"Paul S. Kemp - Erevis Cale 1 - Twilight Falling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kemp Paul S)

Suspicion narrowed Norel's eyes to slits. Obviously, he thought the ale might be poisoned. The thought
amused Vraggen. As if he could be so ... banal.
As quick as the snake that he was, Norel reached across the table and snatched the tankard from in
front of Vraggen, rather than the one set before him.
"Appreciated," Norel said, "but I'll have this one, if you please."
From the smug smile on his face, he seemed to think he had made a point.
Vraggen shrugged, took the ale in front of Norel, and said, "Well enough. This one will be mine then."
Vraggen immediately took a draw, grimacing at the watery taste of the indifferent brew. It reminded
him of the swill he had endured as a mage's apprentice in Tilverton, before that city's destruction by agents
of Shade Enclave.
Seeing Vraggen drink and not fall over dead, Norel grinned and gave an almost sheepish nodтАФthe
closest he would come to apologizing for his mistrust, Vraggen supposedтАФand took a long pull on his ale.
Vraggen watched him while he drank, smiling with an easy disingenuousness, but wondering if he would
need to kill him later in the evening. Not with anything as vulgar as poison of course, but dead was still
dead.
Time would tell, he supposed.
The two sat at a small table in a back corner of the Silver Lion, a mediocre taproom at the intersection
of Vesey Street and Colls Way, a boisterous corner deep in Selgaunt's Foreign District. It was spring, and
near the tenth hour. As usual for the Lion, a thick crowd of merchants, drovers, and caravan guards filled
the tables and slammed back drink. The heavy aroma of the Lion's infamous beef stewтАФa thick, wretched
concoction inexplicably favored by caravannersтАФhung in the air. When mixed with the ubiquitous smell of
pipeweed smoke and sweat, it made Vraggen's stomach turn. Tankards clanged, plates clattered, and
conversation buzzed. Everyone wore steel; everyone drank; and no one paid any attention to Vraggen and
Norel.
Exactly as Vraggen required.
He had chosen the Lion as the location to meet Norel for two reasons: first, it was in the Foreign
District. Zhent operatives like Norel considered the area a "hot zone," a high-trade area well patrolled by
Selgaunt's Scepters, the city's watchmen. Norel would therefore consider himself safe, and not fear the
meeting to be a pretense for a hit. Second, the noise of the crowd made eavesdropping difficult by all but
the most skilled and determined spy. That was well, for Vraggen wanted no premature disclosure of his
plans. Many Zhents thought him dead already, and he wanted them to continue to think as much until he
was ready to move.
Vraggen took another draw on his ale. When he placed the tin tankard, engraved with the crude crest of
a rearing lion, back on the table, he glanced casually into the crowd behind Norel, looking for his lieutenants.
There they were.
Azriim sat three tables away, his dusky skin gray in the light of the oil lamps, his long pale hair held off
his face with a jeweled fillet. Only in Selgaunt's Foreign District could a half-drow like Azriim go
unremarked. Sembians were notoriously prejudiced against elves of any type, but in Selgaunt coin spoke
before race. And Azriim's taste in finery suggested great wealth. Had they been in the Dalelands, Azriim
would have been arrested on sight, probably hanged.
Dolgan shared Azriim's table. The weight of the large Cormyrean, heavy-laden with axes, ring mail, and
a round gut, bowed the thick legs of the wooden chair.
Vraggen brought his gaze back to Norel, though the Zhent made only occasional eye contact. "I thought
you were dead," Norel said.
Vraggen smiled and replied, "You can see that I am not. I was merely away from the city for a time."
Norel gave a quick nod, and took a long pull on his ale. The Zhent operative was struggling to look calm,
but Vraggen saw through the facade: the furrowed brow, the white-knuckled grip on his tankard. Norel was
nervous.
Norel put back another long gulp of his ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set the
tankard down on the table with a smack.