"Simon R. Green - Deathstalker Prelude 01 - Mistworld" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

bedclothes. The dropped lantern lay on its side in the doorway, filling the room with a flickering light. Cat
decided it was time he was going. He stepped carefully round the pile of heaving blankets and made for
the open door. The woman in the canopied bed opened her mouth and sang.

Cat sank to his knees as the song washed over him, scrambling his nervous system.A Siren! he thought
wildly.They set a Siren to guard the crystal! The song screamed through his body, shaking in his
muscles. He lurched to his feet, considered punching the woman out, decided this was no time to be
heroic, and plunged for the doorway. The Siren's song washed over him in waves, numbing his hands and
feet and blurring his eyesight.

Cat staggered out the door and down the passageway, paying no attention to the pressure alarms in the
floor, just concentrating all his will on not giving in to the Siren song that was trying to batter him
unconscious. He finally reached the window through which he'd entered, and pulled himself up into the
narrow opening. He wriggled through the window with desperate speed, and then his heart missed a beat
as a hand closed around his ankle, bringing him lurching to a halt. He kicked and struggled wildly, and the
hand lost its grip and fell away. Cat pulled himself out the window, grabbed the drainpipe, and hauled
himself up towards the roof. He scrambled over the gutter and then collapsed to lie flat on the
snow-covered tiles. He lay there a while shaking in every limb, slowly relaxing as he realised he'd left the
Siren's song behind. A woman whose voice and esp could combine to scramble a man's thoughts was an
impressive guard. Unless, of course, the burglar happens to be a deaf mute . . .

Cat grinned, and rising quickly to his feet, he padded away into the mists. For the first time in years, he
was glad not to have heard something.

CHAPTER TWO
A Gathering of Traitors

The reception area of Leon Vertue's office was warm, comfortable, and desperately civilised, and Jamie
Royal hated it. Much as he appreciated good living and luxury, he resented having his nose rubbed in it.
There was something decidedly smug in the office's ostentatious display of wealth. The sign over the
modestly plain front door had said simply blacksmith, but Jamie doubted that anyone who worked in this
luxurious office would know an anvil if they fell over it. He sighed, leant back in his recliner chair, and
tried to look as though he was used to such comforts. He surreptitiously trailed his fingers across the
slick, shining surface of the chair's arms. Plastic. Now that was real luxury. Jamie could count the number
of times he'd seen plastic on the fingers of one hand. More and more, he felt that he was very much out
of his depth.

He crossed one leg over the other, and tried to at least look relaxed. He glanced casually about the
office, hoping to find a lapse in taste so he could sneer at it. The wooden wall panels gleamed dully in the
light of the banked fire, and the single great window was closed and shuttered against the night cold. The
main light came from a single overhead lightsphere set into the ceiling. Jamie didn't care much for the
electric light. It was brighter than he was used to, and he didn't like its unwavering intensity. There was
something cold about electric light, cold and . . . unnatural. Jamie put the thought firmly from his mind,
and concentrated his attention on the gorgeous redheaded secretary sitting behind her desk. Her flawless
skin had a rich peaches-and-cream glow, even under the harsh electric light, and her features had a
sharp, classical perfection. Her figure was simply spectacular. Jamie cleared his throat loudly, and gave
her his most charming smile. She didn't look particularly impressed. Jamie sighed, and went back to
looking around the office.

Papers and magazines lay scattered across the coffee table before him, but they were all at least a week