"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 2 - With a Single Spell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

would need a boat of some kind, swimming out to a ship was not practical.
Could he build a boat? He asked himself that question and immediately
knew the answer.
No, he could not. He had always intended to live a fat and lazy life on
his inheritance, whether his father's gold or his master's spells; he was
forced to admit to himself that he barely knew how to hold a hammer.
In that case, he told himself, he would obviously have to find a boat
that had already been built and acquire the use of it somehow.
Well, he thought, that sounded simple enough and shouldn't be too
difficult. He got to his feet and turned southward, thinking he could already
smell the salt of the sea on the gentle breeze that ruffled the grass.
The sun was almost straight overhead when he finally topped the last
little rise, a row of dunes, and staggered down onto the beach. A league had
never seemed like very much when he had been sitting at home talking or
dreaming, three miles, a mere six thousand yards, nothing much, but walking it
in the hot sun, with no breakfast, wearing shoddy house sandals rather than
boots, had proved to be an exhausting enterprise for one so out of shape as
himself. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and he wished that some other
garments, in addition to what he wore, had survived the fire. He sat down
heavily on the pebbles and stared south, squinting at the blazing midday glare
on the waves, his stomach growling. The breeze had died, and the damp, still
air did little to cool or dry him.
When he had caught his breath and his eyes had adjusted to the
brilliance, he turned and looked first east, then west.
He saw no sign of a boat and sighed heavily. More walking would be
needed.
He got slowly to his feet, brushing off his breeches, then paused to
choose a direction.
Either way, if he walked far enough, he would eventually reach Ethshar;
the Free Lands bordered on nothing but the ocean and the Hegemony. To the
west, however, he suspected it would be a good deal farther, and Shan was in
the way. Besides, the richest Ethsharitic cities were said to lie to the east.
He turned east and started walking.
He had gone less than a mile when he suddenly stopped again to
reconsider. He didn't want to walk to the border, he wanted a boat. Shan's
docks were full of boats. For all he knew, though, there wasn't a boat to be
had between where he now stood and the nearest Ethsharitic city. He glanced
back.
The beach back that way, with his footprints drawing a lonely line across
the sandy patches, was too familiar. He couldn't face it. No more looking
back, he told himself; face forward! If he had to walk all the way to Ethshar,
he would walk, but surely, if he didn't starve first, he would find a boat
eventually. He glanced out to sea.
A sail was visible on the horizon, far to the southwest, but working its
way east; apparently a little wind was still moving out on the water, as it
was not ashore. An Ethsharitic trader, he guessed, already safely past Shan
and its privateers; if he could only reach it, he would be well on his way,
but he had no boat as yet. He trudged onward.
Scarcely a hundred yards farther along, as he rounded a dune, he spotted
a boat pulled up on the sand some distance ahead. He stopped, astounded by his