"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

scout out the city before nightfall, to get his bearings for the morrow's work. He owed himself that much,
didn't he? Regretfully he released the small bottle, leaving it beside its brethren. Later, he promised it.
Later.

It was a vast city, a crowded city, filled with sights and sounds and smells almost beyond bearing. Its
undercurrent was a tide of anxiety which he could taste on his lips as he braved the crowded streets,
trying to make his way as the locals did, without touching. Cobblestoned streets splashed with mud
offered uncertain footing, but at least they were clean; he knew

cities where the awkward contraptions used to catch horse droppings weren't required by law, and the
smell of those was something that defied description. Here, thanks to a strange combination of civil
tolerance and legal regulation there were no aging drunks cowering in doorways, no wide-eyed cerebums
twitching their way along the sidewalk as they dreamed their mad dreams of chaos and depravity, not
even a wild-haired prophet or two to cry out their warnings of doom and destruction while handing out
advertising circulars for the nearest pagan temple. It all existed, here as elsewhere, but in Jaggonath it was
shut away behind closed doors. And for that Andrys Tarrant was infinitely grateful.

He soon came to the silver district, so named for the metal that best reflected the sun's white brilliance.
Warded windows were filled with treasures, worked in that metal and others: yellow and pink gold,
copper and bronze, and the sun-metals: silver, white gold, platinum, polished steel, others. He didn't
know the names of all of them and often couldn't tell them apart; when Betrise used to bring out her prize
serving utensils, worked in five different white metals, he used to shake his head in amazement that
anyone would spend a small fortune to purchase such a thing.

Not that money had been an issue in those days, of course. The first Neocount had seen to that by
sinking his wealth into investments that tripled in value before anyone could manage the legal contortions
required to get at it. If Andrys had thought about it then, he might have believed that the man was trying
to provide for his abandoned son by assuring wealth for his progeny. Now it just seemed like a cruel
joke. Money couldn't bring his family back, could it? Money couldn't make this nightmare end. But if did
pay for drugs and liquor and occasionally-when he required that kind of cold, impersonal convenience-it
paid for women.

He forced his attention where it belonged and studied the objects in the windows before him, trying not
to dwell on the implications of what he was about to do. Better not to think about that. Better not to think

about anything, just accept Calesta's orders and obey them blindly and pray that somewhere, somehow,
vengeance would be achieved. Calesta said that Andrys should come to Jaggonath, so he had done so.
Calesta said that Andrys should seek out a silversmith, so he would. Calesta said that he should cause to
be made-

A cold shiver coursed up his spine. Don't think about what he wants with it. When it's ready, that's time
enough to know. He forced himself to study the objects displayed in the windows, searching for
something that would help him decide on one shop or another. Each shop seemed to have its own
specialty: he passed by displays of jewelry, daggers, decorative goblets, engraved tableware, thousand
and one items suitable for courtship, weddings, formal ceremony. Nothing displayed was exactly like
what he needed, but was that a surprise? How long had it been since that kind of work was last done in
Jaggonath? Or anywhere, for that matter?

At last, with effort, he winnowed the choices down to five likely candidates. One by one he studied them
through their mesh-bound windows, trying to get a feel for the businesses inside. Hoping for some kind of