"David Eddings. Pawn of prophecy queen of sorcery magician's gambit (The Belgariad, Part one)" - читать интересную книгу автора

bounty of Aunt Pol's kitchen.
All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor
was a good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even
longer jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to
those who worked for him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in
health and well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of sweat
from them. In many ways he was more like a father than a master to the
sixtyodd people who lived on his freeholding. He ate with them-which was
unusual, since many farmers in the district sought to hold themselves
aloof from their workers-and his presence at the head of the central table
in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence on some of the younger
ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Faldor was a devout
man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing of the
Gods before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with
some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the
semblance at least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and
bowls of food that Aunt Pol and her helpers had placed before them.
Because of Faldor's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Pol's deft
fingers-the farm was known throughout the district as the finest place to
live and work for twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings were
spent in the tavern in the nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute
descriptions of the near-miraculous meals served regularly in Faldor's
dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at other farms were frequently
seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at descriptions of one of
Aunt Pol's roasted geese, and the fame of Faldor's farm spread wide
throughout the district.
The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the
smith. As Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt
Pol's watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing
iron that came from Durnik's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for
him. Durnik was an ordinarylooking man with plain brown hair and a plain
face, ruddy from the heat of his forge. He was neither tall nor short, nor
was he thin or stout. He was sober and quiet, and like most men who follow
his trade, he was enormously strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an
apron of the same material. Both were spotted with burns from the sparks
which flew from his forge. He also wore tight-fitting hose and soft
leather boots as was the custom in that part of Sendaria. At first
Durnik's only words to Garion were warnings to keep his fingers away from
the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time, however, he
and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.
"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad
for the iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more
than is needful."
"Why is that?" Garion would ask.
Durnik would shrug. "It just is."
"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as
he put a last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a
wagon tongue he was repairing.
"But that piece goes underneath," Garion said. "No one will ever see
it."