Читать «Rising Tide (зксм-1)» онлайн - страница 175

The old man took part of Jherek's weight and hauled him to the bar. "A man willing to fight like that against such odds, I'll stand him to a drink. Even if I have hold him up at the bar!" The rough men around them broke into laughter.

The bartender thumped a tankard of ale in front of Jherek, then pointed at the serving wenches. "Go through their pockets," he told them, "and take enough gold to pay for the damages." He looked at Jherek. "House rules: loser always pays the damages… one way or another."

Jherek struggled to cling to his senses, but he didn't reach for the ale. Still, it felt good to be standing among the rough crowd, momentarily accepted as one of their own. He felt guilty too. The fight wasn't something to be proud of.

"Drink up, boy," the old man said, slapping Jherek on the back. "It'll wash the blood out of your mouth and prevent infection. Hell, you drink enough, you won't even feel the pain."

The crowd laughed, yelling enthusiastically.

Jherek shook his head politely, then regretted it instantly when a new wave of pain fired through his skull. It felt like pieces of it were missing. "Don't drink," he said.

"What?" the old man asked.

"I said I don't drink," Jherek replied.

The old man passed the knowledge on to his comrades flocked together at the bar. "A fighting man always drinks," the man said, turning back to Jherek.

"Can't," Jherek said, thinking quickly, not wanting to offend his newfound friends. "It's my belief."

The old man drew back in wry surprise. "Now there's a piss-poor god for you-one that doesn't allow a man an honest drink now and again." He suddenly slammed his sword arm across his chest in benediction. "May Tyr protect a warrior who speaks his own mind so carelessly."

"No offense taken," Jherek said.

"What will you drink?" the man asked.

"Water, please."

Hrumphing in displeasure, the bartender said, "I've got some I keep around here for cutting drinks I sell to the young Amman fops who come around wanting to talk it up later that they've been to this place." He rummaged under the counter and brought up a bottle. "Here it is." He poured a quick tankard and sat it before Jherek.

"Thank you." Jherek took up the tankard and drank, tasting the coppery salt of the blood in his mouth. His wounded arm throbbed dully. Glancing at it, he pulled the sliced cloth away.

"You're going to need a few gathers in that one, boy," the old man said. "I know a cleric who does such work out of his temple. He'll expect a few silver pieces to be donated to his god in return, and a couple gold if you want him to bless it."

Jherek nodded and sipped his water again. Nausea swamped his stomach and he fought to keep its contents in place. He'd never felt that way when he'd fought the sahuagin, nor when he'd fought pirates out on the open seas, but Aysel wasn't as bluntly evil in his ways as they'd been. The big sailor had only been a man with an undisciplined tongue and low manner.