Chilled exorcist - страница 24

"Oh, you mean that," the servant smiled and waved his hand lightly, then folded his arms across his chest, "it's just gallantry and fashion. I apologize for embarrassing you. Please come along, Count Feanot doesn't like to wait."

"So 'this' is called 'gallantry,'" I finally explained to myself this phenomenon, so sharply at variance with my picture of the world.

"He's probably right," I thought, and for some reason I got cold feet. Someone has to defend the wall, and someone else will walk around in a caftan and fold their fingers in an exquisite manner in front of their guests. I sighed and followed. When the servant saw that I had followed him, he continued on his way, turning around just as gallantly. The hem of his robe swept into the air again.

…

The feasting hall was being used for a meeting today. Fourteen hunters, who had been sent out by the Order to fulfill the Count's assignment, were seated here. Two hunting dogs were warming themselves by the fireplace. The exorcists settled down, removed their bags and other articles of clothing, and hung them on the backs of massive oak chairs. Spears and swords were laid out. I was the only one with a crossbow. I laid it down in front of me.

The huntress girl across from me had her feet on the table, swinging on the oak chair. I'd never seen a girl hunter before, so I looked in her direction. She pulled her hat over her eyes, showing with her whole look that she was ignoring me. We're loners.

To my right sat a hunter so ancient that he literally had glowing mushrooms growing on him like a chill. His hand twitched involuntarily from time to time, and saliva flowed from his mouth now and then. His shoulder was adorned with a servant's patch that read, "Meritorious Service to the Order of Hotta".

Opposite him, a thieving-looking assassin of the cold ones ran his eyes. With one arm over the back of his chair, he was picking at his teeth with a dagger. When he met my gaze, he nodded. "What do you want?" he said.

To his right sat the Best of Us. His hands were folded, his chin resting on them, and he was thinking about something. His ancient milchemist mask looked like a raven's beak. Once upon a time, one of the Archmages of Theanoth had cursed a fellow hunter of the Chill to never die. What drove him to such a strange curse, no one knows. But that hunter had somehow found a way to twist the spell, and now it worked differently, becoming a title among the exorcists. The Best-of-us really can't just die from the paws and claws of monsters. However, if he is in a group with other hunters, he may well die. And then will be chosen by lot again, among the survivors. Or as in the case of the current hunter – the last surviving member of the group will be recognized as The Best-of-us.

"Gorevetr! Is that you?" asked one of the hunters with a sword.

"I am," nodded one of the hunters with an axe.

"Don't die," grinned the killer of the creatures of the canopy.

"Don't fall off your hooves like your horse. By the way, where is she now?" Gorevetr answered him with a reciprocal grin.

"Feeding fish," the swordsman said, grinning.

"Fish? You can tell me later where you found fish in the depths of the continent," the axe-wielder shook his head approvingly.

I knew very well where one could lose a horse that way. Here, near the Castle, there's an old quarry filled with land fish. The locals often ask to rescue some livestock or get something out of it. Or who. There's piles of gold down there. Fools' gold. People go down to get rich, but all they find is a pack of land fish and hungry fish. They can be very hard to kill, especially in winter. These strange creatures survive even after a few blows to the head. Rumor has it that even the brain-deprived body of one of these amphibians continued to hunt for several more months.