shelves. The wall to
the left was lined with great barrels of ale and wine, bound and tapped with
shining, polished brass. At the rear, a wooden stair led to an upper floor. To
the right lay the broad slate hearth that spread before the gaping stone
fireplace.
The oaken floor was worn into strange, smooth shapes that showed that
the furniture had not been rearranged in centuries. Shallow troughs led
between and around the tables, where the feet of countless patrons had scuffed
along; slight grooves marked where each chair had been dragged to and from its
table over and over again. The tables themselves stood atop low hills, their
legs perched on the only parts of the floor that had not been worn down.
Half a dozen humans were present. There was the portly, middle-aged
innkeeper, a trayful of ale-filled mugs in his hands. There were two unkempt
villagers in dirty tunics who had been calling for their ale when the girl and
the overman entered; they fell suddenly silent as they caught sight of the
newcomers. There was a guardsman in mail shirt and leather helmet, speaking to
a black-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard; Garth recognized the civilian
as Saram, formerly a lieutenant in the Baron's service, and a man who had
sometimes been of service to both Garth and the Forgotten King.
And finally, there was the King himself. He was an old man wrapped
tightly in his tattered yellow cloak and cowl, sitting at a small table in the
back corner beneath the stairs. He might once have been tall, by human
standards, but was now ancient, bent, and withered. The cowl hid much of his
face, so that all that could be seen was the tip of his bony nose and the
wispy white beard that trailed from his chin.
Garth pointed him out to Frima; she stared in open astonishment. "That's
the king you want to deliver me to?"
"Yes," Garth replied. He fought down annoyance at the girl's surprise;
he was very much aware of the sword he held in his right hand and the faintly
glowing red gem set in its pommel.
The innkeeper and the other four patrons watched silently as the pair
made their way to the corner table. The innkeeper stood still, not daring to
move, lest he block their path accidentally, until they had passed him; then
he hurried to deliver the ale he carried, before his customers had a chance to