Книга только для ознакомления
.
A cold, thick, white fog had settled on the warmer sea.
The SKELTER glided under a feeble following wind. They
were far out in the midst of the Inland Sea. No land was
visible; indeed, nothing could be seen ten paces beyond the
ship's rail.
Sturm prowled the waist of the ship, scampering out of
the way of the sailors as they tightened the mainsail tackle.
The big square of canvas hung limply in the misty air,
flopping only rarely when a stray gust struck it.
Soren was on the poop. The steersman leaned on one
leg behind the sergeant, shifting the thick black staff of the
rudder with practiced ease. Timbers and rigging creaked as
SKELTER eased across the flat, languid water.
The weather was no fairer the second day at sea,
Captain Graff and his first mate - a squat, dwarvish fellow
with yellow eyes - put their heads together by the mast.
Naturally, Sturm was on hand to listen.
"Do ye think it's for the wind cord?" asked the mate.
Sturm was fascinated by the brass tooth in the front of the
man's mouth.
"Nay, 'tis not the time. This cursed mist may rise soon,
and the natural wind will spring up," said Graff.
Sturm asked Soren what the mate meant by 'wind cord.'
"Magic," he said
|
