"Katherine Kurtz - Adept 02 - The Lodge of the Lynx" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

"As for Geddes and his men," he continued scornfully, "must we regret the loss of those who fail to
accomplish what they set out to do? No, the Lodge of the Lynx has no room for failures. We are stronger
without them. Let it be as if they had never been!"
Clutching the carnelian ring in one claw-like hand, he heaved himself shakily out of his chair and moved over
to a plain oak side table set into an alcove to the left of the window bay. On top of the table stood a small
portable furnace, along with an assortment of tools and moulds for making models from lead.
The Head-Master switched the furnace on. While it was heating up, he locked the band of the ring in the jaws
of a table vise, then picked up a small jeweller's hammer. A swift, sharp tap to the stone reduced it to half a
dozen shards, like crystallized blood, which he swept into his cupped hand and placed in a mortar. A few
seconds under an electric pestle rendered the shards into a fine, scarlet powder, which he poured into a
plastic vial and capped. The setting he removed from the vise and dropped into a tiny crucible, which he then
set inside the furnace.
Raeburn watched the procedure from his seat at the table, half coming to his feet as the Master rejoined him
and deftly catching the plastic vial which the Master tossed in his direction.
"So much for Geddes," he remarked, as the old man seated himself again. "Where do we go from here?"
"Where we have always intended to go," the Head-Master said testily. "The end remains unaltered. We shall
simply resort to other means."
Raeburn's head lifted with a slight jerk. "You mean the Soulis tore?"
"And why not?"
He opened a drawer in the end of the table and produced an oblong box of polished ashwood, which he
pushed across the table towards Raeburn. After a sidelong and almost incredulous glance at his superior, the
blond man thumbed the latch on the front of the box and carefully lifted the lid. Inside, cushioned on scarlet
silk, lay a heavy necklet of meteoric iron worked in Pictish designs. Raeburn's pale eyes widened in awed
recognition.
"Impressive, isn't it?" murmured the Master. "Its Druidical makers were masters of their craft. The elemental
powers with which the tore is imbued are as potent as any spell Michael Scot ever devised - and it is already
in our keeping. Haven't I urged from the very beginning that we should reawaken its slumbering energies and
make use of them according to our own purposes?"
"You have," Raeburn acknowledged. "But after a lapse of so many centuriesтАж the risks - "
"Are well within acceptable limits," said the Master. "And you are wrong in thinking that the tore has not been
used for many centuries. How could I possibly vouch for its potency, if I had not already personally put it to
the test?"
Raeburn looked up sharply at this disclosure. "The Balmoral incident? I did wonder. Who was your subject,
then?"
"No one of consequence," said the Master, with chilly indifference. "An underling with ideas above his station.
Next time, however, we shall want someone more eminent. I hope you have found him for me."
Raeburn had resumed his air of silken composure. "Have I ever disappointed you?" he asked, reaching for the
document case on the floor beside his chair.
As the Head-Master looked on, Raeburn opened the case and took out a black-and-white photograph, which
he tendered to his superior. The old man glanced briefly at the photo before turning it over to read the typed
bio taped to the back of the print. When he had finished reading, he took a second, longer look at the
photograph before placing it face-up in the open lid of the box containing the tore.
"Excellent," he murmured. "A most appropriate choice. Will you require any assistance?"
"It would, perhaps, be helpful," Raeburn said. "My own men know what is expected of them, and are prepared
to assume their roles when the time comes. But this undertaking will require much more than simply putting
a few rounds through the head of a no longer useful pawn. If I could count on some extra backup, I would be
that much more confident of success."
The Head-Master's wrinkled lips framed a cold smile.
"Of course. Choose whichever six you wish."