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

The key scratched in the lock. Fumbling in the smoky darkness, Byron
wondered if Rayner had been upstairs in bed or working in the shop when
the fire broke out. Or had one of his spellcastings started the fire? Had he
grabbed the most valuable supplies and run? That seemed natural, so it
was strange the door was lockedтАж
 Gasping, Byron shoved the door open, sidled around and shoved it
closed, breathed fresh air, Obviously the master hadn't corne into the
workshop, for there was no smoke here.

No, he amended. Rayner had been here. Was still here.

Three guttering candles lit the room. The shop was a riot of
mismatched tables and benches and bulging chests covered with
thaumaturgical paraphernalia and tools and books. Sagging shelves were
laden with crocks and jars and boxes and sacks of magic-making
materials. At the center of the room was Rayner's own work table, which
the apprentices were never allowed to touch.

Rayner sat on his high stool at the table, calm as ice.

Byron tiptoed over. Rayner was a big burly man, once an ox drover,
now Waterholm's finest cardsmith. His thick shock of swept-back hair and
spade-shaped beard showed glints of gray.

No, glints of ice.

Tiptoeing, the apprentice touched his master's brawny arm. It was cool
and slippery, coated with a sheath of ice a fingernail's thickness. The ice
refracted the candlelight, making Rayner glisten like a rainbow.

Horrified, yet fascinated, Byron prodded his masters bristling beard.
The ice coating splintered, tinkled and chimed as it pattered on Rayner's
icy lap. Under the glaze, Byron saw Rayner's eyes were open and staring,
like a hibernating snake found under a winter rock.

But Rayner wasn't hibernating. He was dead, frozen solid.

Byron shuddered for himself as well as his master, for this was a
common fate of cardsmiths. In some distant future, Byron's own
apprentice might find him cold as an icicle.

He heard a thud and muffled crackling, remembered the fire. A pearl of
water dripped from Rayner's nose. The temperature in the workshop was
climbing. In a short while, Rayner would go from frozen to crisped.

And Byron would too, if he didn't find a way out of this flaming
deathtrap. But first things first.
 Rayner had died casting a spell on a card. The pasteboard square was
still clutched between icy fingers. Byron picked up an iron candlestick and