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

react to the overman's presence by leaving without paying.
The pair of civilians muttered quietly to one another. The guardsman,
with no pretense of stealth, told Saram, "I think I had better go and tell the
captain."
"You do that," Saram answered. "I'll stay here and watch." His eyes
followed Frima across the room.
The soldier nodded, rose, and departed, as Garth seated himself across
from the yellow-garbed figure. Frima nervously sat at the nearest unoccupied
table; there was something about the old man she found disturbing. She
realized that even when she looked directly at him-or as nearly as she
could-she could not see his eyes, but only darkness. His face was dry and
wrinkled, drawn tight across the bone, and no matter how much she adjusted her
position or her gaze, she could not make out his forehead or his eyes through
the shadows of the overhanging cowl. They must, she decided, be sunken back
into his head; he did not seem to be blind. There must be more there than
empty sockets.
Garth paid no attention to the shadows; he had seen the old man before
and knew that he always appeared thus. He was not certain why the King's eyes
could not be seen or how the trick was managed, but it had become familiar. He
knew that the old man could see, and that sometimes a glint of light could be
seen, as if reflected from an eye, so he was sure it was just a trick of some
kind.
"I have brought you what I found upon six of the altars in Dûsarra," he
said without preamble.
The old man shifted slightly and placed his thin mummylike hand atop the
table. "Show me," he said.
His voice was a dry, croaking whisper. Frima shuddered. The voice
sounded of age and imminent death. It reminded her of the stories she had
heard of P'hul, the goddess of decay. It was said that where the goddess
walked, the ground turned to dust, plants fell to powder, pools dried up, and
trees withered and died; the Forgotten King's voice would have fitted such a
deity to perfection.
Garth dropped the sack he still held to the floor beside him and gripped
the sword with both hands. "First," he said, "there are matters to be
settled."
"What matters?"
The voice was the same; somehow Frima had thought that it would change,
that the old man's throat would moisten.
"I want to know why you want these things. I want to know why you have
refused to tell me what you plan to do. I want you to explain who and what you
are and what you are doing in this run-down tavern in a stinking,
half-deserted border town."
"Why?"
Garth made an inarticulate noise of surprise and frustration. "Why?" he
said, "You ask why? I have reasons, old man. If you want these things you sent
me after, you will have to answer me."
The yellow-draped shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped.
"Don't shrug it off! I want to know what you think you're doing." Garth
lifted the sword, and Frima saw that the red stone was glowing brightly, a
fiery blood-hued light.