"Fifth Millennium - 03 - The Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

Prologue

Habiku, you son of two brothers, I'm coming home. It's taken me two damned years. Three shipwrecks, outrunning piratesЕ You sold me off so far away you never thought I'd escape or make it back. I hope you're alive so I can kill you. Habiku Smoothtongue. Your flowery speeches arent going to save you this time. Nothing will.

Chapter One

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THE SLAF HIKARME COUNTING HOUSE BRAHVNIKI:
DELTA OF THE BREZHAN RIVER SVARTZEE, NORTH SHORE
TENTH IRON CYCLE, THIRD DAY, YEAR OF THE STEEL MOUSE
Late autumn, 4973A.D.)

The clerk looked up from scattering sand on the page and ostentatiously returned his attention to the ledger, trimming his pen with a deftscrit-scrit against the razor fastened in the mouth of the inkwell. One had to show this sort of poor trash that the Slaf Hikarme was a respectable House. He looked down his nose at the two women.

"I'm sorry, Teik," he said. "The Head Clerk is a very busy man. Do you have an appointment?" There was a vast difference between his side of the oak counter and theirs; a mercantile house in a trading city dealt with many questionable types, of necessity. Still, he was the guardian of the inner rooms, of respectability, property, order, especially against unseemliness like thisЧthis ragamuffin.

The clientele were watching with interest, nine in a hall meant for twenty. A pity the House had fallen into such financial difficulty. The other two clerks kept their heads industriously bent over their ledgers, but he could feel their attention as well. He cleared his throat.

Oddly, the Zak woman who stood across the long wooden divider that split the outer chamber seemed neither daunted nor angry. Purebreed, he estimated, with a covert glance up from under his lids. Disturbingly familiar, though he couldn't think where he would have met such riffraff. Scarcely four feet tall, skin pale under its weathered tan, eyes and hair raven-black; none of the swagger you saw in a tavern bravo, but there were well-used knives in her belt, two more in her boots and a stiletto hilt peeking out from one sleeve. Plain dark grey tunic and trousers and cloak, stained with salt spray.

Off a ship in from the Mitvald, then, even if her accent was F'talezonian and that mother city of her race was far upriver. Nothing unusual in Brahvniki.

The Zak sighed and crooked a finger. "The pen you've just sharpened will do nicely." The clerk found himself handing it to her. She snagged a scrap of paper out of the stack by his elbow, ignoring his yip of, "That's expensive!", and wrote. She turned the page around and pushed it across the desk so he could read the words "Megan Whitlock, F'talezon, Owner Slaf Hikarme."

The collar of his mercantile robe seemed a bit tight, the room too warm, even though he hadn't put a fresh scoopful of blackrock on the stove in an hour. He took a deep breath. "Teik," he said, drawing strength from his position. "You must understand that anyone could fake a signature. I'm sorry, Head Clerk Vhsant is busy. I'm just doing my job." There hadn't been someone claiming to be Whitlock for more than a year. The owner was presumed, though not officially declared, dead.

The Zak looked back at her companion. "Even after he's seen my signature, this officiousperson is telling me I can't walk into my own office, Shkai'ra."

Now the one leaning against the lacquered inner door,that one was unusual. Tall and fair-haired; well, a Thane or Aenir might be soЕ but no folk he knew had quite that cast of feature, slanted grey eyes over high cheeks, scimitar blade of nose with a tiny gold ring through one nostril, pointed chin and wide, thin-lipped mouth; and she was smiling at him.

Teeth and eyes pale against dark-tanned skin; not much more than the mid-twenties of her Zak companion. Worn horse-hide jacket and chamois pants, worn bone plaques on the long hilt of her saber. One hand rested on the brass eagle-head pommel of the sword, the other hooked a thumb through her belt; thick-wristed hands, long fingers, thin white scars on the backs. She was smiling and resting completely relaxed, ignoring the two guards with their weighted staffs.

The blonde woman spoke. "You do him, Megan, or I?" Guttural accent, staccato. Brahvniki was not a well-policed city, and the Watch might be a while in arriving.

The Zak leaned forward and tapped on the wood with a clawed finger. "You probably don't remember working for me, TeikЧYareslav? You were only an underclerk then, but you might recognize me if you think very hard. Don't make stupid decisions on your own. I suggest that you call Vhsant Cormarenc. " She was using the Head Clerks old use-name, before the owner's proxy, Habiku, had elevated him to the position. She knew names. MaybeЕGreat Bear, the Zak does look uncannily likeЕ No. The owner was dead. The two guards, Bhodan and Anjevitch, watched with bovine patience from their bench. Otherwise the stone chamber was as it always was, bare, growing slightly seedy over these last two years of fading prosperity. The others waiting their turnЕ Two glanced at each other, stood, left in a casual stroll that grew hurried at the door. Yareslav hoped they were going for the Watch. Svorbodin the slaver glanced up from his laptop abacus, away, snapped his glance back. A hurried whisper to his second, andthey left, sidling along the wall. The other five sought corners and leaned back to watch.

His eyes fell. The Zak woman was digging her claws impatiently into the hard oak of the counter, beside the lectern that held his accountbook. Steel nails, not strapped on but growing from the flesh: razor edged, hard steel, on small strong hands with shackle-scars around the wrists. That was an expensive operation; you needed an expert such as could only be found in F'talezon, the Zak capital, and it had its drawbacks; the iron was drawn from your blood, somehow. It took a certain type of mind towant that sort of operation.

Very expensive, very rare. The nails wentshriiink into the wood, along his nerves, the hard wood splintering and frayingЕMy counter , he thought.

Megan Whit lock had bought that peculiar sorcery. She had beendead these past two years, he repeated to himself, Habiku had said so. This woman couldn't beЕ Trembling, his hand went under the counter, tugged at a hidden string. She was close enough, across the counter, close enough for him to scent the woodsmoke and salt in the cloak, like any poor client of the House bringing their smells in among books and ink and counting-beads.

"TeikЧ" he stammered.

The door behind him opened with a gust of warm stale air. A voice boomed. Vhsant, the office supervisor.Oh, Sacred Bear, Honey-Giving One, thank you, thank you, Yareslav thought.