"Karen Haber - Thieves' Carnival" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haber Karen)

tunic. Nut-brown, he had light shaggy hair and a hard face. Just her luck to have
drawn him as her partner for The Race at Thieves' Carnival, she thought. She
watched his gray eyes darken as he appraised her. Apparently, the feeling was
mutual. Angrily, Mouse brushed her wild black hair back from her forehead. To her
left, Vandor was already plotting with his partner, a tall, slim redhead. Now why,
Mouse wondered, couldn't she have drawn Vandor? Tall and dark, with long,
graceful arms and legs, he was much more to her taste than this short, ugly stranger.
"Don't you eat regularly?" her partner asked. Mouse grabbed the knife in her belt.
She was sensitive about her thinness.
"Does anybody eat regularly in Thieves' Quarter?" she snapped. "If you weren't a
stranger here, you wouldn't ask such stupid questions. Besides, you don't exactly
look well fed yourself."
"I'm a traveling minstrel," he said, patting his harp. "Eating is a luxury."
Mouse sniffed. "If you're a minstrel, what are you doing in The Race?"
"The Race is famous in all the Four Quarters. And the prize would buy me a new
harp." He shrugged. "How could I resist?" She was about to tell him just how much
she wished he'd resisted the temptation when Vandor walked past them, his arm
around his partner's shoulders. He winked at Mouse. She gave him a bright smile
that only dimmed as she turned toward her partner.
"What's your name?" she asked, sighing. "Ciaran. And yours?" "I'm called
Mouse." His gray eyes flickered with amusement. "I can see why."
"You know, I'm beginning to wish I'd drawn a Kald," Mouse said. "Even if they
don't exist. Or maybe a Weirder. Anything would be better than a scruffy musician
with bad manners."
She turned her back on him and studied the green cobblestones of the plaza as
though she had not seen them a thousand times before, had not run across them as a
child playing thievish games, had not crept over them in quest of bread, dream wine,
or some other necessity that she could later sell. Mouse had been born in Thieves'
Quarter to a family five generations deep in thievery. She expected to die there. But
not soon. And not, by Shuruun, until she'd won The Race at Thieves' Carnival. Even
if she had to drag the dead weight of this harpist along behind her.
"All thieves, attention!" yelled Gray Tom, the crier for the Quarter. "Come now
and pick your tasks."
He doffed his wide-brimmed orange hat and held it out toward the crowd. Eager
fingers grabbed for the slips of vellum within; each assigned a theft considered
dangerous and daring. The thieves knew they would be judged not merely for agility,
but for swiftness and style as well. Mouse darted between two heavyset men in
brown wattle fur and snatched a vellum slip. It was soft in her hands and stained
from hard use. She swore as she read the markings on it.
"What's wrong?" Ciaran peered over her shoulder.
"Well, my luck is holding true," she said, scowling. "Here. Read it for yourself."
She tossed the slip to him.
The harpist caught the strip of hide and stared at it, a frown furrowing his brow.
Then he turned the slip around and squinted at it. Finally, his eyes met hers.
Mouse saw chagrin and embarrassment in their gray depths. "I can't read," he said,
his voice soft.
She snorted. "Can't read? And you a minstrel? Well, you must have a good memory.
Remember this, then, Ciaran the Harpist: We must steal the Portal Cube from the
Black Cathedral." With satisfaction, she watched his jaw drop in amazement.
"The Portal Cube?" he said. "Are they mad?" "No. They're thieves." She