"Shirley Meier & S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millenium 03 - The Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

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 turnтАж 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, and they 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 to want that sort of operation.

Very expensive, very rare. The nails went shriiink into the
wood, along his nerves, the hard wood splintering and frayingтАж
My counter, he thought.

Megan Whit lock had bought that peculiar sorcery. She had
been dead these past two years, he repeated to himself, Habiku
had said so. This woman couldn't beтАж 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.

"TeikтАФ" 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.

The Zak was looking beyond him. "Well, Vhsant, you petit
larceny piss-ant, are you going to recognize me?" The junior
clerk eased himself thankfully off the stool and moved carefully
aside.

The Head Clerk sat down, almost smoothly. He was a heavy
man but not fat, bearded. He waited a moment, meeting the
Zak's eyes before speaking; his voice was soft, the pale scribe's
face calm, but Yareslav knew he had recognized the founder of
the House. Whitlock. It is. Yareslav started edging away. When