"Greenwood, Ed - Elminster 05 - Elminster's Daughter_v1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

Delicately, the Silken Shadow spilled her paltry handful coins down from
above, to flash before his nose and bounce and roll. The moneylender
froze rather than darting into a wild run back and away, peered at a
rolling gold coin, and -- looked up.

To meet the handful of sand from her larger purse, followed by a shadow
that leaped down at him with spread hands clutching the cloak in front
of her like a streaming shield.

Caethur the moneylender had time to gape but no breath for a shout ere
she slammed into him, smashing him to the street. She felt something in
him break and crumple as she rode him mercilessly, their bodies bouncing
on the cobbles together. By then she had the cloak tight around his
head, one knee atop the arm that bore the claw, and a hand free to
backhand him across the throat, as hard as she could.

That quelled the dazed beginnings of his groans and left him sprawled
and limp. Narnra cut his well-worn belt with a slash from her best
knife, snatched away the belt-satchel -- heavy with deeds, coins, and
coffers -- and was up and gone, leaving her sacrificed coins and stolen
cloak behind.

Yet swift as she was, she was not quite swift enough. There was a shout
from up the street and the flash and flicker of Watch torches turning.

Grimly the Silken Shadow sprinted for her life, seeking the shop just
ahead that had an outside staircase.

You'd think I'd be somewhere grander than this, she thought savagely for
perhaps the ten thousand and forty-sixth time, if my father truly was a
great wizard and my mother a dragon. Where's my high station, my wealth,
and my power? Why can't I hurl spells or turn into a dragon?

* * * * *

The old cook whirled around. "Hah! Caught ye! Boy, d'ye still want to
have yer hire here, come dawn?"

The greasy kitchen lad froze, a basket of discarded cuttings and rotten
leavings clutched to his stained apron, and gave Phaerorn a look of
utter astonishment. "Hey?"

The cook stumped forward on his wooden leg, hefting his well-used
cleaver in one stubby-fingered, hairy hand, and asked softly, "And now
ye give me 'hey,' do ye? Fond of your nose, are ye?"

The rising cleaver gleamed menacingly, and Naviskurr realized the depths
of his error. "Ah, no, Master Phaerorn, sir -- ah, that is, yes, I am,
but I meant no harm, truly, and -- and --"