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

Tobas nodded. "Thank you, sir." He glanced down at the boots just
mentioned, which had been donated by a lad in the crew who had outgrown them.
The captain was right; he hadn't really done enough work yet to earn them.
He sighed; he was a long way from the rich, easy life he wanted.
They were two days in port, unloading roughly half the cargo of furs,
oils, and other goods and replacing it with freshly slaughtered beef, and a
warlock, whose magic would keep the meat cool and prevent spoilage. There was
enough lifting, hauling on ropes, and general hard labor involved that, by the
time the ship was loaded full again, Tobas felt he had earned a cobbler's
entire shop. Once or twice he gave serious thought to deserting -- or rather,
since he had never formally signed on, leaving -- but the sight and sound and
smell of the crowded streets were still enough to deter him. Ethshar of the
Sands was terrifying in its immensity and alienness; Ethshar of the Spices
might not be.
He also remained on board in hopes of getting to know the warlock and
perhaps even learning a little of this strange new school of magic that
required none of the rituals and paraphernalia of wizardry. After all, a
career in any sort of magic might well be profitable; simply because he had
been initiated into the Wizards' Guild, he saw no reason not to pursue studies
in the other varieties of arcane skill.
Of course, the ship had had another magician aboard all along; the
white-robed woman who had stood beside the captain when Tobas first came
aboard was a priestess, an expert theurgist, Tobas had learned, and was the
magician charged with defending the vessel against pirates or other perils.
Theurgy, however, was not a form of magic that appealed to Tobas, since
he understood it to call for a great deal of hard study and abstinence from
many of life's little pleasures, while still being less than perfectly
reliable and predictable in its effects. Besides, the priestess refused to
associate with anyone aboard other than the captain.
Tobas thought warlockry sounded far more appealing.
However, one sight of the warlock's dark and forbidding face convinced
him not to press the issue. This was obviously not a person eager to make
friends.
No one else seemed to know the warlock any better than Tobas did; even
Captain Istram, who treated the theurgist as just another crew member, seemed
slightly wary of him. As with the priestess, no one spoke of him by name; he
was simply the warlock. Tobas was not entirely sure he had a name; for all he
knew, warlocks were not even human.
This warlock slept in a hammock slung down in the hold, close to the meat
he was there to preserve; he had his meals brought to him there. As the cook's
assistant, Tobas was responsible for their delivery.
Once settled in his place, the warlock spoke to no one; he accepted his
meals in silence and never emerged from the hold for any reason. Tobas guessed
that maintaining the spell, for the hold was always very definitely chilly,
despite the summer sun glaring on the sea on every side, took all his
concentration and energy.
The journey passed uneventfully, for the most part, and Tobas was
reasonably content with his lot. He was fed and housed. His clothing left
something to be desired, as he still had only the one outfit, but he was able
to wash it twice a sixnight in the communal tub.