"Zelazny, Roger - Amber Short Stories 02 - Salesman's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

feature. I fiddled with it all afternoon, to pass the
time, though I knew I had her right. When I knocked
off for dinner the next day's activities had already
taken shape in my mind.

The next morning my injury was considerably
diminished, and I conjured myself a mirror upon a
smooth surface of the wall. Using an oil lamp so as
not to waste an illumination spell, I conjured that
tall, dark, lean figure upon my own form, cast those
aquiline features upon my own--complete with beard--and
I looked upon my work and saw that it was good. I
transformed the appearance of my garments then, also,
to keep the new me company--this latter a single spell.
I'd have to fetch real garments as soon as I could. No
use wasting a high-powered working on something that
trivial. I did this all first thing, because I'd
wanted to wear the guise all day, let it soak in, see
whether there were any hidden weaknesses to my
working. Then I wanted to sleep in it, for the same
reason.

That afternoon I took up the sketchpad again. I
studied my pervious day's work, then turned to a fresh
page and executed a Trump. It felt exactly right.
The next morning, following the usual routine, I
reviewed myself in the mirror again, was satisfied,
and mounted the ladder to emerge from the cave. It was
a damp, cool morning with a few blue breaks in the
cloud cover high overhead. Could rain again. But what
the hell did I care? I was on my way out.

I reached for my pad, then paused. I was reminded of
other Trumps I had dealt with over the years, and of
something else. I withdrew my deck of cards. Uncasing
them, I moved slowly through until I came to the sad
one--dad's. I had kept his card for sentiment's sake,
not utility. He looked just as I remembered him, but I
hadn't sought it for purposes of reminiscence. It was
because of the item he wore at his side.

I focussed on Werewindle, by all accounts a magical
blade, in some way related to Corwin's Greyswandir.
And I recalled Merlin's telling me how his father had
summoned Greyswandir to him in Shadow, following his
escape from the dungeons of Amber. There was some special
affinity between him and that weapon. I wondered. Now
that the pace had quickened and new adventures were
looming, it would probably be advisable to face things
prepared with the appropriate steel. Though dad was