"Glenda Larke - Heart of the Mirage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Larke Glenda)

He gave an exaggerated bow. 'Anything to oblige the Magister Officii's pet.'
'Think of it as obliging the Brotherhood, Hargen. And if you should torment
Markis for some petty reasons of your own, I'll see you face Brotherhood
wrath.'
He gripped the edge of the desk as if that was the only way he could keep his
hands under control. 'Ligea, m'dear, do you have any concept of how much I
hate you?'
I could feel his loathing without even trying. 'I have a fair idea. Just
remember, if anything happens to Markis, it will be Rathrox's wrath you face,
not mine.'
Hargen Bivius had been a fellow compeer once, as well as a legionnaire, until
I'd decided the Brotherhood would be better off without him. A gratuitously
cruel and petty-minded man who'd crossed me again and again for no reason
other than sheer malice, I'd had no compunction about ruining his career. He
hadn't deserved the privilege of being a compeer, and his behaviour had been
damaging the effectiveness of the Brotherhood. I'd enjoyed nudging him along
to his own self-destruction. Apparently, he had finally figured out the part
I'd played in what had happened to him: his emotions raged at me.
'One day,' he promised, 'I'll have my revenge.'
I heard the lie and smiled inwardly. Hargen had about as much resolution as a
snail without its shell. 'I doubt it,' I said. 'Wine loosens the tongue, but
it seldom sharpens the wits and never stiffens the spine. Or anything else for
that matter.' I nodded to him pleasantly and went out into the street once
more.
Assailed by the stench of the Cages again, I almost gagged. It was an effort
to turn to one of the duty guards and ask to be shown cage number
twenty-eight, an effort to breathe normally and ignore the rats slinking in
the gutters, their fur stiff with filth. I could almost feel compassion for
Markis Dorus, even though he had played at treason. He was eighteen years old,
a pampered lad with an overzealous tongue
whod suddenly found out the world could be a vicious and unfriendly place to
the unwise.
He sat alone, hunched up at one end of his cage, his hair matted, his clothing
filthied, his skin scabbed with dirt. Flies buzzed around his head. He looked
well enough in spite of the grime, and there was food and water in covered
containers at his feet. His family evidently kept him well supplied, which was
more than could be said for some of the otiier lowlife incarcerated around
him.
I didn't bother to speak to him. My business was not with Markis, but with his
father, and gloating over the lawless I'd brought to justice held no
attraction for me. The majority of those imprisoned here were murderers,
rapists, kidnappers, traitors тАФ men and women warped with cruelty, dissipation
and greed. I knew the hideousness of their crimes better than most, but I took
no pleasure, as some highborn did, in seeing them mired in misery. I wanted to
check that Markis was well, and that done, I turned my back on them all and
set off through the Snarls once more.
It was a relief to emerge at last into the Artisan Quarter. The laneways of
this part of the city may have been narrow, but at least they were paved and
clean, the stone walls kept repaired and whitewashed. Doors and windows were
shuttered and barred at this time of the day as shop-owners and householders