Книга только для ознакомления
.
ONLY MORAN RODE ON, A THIN, TIRED KNIGHT
PULLING A CART THAT HELD A SWORD, A SHIELD,
AND A CORPSE. THE BODY HAD BEEN REVERENTLY
WRAPPED IN A BLANKET. MORAN HAD KEPT IT
COOL WITH WATER FROM HIS PRECIOUS TRAVEL
RATION. HE PASSED THE OBELISK AT THE EDGE OF
TOWN, GLANCED AT THE FINAL LINE ON IT:
THE GODS REWARD US IN THE GRACE OF OUR HOME
HE TURNED AWAY.
MORAN RODE PAST THE NEARLY COMPLETED
TEMPLE OF MISHAKAL. SEVERAL WANDERERS
GAWKED AT IT, ALL OF THEM MORE IMPRESSED
WITH THE STONEWORK THAN A SINGLE DUSTY
KNIGHT OF SOLAMNIA.
HE KNOCKED AT A SHABBY WOODEN BUILDING.
ITS STONE REAR WALL WAS A SIDE WALL OF THE
ENTRANCE GATE FOR THE STAIRCASE CALLED "THE
PATHS OF THE DEAD." A YOUNG GIRL ANSWERED.
"I'M LOOKING FOR ALWYN THE GRAVER," SAID
MORAN.
"HE'S BOUGHT INTO HIS OWN WARES," THE GIRL
SAID SIMPLY. "THE BUSINESS IS MINE NOW. I'M
LORAINE."
MORAN LOOKED AT HER AND THOUGHT AT
FIRST, "NOTHING BUT A CHILD." HE LOOKED AT
HER EYES AND QUICKLY REALIZED THAT SHE WAS A
WOMAN - JUST GROWN SHORTER THAN MOST.
LORAINE COULDN'T SEE OVER THE CART SIDES.
SHE CLIMBED ONE OF THE WHEELS, STARED IN,
THEN GASPED AT THE SIGHT OF THE SWORD AND
SHIELD. "WHO IS IT?" SHE WAS LIKE A CHILD AT A
PUPPET SHOW, WAITING FOR THE NEXT SURPRISE
|
