Книга только для ознакомления
. "Don't call me that," he whis-
pered, referring to the affectionate nickname Flint had let
slip.
Flint had seldom seen such suffering as he noted in his
nephew's face, and he had felt it only once: after his own fa-
ther's death. "Aylmar was my big brother - my friend - just
like you and I were before I left."
"You're nothing like my father."
Flint ran a hand through his hair. "Nor would I try to be. I
just wanted you to know I feel his loss, too."
"Sorry, old man. No consolation." Basalt turned his back
on his uncle.
Flint was getting angry. "I'm still young enough to whip
the smartmouthedness out of you, harrn."
But Flint could see by his nephew's reaction that he no
longer heard him. Basalt strutted before his uncle, wearing a
patronizing smirk. "I can't blame you for coming back now,
you know, when there's real money to be made." He did not
even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
It was Flint's turn to poke at his nephew, his thick index
finger within an inch of Basalt's bulbous Fireforge nose.
"I've had about all I'll take from you today. You want some-
one to be angry at, and you've chosen me, when the two
people you're really hopping mad at are your father and
yourself!"
Basalt's ample cheeks burned scarlet, and suddenly his
right fist flew out toward Flint's jaw
|
