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

And the water in her bowl took chop as the salt hit it, then began to cloud and
then to bubble as if salt had turned to acid in hearts all around the town. The
color of the water grew grayer, more opaque, and outside her skin-covered
window, snow began to fall in giant flakes.

"Go, snakes," she crooned, "go meet your brothers in the palace of the prince.
Meet and eat them, then defeat the peace between the Beysib and her Rankan host.
And find those children, both, and bite them with the poison of your fangs, so
that death beats down on midnight wings and Niko will be forced to come to me...
to me to save them." Almost, she didn't get those last words out, because a
chuckle rose to block the speech's end-especially the word "save."

For as she'd looked into the bowl she'd seen a vision, then another. First she'd
seen riders, and a boat with a lion rampant on its prow: one rider was her
ancient enemy, Tempus, called the Sleepless One, avatar of godly mischief;
another was Jihan, a more potent enemy. Froth Daughter, princess of the endless
sea, a copper-colored nymph of matchless passion, a sprite with all the strength
of moon and tides between her knees; another was Critias, Strat's partner and
better half, the coldest and boldest of the Stepsons, and the only man among the
lot of them who didn't need more-than mortal help to do his job. And on the
boat, now seeming like a wedding gift, all wrapped in gilt and gloriously
colored sails as it drew nearer, was a man she'd helped become a king, one who
owed an unequivocal debt to Death's Queen-Theron, Emperor of Ranke, who was so
anxious to pay Roxane's price he was trekking to the empire's anus to bow his
knee.

Oh, yes, she thought then. Trouble, let it come. For Roxane, once the visions
were cleared from the salted water of her bowl by an impatient, dusky hand, had
an idea-a thought, an inspiration, a vengeful task to undertake fitting to all
the harm past and present denizens of Sanctuary had done her: She'd seen the
error of her ways, and now she'd seen a new solution. She'd given up too much
for Nikodemos, who'd turned on her and spumed her. She'd trade this batch of
hapless souls to get back what she'd so foolishly bargained away.

And then it was left to her only to dismiss the snakes, drink the water in the
bowl, and settle down spread-legged in the middle of her summoning room floor,
awaiting the Devils of Demonic Deals, the Negotiators of Necromancy, the
Underworld's Underwriters, to appear, to take the bait a witch could offer and
then, when sated, be tricked into giving Roxane back immortality in exchange for
the deaths of a pair of children who might be gods if ever they grew up, and
that of Nikodemos, who deserved no better if he'd thought to spurn the witch who
loved him and survive it. Of course, she'd throw in Tempus, too, for fun. He'd
make an undead of choice to send raping and pillaging up and down the streets of
Sanctuary of an evening, streets so thick with hatred and slick with blood no
one would even think to worry about what kind of death they got.

For Sanctuarites cared only for this life, not the next. They were ignorant of
choices made beyond the grave, or given up today for trifles. They didn't know
or care that an eternity of hell could be had for cheap, or that the gods