"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 4 - The Blood of a Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

"My eyes are green, stupid!" Dumery retorted. "Maybe you'd better have an
herbalist checkyour eyes if you don't know that!"
"Oh,I know that," Derath said sweetly, "but the Lord of the Arena doesn't!" He
turned and grinned triumphantly at the eldest brother, Doran the Younger, who
snorted derisively.
Dessa giggled harder than ever.
Dumery felt his cheeks redden slightly, and he turned his attention back to
the Arena floor, pointedly ignoring his siblings. He didn't think Derath's
joke was funny, since it didn't really even make any sense, but he knew from
long experience that if Derath and Doran and Dessa once got started mocking
him it would last for hours. Retorting wouldn't stop it; ignoring them might.
The raking was finished, Dumery saw, and the arena sands gleamed smooth and
golden in the afternoon sun. The crowd quieted in anticipation.
The silence grew, and a certain tension grew with it, until suddenly a cloud
of thick yellow smoke appeared, swirling out of one of the many gateways that
opened into the arena from the labyrinth below. The smoke did not dissipate,
like any natural smoke or vapor, but instead hung together in a spinning
globe, something like a miniature whirlwind but far denser, and ball-shaped
rather than the tapering cylinder of a normal whirlwind.
Dumery caught his breath and stared, and beside him Dessa stopped giggling. On
the other side of the box Doran the Younger and Derath fell silent, as well.
The seething ball of smoke drifted out into the arena, moving across the sand
at about the speed of a brisk walk, until it stood in the exact center, its
base just barely disturbing the neatly-raked lines.
The smoke was a paler yellow than the deep gold of the sands, a sickly, ugly
color, like the belly of a snake. Dumery stared at it, utterly fascinated.
Thunder boomed from nowhere, and lightning flashed, almost blinding him; he
looked up, startled, but the sky was still clear and blue, the sunlight still
sweeping across the stands.
When he looked back, the yellow smoke was gone save for a few fading wisps,
and in its place stood the wizard.
Dumery leaned forward eagerly.
The wizard was a plump fellow of medium height, wearing a gleaming
ankle-length robe of fine red silk. Dumery was no good at guessing ages, but
this man was clearly no longer young-his face was weathered and his jowls
sagged. His hair was still a glossy black, though, without a trace of grey.
The wizard thrust his hands up in the air, fingers spread, and cried,
"Behold!"
The vastness of the Arena swallowed his voice, and it was obvious that only
those in the best seats could hear what he had said. Dumery felt a twinge of
disappointment at that. Surely, a wizard's voice should have enough magic in
it to overcome such inconveniences.
Then he forgot about the voice as streams of colored smoke poured forth from
the ten spread fingers. Each spouting plume was a different color-crimson,
violet, ochre, lizard green, and pale blue spewed from the left hand, while
magenta, indigo, copper, forest green, and midnight blue streamed from the
right.
The wizard waved his hands, crossing them above his head, and the rising bands
of smoke braided themselves in intricate patterns, each remaining pure and
discrete.