"Asprin, Robert - Thieves' World 08 - Soul of the City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asprin Robert)

Hearing his name shook Theron from his funk. But the old fighter was nearly
speechless, quaking visibly.

Seeing this, Tempus recovered himself: "You scared us half to death. Is this
your darkness, then?" Tempus stepped back and waved a hand toward the sky beyond
the corbeled ceiling overhead. "If so, we could do without it. Scares the
locals. We're trying to settle in a military rule here, not start a civil war."

A shadow passed quickly over the beautiful face of the Slaughter Priest and
Tempus, seeing it, wanted to ask, "Are you real? Are you reborn? Have you come
to stay?"

The shade looked him hard in the eye and that glance struck his soul and shocked
it. "No. None of that, Riddler. I am here to bring a message and ask a favor-for
favors done and yet to be done."

"Ahem. Tempus, will you introduce me? It's my palace, after all," the emperor
growled, bluffing annoyance, straining for composure, and casting covetous
glances at the horses- if such they were-which stood at parade rest in their
traces, ears pricked forward, just a bit of steam issuing from their nostrils.
"Favors," Theron murmured, "done and yet to be done...."

"Theron, Emperor of Ranke, General of the Armies and so forth, meet Abarsis,
Slaughter Priest, former High Priest of Vashanka, former-"

"Former living ally," Abarsis cut in, smooth as a whetted blade, "and ally
still, Theron. We've a problem, and it lies in Sanctuary. Speaking through
priests is a matter for gods; my mandate is different. Tempus, whom we both
love, must listen to gods, not priests, but on this occasion, I am... well
equipped..." His grin flashed as it had once in life: "... to interpret." Then
he shifted and his gaze caught Tempus's and held: "The message is: the globes of
Nisibisi power must be destroyed; all the gods will rejoice when it is done.
Destroyed in Sanctuary, where there are tortured souls of yours and mine to be
released. The favor is: grant Niko's wish in a matter of children ... yours and
Ours."

Ours? There was no mistaking the upper-case tone Abarsis had used-a tone
reserved for deific matters and one word 'spoken by the dead High Priest of
Vashanka who had come so far to utter it. Liking the smell of things less and
less, Tempus took a step backward and sat upon the table's edge, thinking, For
this, he comes to me. Wonderful. Now what?

For Tempus, who could refuse a god and obstruct an arch-mage, knew, looking at
Abarsis, that he could refuse this one nothing. It was an old debt, a mutual
responsibility stretching far beyond such trifles as life and death. It was a
matter of souls, and Tempus's soul was very old. So old that, seeing Abarsis yet
young, yet beautiful in his spirit and his honor in a way Tempus no longer could
be, the man called the Riddler felt suddenly very tired.

And Tempus, who never slept-who had not slept since he had been cursed by an