"Katherine Kurtz - Adept 01 - The Adept" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

by the time he escaped over the sea of Skye and then took up his sad exile in France. It reminded him of all
the splinters of the true Cross he had seen over the years - which, if put together, would have made enough
crosses to crucify a dozen Kings of the Jews.
So he supposed the Scots could have their relics too. It mattered not to him. And the Scottish relic of
tonight's interest would bring a pretty sum.
He smiled as he approached its case and shone his light through the glass, heedless of the Cavalier
watching from above the mantel. The swept-hilt rapier and its scabbard lay on a bed of dark blue velvet,
elegant tributes to the ornate style favored by Italian armorers of the late sixteenth century. The gold of the
hilt and guard was deeply chased, and gold-washed etching glittered on the blued blade.
The scabbard was a more modest item, executed in Moroccan leather, but several semiprecious gems
flashed discreetly along its length and at the throat. Between blade and scabbard, creamy white against the
dark blue velvet, a small card carried a terse three-line inscription in an elegant copperplate hand:

The Hepburn Sword
once owned by Sir Francis Hepburn
the "Wizard Earl" of Bothwell, d. 1624
The man in black breathed a small grunt of satisfaction. Taking the tiny flashlight in his teeth, he extracted a
delicate lock pick from an inner pocket and probed briefly at the case's lock. When it yielded, he raised the
lid and engaged its stops. The hilt of the sword fit his gloved hand as if made for it, and he felt a thrill of
imagination as he drew the weapon from the case and tried its balance, sighting along its blade where the
etching caught the torchlight. Why, oh, why had he not been born a Cavalier?
Only briefly savoring the rush of excitement he felt as he picked up the sword, the man in black flourished the
sword in ironic salute to the portrait above the marble mantelpiece, then pulled the scabbard out of the case
and sheathed the weapon with brisk efficiency.
The sword of the Wizard Earl, indeed! Games were well and good, but he had not been born a Cavalier; and if
he lingered long, he might begin to regret he had ever been born at all. His employer was said to be a most
exacting man, if eccentric in his tastes.
All business again now, the man in black reached inside his jacket and pulled out a much-folded black nylon
duffel bag, long and narrow to suit his needs. Into its open end he slipped the sheathed sword, pausing to tie
it firmly closed before slinging it over his back.
Then, before closing the case and locking it again, he produced from yet another pocket a small card similar
to the one already there. This one read: Display Removed for Conservation.
After that, it was simply a matter of retracing his steps. On his way out, he showed no more interest in any of
the other contents of the museum than he had shown on the way in. Once outside the kitchen door, he
paused briefly to re-arm the security system, but then he faded back into the shadows up the hill, silent as a
whisper, heading for the shelter of the woods and a service lane behind the house.
His transport was waiting - not the charger that would have been a Cavalier's steed, but a powerful
Japanese-built motorcycle that had seen him through many an escapade since being assigned to overseas
duty. His imagination transformed the black crash helmet into a tilting helm as he donned it and wheeled the
machine out of the underbrush, giving a strong push with his weight behind it. As the motorcycle rolled
forward, gathering momentum on the downhill slope, he mounted on the run, letting the machine coast down
the zigzag trail. Only at the foot of the hill, well out of earshot of the house, did he kick in the engine - and
within minutes was roaring westward up a two-lane country road, into the frosty Scottish night.
An hour later, after an exhilarating run along the M8 Motorway, the rider was threading a more sedate course
through the sleeping streets of Glasgow. Following precise instructions, he headed away from the city-center
on a route that eventually brought him into a wilderness of abandoned buildings in the heart of the docklands
of Clydebank. The low rumble of the engine echoed dully off the cobbles as he drew up outside the gates of a
disused shipyard, going suddenly silent as he cut the ignition.
The man in black removed his helmet. Five minutes passed. The man glanced at his watch, got off his
machine, and began slowly pacing back and forth, keeping to the shadows. His breath plumed on the frosty,