"Robert E. Howard - Conan - Rogues In The House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Howard Robert E)

murderous weapon with a broad, double-edged blade nineteen inches long.
He slunk along alleys and shadowed plazas until he came to the district
which was his destination -- the Maze. Along its labyrinthian ways he went
with the certainty of familiarity. It was indeed a maze of black alleys and
enclosed courts and devious ways; of furtive sounds, and stenches. There
was no paving on the streets; mud and filth mingled in an unsavory mess.
Sewers were unknown; refuse was dumped into the alleys to form reeking
heaps and puddles. Unless a man walked with care he was likely to lose his
footing and plunge waist-deep into nauseous pools. Nor was it uncommon to
stumble over a corpse lying with its throat cut or its head knocked in, in the
mud. Honest folk shunned the Maze with good reason.

Conan reached his destination without being seen, just as one he wished
fervently to meet was leaving it. As the Cimmerian slunk into the courtyard
below, the girl who had sold him to the police was taking leave of her new
lover in a chamber one flight up. This young thug, her door closed behind
him, groped his way down a creaking flight of stairs, intent on his own
meditations, which, like those of most of the denizens of the Maze, had to do
with the unlawful acquirement of property. Part-way down the stairs, he
halted suddenly, his hair standing up. A vague bulk crouched in the darkness
before him, a pair of eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunting beast. A beastlike
snarl was the last thing he heard in life, as the monster lurched against him
and a keen blade ripped through his belly. He gave one gasping cry and
slumped down limply on the stairway.

The barbarian loomed above him for an instant, ghoul-like, his eyes
burning in the gloom. He knew the sound was heard, but the people in the
Maze were careful to attend to their own business. A death cry on darkened
stairs was nothing unusual. Later, some one would venture to investigate,
but only after a reasonable lapse of time.

Conan went up the stairs and halted at a door he knew well of old. It was
fastened within, but his blade passed between the door and the jamb and
lifted the bar. He stepped inside, closing the door after him, and faced the
girl who had betrayed him to the police.

The wench was sitting cross-legged in her shift on her unkempt bed. She
turned white and stared at him as if at a ghost. She had heard the cry from
the stairs, and she saw the red stain on the poniard in his hand. But she was
too filled with terror on her own account to waste any time lamenting the
evident fate of her lover. She began to beg for her life, almost incoherent
with terror. Conan did not reply; he merely stood and glared at her with his
burning eyes, testing the edge of his poniard with a callused thumb.

At last he crossed the chamber, while she cowered back against the wall,
sobbing frantic pleas for mercy. Grasping her yellow locks with no gentle
hand, he dragged her off the bed. Thrusting his blade in the sheath, he
tucked his squirming captive under his left arm and strode to the window. As
in most houses of that type, a ledge encircled each story, caused by the
continuance of the window ledges. Conan kicked the window open and