"Lackey, Mercedes - Bedlam's Bard 01 - Knights of Ghosts and Shadows (with Ellen Guon) 1.4" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

But the cloaked man kept running.

Right through the formation of marching pikesmen.

Eric stared in disbelief as the nimble thief danced past the warriors and their deadly spears. Somehow he made it look simple and easy as he dodged between them. Then the thief was across, on the other side of the formation without so much as causing a single pikesman to miss a step.

Several of the watching travelers applauded, doubtlessly thinking this was part of a show. Eric just stood there, staring after the escaping thief in amazement.

Nobody should be able to do that. . . .

Eric took a deep breath and ran after him, straight into the pike formation . . . and three seconds later, he found himself sprawled on the dirt with several pikes lying around him, and a half-dozen irate Scotsmen glaring at him in disgust.

Then the dark-bearded Scottish chieftan himself walked over and looked down at Eric.

"Oh, Eric, lad, you've done yerself quite a turn this time, ye have," the Chief said sadly.

"Sorry, Boss," Eric muttered, trying to stand up without much success. His ankle hurt. Not to mention his pride.

After yesterday, there wasn't anything left of his dignity to hurt.

The Chief crouched down in the dust close to Eric. "By the way," he said in a quiet voice entirely devoid of Scottish accent, "Caitlin wanted to see you in Admin. Something about the Mainstage show yesterday."

"Terrific," Eric said morosely. One of the Scots helped him stand, dusting him off. Eric thanked him, then scanned the crowd for any sign of the thief.

Nowhere in sight. Damn.

So much for my favorite Faire cloak. I wonder how that little rat got past Security and into my tent?

The pikesmen lined up into their formation. The Chief gave Eric one last, pitying look, a look Eric caught out of the corner of his eye as the troop of Scotsmen marched off towards their encampment.

Well. Better get it over with.

He headed for Admin Hill and the offices directly behind the large brightly-colored Faire mural.

Caitlin's a good lady; she usually understands these things. I mean, she's the one who got me out of that jam last year with the Maypole dancers. They're not going to can me ... I hope.

Eric moved carefully through the thickening traffic on the dusty lane, past the travelers haggling with the boothies over their wares. He stepped carefully over three peasants sprawled out "drunk" in the street and doffed his cap at the bored Security guard at the office entrance.

Inside the musty, crowded office area, costumed actors and musicians were relaxing, several smoking some definitively non-period Marlboros, others drinking sodas and catching up on gossip. Eric crossed to the hanging burlap flap that was the door to Caitlin's office, and took a deep breath. "Caitlin?"

A tired female voice answered. "Come in."

Eric walked into the makeshift office. Caitlin looked up from the stacks of paperwork on the table, her everpresent can of diet soda in her hand. "Hello, Eric. Is it Fate or bad luck that you always end up in my office?"

"A bit of both, I think." He sat down on a folding chair across from her. "Does it help if I tell you that I really try to avoid this sort of thing?"

"Yes, a little. I was starting to wonder if you got in trouble just so you could flirt with me in my office." She leaned back in her chair, wearily running her hand through her short auburn hair. Her long blond wig, with the floppy hat she usually wore as part of her costume, was lying on the table near the papers.

Eric stared at the wig to avoid meeting her gaze.