"Simon Hawke - Wizard 1 - The Wizard of 4th Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

"My first day," the cabbie said, as if apologizing for his inexperience. "My first day on the job and I pick up a
sor-cerer." He shook his head. "Man, you talk about your pres-sure!" The cab lurched again. The driver swore and
returned his concentration to his driving spell.
"It's all right. Just take it easy, you'll be fine," said Wyr-drune.
From the man's long white hair, full-length robe, and des-tination, the cabbie had assumed he was a sorcerer. It was a
perfectly logical assumption. Most adepts wore their hair long; sorcerers wore it down below the shoulders. Warlocks
wore monklike cassocks; wizards wore three-quarter-length capes; and sorcerers wore robes. It wasn't a rule, it was
just tradition, but a well respected one. Aside from the fact that long hair and robes weren't fashionable and hadn't
been for years, it was the way most people recognized sorcerers and wizards, and it was inadvisable to assume the
appearance of a wizard if you were not even a lower-grade adept. You might meet a real one, and he might not be
amused. As for mages, they generally wore robes in the functions of their office, but otherwise they dressed pretty
much the way they chose. There were only five of them in the whole world, and they knew who they were. So it was
logical for the cabbie to assume that Wyrdrune was a sorcerer, especially since he was on his way to Christie's, where
the well-publicized auc-tion of the Euphrates artifacts was to take place. But it was an incorrect assumption. Wyrdrune
was not a sorcerer. He was not even a wizard. He was at best an undergraduate warlock, and one who had been kicked
out of school, at thatтАФa condition he hoped was only temporary. He was doing something about it at that very
moment.
He imagined the police questioning the cabbie later, as they would be bound to. The cabbie would tell them that his
fare had been a sorcerer. About sixty or seventy years old, he'd sayтАФolder, maybe, hard to tell. Long white hair and
beard, green robe, slouch hat, about five foot five or six, walked stooped over. He'd tell them that he had picked him up
at the Plaza Hotel and driven him to Christie's for the auction. They hadn't exchanged more than a few words. The
sorcerer had given him a nice tip. Wyrdrune scowled at the thought of that tip. He could barely afford the cab ride,
much less the tip, but there was nothing he could do about it, just as there had been no way to avoid tipping the door-
man at the Plaza for getting him the cab. He had gone in and out of the hotel a number of times during the preceding
day, so the doorman would see him several times and think that he was staying there. He wanted it to look as if the job
had been done by a sorcerer from out of town, with money, per-haps backed by an organization. And once the job was
done, money would no longer be a problem. He hated doing this, but he was truly up against it, and he just couldn't
see any other way.
The cab pulled up behind a long black limo parked in front of Christie's. Some corporate sorcerer arriving in his
company car. The guy got out and swept his robes out be-hind him with a flourish, midnight silk, very fancy, and then
the doorman was opening the rear door of the cab and stand-ing aside for Wyrdrune to get out.
"Good morning, sir," said the doorman.
Wyrdrune ignored him and headed toward the canopied entrance, walking slightly stooped over and leaning on his
cane. A sign by the door read, private auction,
EUPHRATES ARTIFACTS, 11:00 A.M., BIDDING LIMITED TO LI-CENSED MAGES, SORCERERS, AND WIZARDS OR
THEIR BONDED REPRESENTATIVES. SORRY, NO CAMERAS PERMIT-TED.
The cameras that were not permitted inside the gallery were outside on the sidewalk by the entrance. The press was
keeping a discreet distance while filming the arriving bid-ders. Politicians and celebrities were liable to get mikes
shoved in their faces and be assaulted with a barrage of questions, but ever since an irritated sorcerer had made one
newswoman's hair fall out, the press had been cautious around magic users.
And then he was inside. Getting in hadn't been a problem. Getting out again, however, could be a bit more difficult,
especially if anything went wrong. There were a number of policemen stationed around the room, but security wasn't
all that tight. Who in their right mind would try anything in a
roomful of sorcerers? Nobody would. And that's just what Wyrdrune was counting on.
A bored-looking waiter approached him with a tray of champagne glasses, but Wyrdrune shook his head and waved
him on. He was going to need all his wits about him, and he needed to keep both hands free. He edged around the
room, avoiding eye contact, not wishing to be drawn into conversation. It was like a convention of magicians. The
room was filled with a soft, conversational undertone and the rustle of capes and robes. Wyrdrune made his way
around to the east side of the room and stood next to the heavy drapes just behind a marble column. The auctioneer, a
tall, stylishly conservative man with a thin mustache and an artfully streaked geometric hairstyle took his place behind