"Clayton Emery - Card Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

pursuit but saw none in the silvery streets. Down to the river they slunk,
then across one of many bridges. Passing from the rich side of town to the
poor side, the prince's soldiers didn't detain them, assuming they were
servants going home or to drink. Only if they'd tried to enter the rich side
would they be questioned.
 Below the bridge the River Wis thundered in its stone channel. North,
the famous waterfall that named the city plunged eternally, shining white
and alive by moonlight. Across the river, sloping up again, the streets were
narrower and littered with garbage and filth, sleeping pigs and dogs and
humans.

Pausing after trudging up steep cobbles, Byron gazed west. Past
sparking chimneys and candlelit windows, far across the river, he saw that
Rayner's grand house still burned. Numerous small fires ringed it;
neighbors' outhouses and trees, probably. At this vantage point, many
citizens stood with jacks in their hands and watched.

Slump-shouldered and staring, Byron wondered how he felt about his
master's ruin. Curiously, he felt little. He'd lived there three years,
befriended the cooks and maids. But Rayner had been a hard taskmaster,
and his jealous mistresses had resented the apprentices, who in turn
badgered one another, with Byron at the bottom. Now the servants would
find new work while the mistresses were pitched out in the cold, and the
apprentices wereтАФwhat? Escaped? Crisped? Captured by bishop's guards?

Again: Why had they been attacked by the bishop? And why hadn't the
prince's soldiers stopped them? As one of the richest (if cheapest) men in
the city, Rayner had paid plenty in taxes. But the soldiers hadn't come to
their aid. Was the prince in on the trouble, whatever it was?

But better worry about himself first, he cautioned. He was out in the
cold, out of work, and perhaps hunted. Or perhaps not. But he could
hardly ask a guard or soldier if he wanted to capture him. So howтАФ

He groaned. Even thinking tired him.

"Are you moonstruck? Or will you stand here all night?" asked the
swordswoman.

"What? Oh, no. Come on." He turned down an alley between two tilting
houses, his holey hose seeping cold ooze between his toes. Under a rickety
staircase, he rapped a signal on a door. A panel slid open. Steamy air
flavored with wine and laughter gushed out. Byron couldn't recall the
current password. "Uh, it's me, Byron from House Rayner."

The door unlatched and swung open. Byron squished inside on his
soggy foot. The swordswoman jerked the door wider to admit her huge
dog.

By a red lantern, the doorkeeper sneered at their disheveled clothing.