-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 277/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Eventually
he
seemed
to
reach
an
agreement
with
himself
,
knelt
down
gingerly
and
pulled
a
battered
trunk
from
under
his
bed
.
He
opened
it
with
difficulty
and
unfolded
a
dusty
grey
robe
that
scattered
mothballs
and
tarnished
sequins
across
the
floor
.
He
pulled
it
on
,
brushed
off
the
worst
of
the
dust
,
and
crawled
under
the
bed
again
.
There
was
a
lot
of
muffled
cursing
and
the
occasional
clink
of
china
and
finally
Albert
emerged
holding
a
staff
taller
than
he
was
.
It
was
thicker
than
any
normal
staff
,
mainly
because
of
the
carvings
that
covered
it
from
top
to
bottom
.
They
were
actually
quite
indistinct
,
but
gave
the
impression
that
if
you
could
see
them
better
you
would
regret
it
.
Albert
brushed
himself
down
again
and
examined
himself
critically
in
the
washstand
mirror
.
Then
he
said
,
’
Hat
.
No
hat
.
Got
to
have
a
hat
for
the
wizarding
.
Damn
.
’
He
stamped
out
of
the
room
and
returned
after
a
busy
fifteen
minutes
which
included
a
circular
hole
cut
out
of
the
carpet
in
Mort
’
s
bedroom
,
the
silver
paper
taken
out
from
behind
the
mirror
in
Ysabell
’
s
room
,
a
needle
and
thread
from
the
box
under
the
sink
in
the
kitchen
and
a
few
loose
sequins
scraped
up
from
the
bottom
of
the
robe
chest
.
The
end
result
was
not
as
good
as
he
would
have
liked
and
tended
to
slip
rakishly
over
one
eye
,
but
it
was
black
and
had
stars
and
moons
on
it
and
proclaimed
its
owner
to
be
,
without
any
doubt
,
a
wizard
,
although
possibly
a
desperate
one
.
He
felt
properly
dressed
for
the
first
time
in
two
thousand
years
.
It
was
a
disconcerting
feeling
and
caused
him
a
second
’
s
reflection
before
he
kicked
aside
the
rag
rug
beside
the
bed
and
used
the
staff
to
draw
a
circle
on
the
floor
.
When
the
tip
of
the
staff
passed
it
left
a
line
of
glowing
octarine
,
the
eighth
colour
of
the
spectrum
,
the
colour
of
magic
,
the
pigment
of
the
imagination
.
He
marked
eight
points
on
its
circumference
and
joined
them
up
to
form
an
octogram
.
A
low
throbbing
began
to
fill
the
room
.
Alberto
Malich
stepped
into
the
centre
and
held
the
staff
above
his
head
.
He
felt
it
wake
to
his
grip
,
felt
the
tingle
of
the
sleeping
power
unfold
itself
slowly
and
deliberately
,
like
a
waking
tiger
.
It
triggered
old
memories
of
power
and
magic
that
buzzed
through
the
cobwebbed
attics
of
his
mind
.
He
felt
alive
for
the
first
time
in
centuries
.
