"Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody 5 - Elegy for a Lost Star" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haydon Elizabeth)

"Hrekin," he swore again.
Grunthor exhaled. "Aye, well, at least she was a master. Oi remember
back in the old land when the thieves' guild kept sending their trainees
after ya for a while. Remember that, sir? That was just plain senseless
carnage, it was. Not even really useful as target practice for you."
Achmed said nothing, but rose from the chest and traced the path
around his chambers, looking for all-but-invisible signs of disturbance.
They were everywhere.
Dust disturbed in only the slightest patterns, the occasional
repositioning of an object in such close proximity to where it had
originally been left that only one trained at the level he was trained would
have seen it. Subtle traps as well; a thin rim of poison on his mealtime
cutlery, his comb, on the brace of the doorframe, so discreetly laid out
that he might not have noticed, which meant that only a master assassin
could have laid them. Achmed's already sensitive skin prickled with gray
sweat at the thought, because it was clear that the woman had only had a
few moments in the room before being discovered.
"If you ever find that I have misplaced my head this badly again,
Grunthor, please be sure to have me bend over and check my arse for it,"
he said gloomily, removing a tiny spring-loaded pin from the toe of one of
his spare boots. "It must be wedged up there tightly enough to qualify me
as a Cymrian."
"Very well, sir," Grunthor said with exaggerated respect. "Oi 'ave a
button 'ook ya might be able to use ta get it out o' there, but it may not be
long enough."
Achmed opened the door to his chambers carefully, avoiding the
mercury-coated wire that had been filed hair-thin and positioned invisibly
along the doorjamb.
"Get me a set of glass calipers," he ordered one of the guards standing
watch in the hallway. "Drop them outside the door loud enough for me to
hear, then withdraw. Do not touch the handle." The Bolg soldier nodded
and jogged up the corridor.
"Is Omet still alive?" Achmed asked Grunthor, closing the door again.
The Bolg Sergeant nodded. "She poisoned 'im and left him for dead,
but Rhur and Shaene found 'im and took 'im to the tower."
The Bolg king's eyes, mismatched in color and position in his pocked
face, darkened at the significance of the Sergeant's words.
"Is that why they pulled the tower dome cover off? They were trying to
use the Lightcatcher? To heal Omet?"
Grunthor nodded, his expression guarded.
Achmed's movements slowed and he ran a gloved hand over his mouth,
pondering.
"And you say Omet is alive?"
"Yeah."
The Bolg king's head snapped up sharply. "How alive? Is he debilitated,
or hovering near death?"
Grunthor exhaled, his jaw set so rigidly in disapproval that the tusks
showed over his bulbous lips.
"Good as new," he said finally. "As if it 'ad never happened."
Achmed stood motionless, pondering, even the tides of his breath