"Jane S. Fancher - Dance of the Rings 3 - Ring of Destiny" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fancher Jane S)

been on the uppermost judgment dais. Mikhyel had
seemed . . . taller then.
The second time they'd crossed paths had been in the
depths of Sparingate Crypt, prison for the worst and dumb-
est. He'd been there for attempting to assassinate the Rho-
mandi, never mind he'd been caught because he'd been
stopping his associate from that precise dastardly deed. The
fact was, after tailing Rhomandi long enough to evaluate
his worthiness to be dead, he'd gone back on his hire. He'd
decided that Rhomandi's loss to the world was not worth
the risk to his own well-being should he be caught. And in
that refusal to kill Deymorin Rhomandi he'd pissed off the
wrong person in the Tower. Since That Person, the broth-
ers' own charming aunt Anheliaa, was now dead, the details
of that incarceration were moot.
Besides, over the years he'd acquired ample points on
the shady side of the law to offset more than one mis-
taken ruling.
By the strictest rule of law, he'd belonged in the Crypt;
the Rhomandi brothers had not, not by any stretch of any
law. The Rhomandi brothers had pissed off more than their
aunt, and been tossed among the worst element of Rhoma-
tum society for, of all things, impersonating themselves.
Some idiosyncracies of the elite defied even his under-
standing.
The lump nudged his elbow; Ganfrion ignored him and
took another swallow, his mind wandering off, wondering
who it was that had wanted them deadbecause someone
had. Deymorin might have passed unnoticed, save for the
normal challenges a strong man faced in establishing crypt-
status: of all those in the Crypt, he'd likely been the only
one who'd ever seen Deymorin Rhomandi before. Nikki
was even less well-known.
Mikhyel, on the other hand, was known by each and
every scut in that high security level of the prison. Mikhyel,
Lord High Justice dunMheric, had sentenced every one of
them.
Only chance, in the form of the complete absence of the
beard that had been the Barrister's signature for years, had
prevented his instant exposure. And it wasn't that it had
simply been shaved. In all those long hours the brothers
spent in the Crypt, not so much as a shadow had appeared
around that deceptively sensual mouth.
Another impatient jab; he handed the flask to the lump.
The crypt-scut had called the unknown inmate pretty,
crypt-slang for powerless new meat. The crypt-scut had
been in error: Ganfrion doubted Mikhyel dunMheric had
ever been powerless. He could imagine Mikhyel dunMheric
determining the moment of his own birth from the dark
depth of his mother's womb, some twenty-seven years ago.