"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Olivia 2 - Crusader's Torch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

of this sort.
Rainaut tugged at the black-and-white cote that identified him as a Knight
Hospitaler of Saint John. "How long will we be detained by this?"
The sarjeant shrugged. "If it becomes a fight, it could be some time. But they don't
appear to be the sort to fight," he added with a wink, for the man with the donkey-cart
was a white-haired ancient with hardly a tooth left in his head and the Bourgess was
portly. "Of course," the sarjeant went on when he had considered the rest of the
crowd, "there's no telling what the rest might do. Tyre is a volatile place."
"Does that please you?" Rainaut challenged, hearing satisfaction in the sarjeant's
comment.
"It pleases me to serve God and His Knights Hospitalers," said the sarjeant,
suddenly circumspect. "When you have been here a while, good Knight, you will
understand that these coastal cities are all… well, they are hazardous. If they were
not, there would be no need for Hospitalers here, would there?"
Rainaut was tempted to give a short answer to the sarjeant's insolence, but held his
tongue; what he had said was true enough, and there would be other occasions when
Rainaut could reprimand the sarjeant if he deserved correction. He rubbed at his
neck, glad that he was not wearing armor, for his clothes, more appropriate for
France than Tyre, stuck to his body, soggy with sweat. "Is there anyone who could
end this?"
"Lord God knows," said the sarjeant, blessing himself in case Rainaut might think
he was swearing.
"How far is the chapter house?" Rainaut asked, having to shout now to be heard
over the din.
"Not far." The sarjeant pointed down the street. "A little way further, then right at
the corner. The chapel is there, and the chapter house is directly behind it. The
hospice is nearby."
The ancient with the donkey-cart had picked up a wad of dung. With a screeching
outburst, he hurled this at the Bourgess, who bellowed and launched himself at his
opponent. The spectators howled and cheered as the battle was joined in earnest.
 The sarjeant began to look worried. "I think perhaps that we might—" He tried to
move backward, but he and Rainaut were wedged in by the press of the crowd at their
backs.
"What is it?" Rainaut inquired, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
"A fight like this, it could turn ugly. Then the Templars would settle it; they
restore order by cracking heads." He rapped on the closed shop door beside them, but
there was no response. He pointed upwards. "Look. They are leaving the windows."
"Does that mean it is over?" Rainaut had to admit to an instant's disappointment.
"No, it means that it will get worse," said the sarjeant fatalistically. "They are
leaving the windows so that they will not be struck by—" He broke off.
At the core of the fight, where the old man and the Bourgess flailed at each other
with fists and feet, the donkey pulling the cart began to bray and kick in an effort to
escape the battle. It was like a signal to people jammed into the street. Fists were
raised, weapons drawn where there was room to do so. A few of the more intrepid
dropped to their knees and attempted to crawl between the legs of the others.
"Sweet Virgin," Rainaut breathed as chaos erupted. He had drawn his short-bladed
forked dagger from his sleeve scabbard and now held it low and at the ready. "What
now?" he yelled at the sarjeant to make himself heard at all.
"Pray," suggested the sarjeant, bringing his hands over his head and his elbows
out. A section of brick hit his shoulder and he stifled an oath.