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The Colour of Magic :: Пратчетт Терри
Страница: 35 из 150Gringo, Urmond—take him.”
Two of the assassins stepped forward. Then Stren was in front of them, his sword appearing to materialise an inch from their throats without having to pass through the intervening air.
“Possibly I could only kill one of you,” he murmured, “but I suggest you ask yourselves which one?”
“Look up, Zlorf,” said Ymor.
A row of yellow, baleful eyes looked down from the darkness among the rafters.
“One step more and you’ll leave here with fewer eyeballs than you came with,” said the thiefmaster. “So sit down and have a drink, Zlorf, and let’s talk about this sensibly. I thought we had an agreement. You don’t rob– I don’t kill. Not for payment, that is,” he added after a pause.
Zlorf took the proffered beer.
“So?” he said. “I’ll kill him. Then you rob him. Is he that funny looking one over there?”
“Yes.”
Zlorf stared at Twoflower, who grinned at him.
He shrugged. He seldom wasted time wondering why people wanted other people dead. It was just a living. “Who is your client, may I ask?” said Ymor.
Zlorf held up a hand. “Please!” he protested. “Professional etiquette.”
“Of course. By the way—”
“Yes?”
“I believe I have a couple of guards outside—”
“Had.”
“And some others in the doorway across the street—”
“Formerly.”
“And two bowmen on the roof.”
A flicker of doubt passed across Zlorf’s face, like the last shaft of sunlight over a badly ploughed field. The door flew open, badly damaging the assassin who was standing beside it.
“Stop doing that!” shrieked Broadman, from under his table.
Zlorf and Ymor stared up at the figure on the threshold. It was short, fat and richly dressed. Very richly dressed. There were a number of tall, big shapes looming behind it. Very big, threatening shapes.
“Who’s that?” said Zlorf.
“I know him,” said Ymor. “His name’s Rerpf. He runs the Groaning Platter tavern down by Brass Bridge. Stren—remove him.”
Rerpf held up a beringed hand. Stren Withel hesitated halfway to the door as several very large trolls ducked under the doorway and stood on either side of the fat man, blinking in the light. Muscles the size of melons bulged in forearms like flour sacks. Each troll held a double-headed axe. Between thumb and forefinger.
Broadman erupted from cover, his face Suffused with rage.
“Out!” he screamed.
Two of the assassins stepped forward. Then Stren was in front of them, his sword appearing to materialise an inch from their throats without having to pass through the intervening air.
“Possibly I could only kill one of you,” he murmured, “but I suggest you ask yourselves which one?”
“Look up, Zlorf,” said Ymor.
A row of yellow, baleful eyes looked down from the darkness among the rafters.
“One step more and you’ll leave here with fewer eyeballs than you came with,” said the thiefmaster. “So sit down and have a drink, Zlorf, and let’s talk about this sensibly. I thought we had an agreement. You don’t rob– I don’t kill. Not for payment, that is,” he added after a pause.
Zlorf took the proffered beer.
“So?” he said. “I’ll kill him. Then you rob him. Is he that funny looking one over there?”
“Yes.”
Zlorf stared at Twoflower, who grinned at him.
He shrugged. He seldom wasted time wondering why people wanted other people dead. It was just a living. “Who is your client, may I ask?” said Ymor.
Zlorf held up a hand. “Please!” he protested. “Professional etiquette.”
“Of course. By the way—”
“Yes?”
“I believe I have a couple of guards outside—”
“Had.”
“And some others in the doorway across the street—”
“Formerly.”
“And two bowmen on the roof.”
A flicker of doubt passed across Zlorf’s face, like the last shaft of sunlight over a badly ploughed field. The door flew open, badly damaging the assassin who was standing beside it.
“Stop doing that!” shrieked Broadman, from under his table.
Zlorf and Ymor stared up at the figure on the threshold. It was short, fat and richly dressed. Very richly dressed. There were a number of tall, big shapes looming behind it. Very big, threatening shapes.
“Who’s that?” said Zlorf.
“I know him,” said Ymor. “His name’s Rerpf. He runs the Groaning Platter tavern down by Brass Bridge. Stren—remove him.”
Rerpf held up a beringed hand. Stren Withel hesitated halfway to the door as several very large trolls ducked under the doorway and stood on either side of the fat man, blinking in the light. Muscles the size of melons bulged in forearms like flour sacks. Each troll held a double-headed axe. Between thumb and forefinger.
Broadman erupted from cover, his face Suffused with rage.
“Out!” he screamed.