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

They'd swabbed off some dirt and spiderwebs at a public fountain, but
were still gummy and grimy. Then he rocked back on his high stool,
squeaked, "NoтАФno dogs!"

The swordswoman pushed past. "I'll buy her a beer."

From the top of a staircase, the cellar was packed, hot and steamy and
noisy as a public bath. The far side sported a rude bar with red-glass
lanterns. The floor was uneven flagstones jammed with plank tables and
benches like a student's dining hall. Many roisterers were students who
gulped weak ale and argued the day's lessons. Card players gambled and
argued over bets and rules. Fops in flashy clothes cradled whores in their
arms, while a few weary workmen nursed beers. And of course, there was a
clot of cardsmiths' apprentices in black, most of whom Byron knew but
didn't want to greet.

This was a card den, one of many scattered throughout the city. Illegal,
like all aspects of cardwork, but thriving because of it.

He shouldered to a corner table, asked the patrons to slide along the
bench, and collapsed against the wall. But the swordswoman gestured at
him with a hooked thumb.

"What?" Byron croaked. Talking made him realize he was parched from
breathing smoke and running. It hurt to say that one word. He waved
frantically at a barmaid.

The swordswoman plucked him up. "I get the wall. I don't like folks
behind me."

Too tired to argue, Byron shifted around the table. He'd lost half a
night's sleep, squeaked through narrow escapes and death threats.
Temporarily safe and packed amongst hot bodies, he was gloriously warm,
and only the promise of a drink kept him awake. Yet he couldn't sleep. He
had to rest and run, or else answer questions in the church's dungeons. So
much for the glamorous trade of cardsmithing, he sighed.

"I'm Cerise." The swordswoman signalled her dog under the table's end.
"It means тАШCherry,тАЩ and spare me the jokes. Who are you?"
 "Byron." He hoped the drink would come soon, and that he had the
strength to drink it, and didn't drown by falling in face-first. He hoped,
too, this woman didn't pester him with questions. "It meansтАФI don't know
what it means. Apprentice, uh, ex-apprentice to Rayner, late of House
Rayner. Late house, too, come to think of it."

"Your master is dead?"

Byron jerked his head up. Laughter and gossip and shrieks and catcalls
made a windstorm, so they had privacy after a fashion. "Uh, yes. But I
shouldn't have said it. I'm so tired I'm slipping."