"John Norman - Gor 05 - Assassin of Gor " - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

he
pleases, that none may interfere with his work.
There are few men who have done great wrong or who have powerful, rich enemies
who do not tremble upon learning that one has been brought to their city who
wears the dagger.
Kuurus stepped between the great gates and looked about himself.
A woman carrying a market basket moved to one side, watching him, that she
might
not touch him, holding a child to her.
A peasant moved away that the shadow of the Assassin might not fall across his
own.
Kuurus pointed to a fruit on a flat-topped wagon with wooden wheels, drawn by
a
small four-legged, horned tharlarion.
The peddler pressed the fruit into his hands and hurried on, not meeting his
eyes.
Her back against the bricks of a tower near the gate, a slender, slim-ankled
slave girl stood, watching him. Her eyes were frightened. Kuurus was
apparently
the first of the Caste of Assassins she had seen. Her hair was dark, and fell
to
the small of her back; her eyes were dark; she wore the briefly skirted,
sleeveless slave livery common in the northern cities of Gor; the livery was
yellow and split to the cord that served her as belt; about her throat she
wore
a matching collar, yellow enameled over steel.
Biting into the fruit, the juice running at the side of his mouth, Kuurus
studied the girl. It seemed she would turn to leave but his eyes held her
where
she stood. He spit some seeds to the dust of the street within the gate. When
he
had finished he threw the core of the fruit to her feet and she looked down at
it with horror. When she looked up, frightened, she felt his hand on her left
arm.
He turned her about and thrust her down a side street, making her walk in
front
of him.
At a Paga Tavern, one near the great gate, cheap and crowded, dingy and
smelling, a place frequented by strangers and small Merchants, the Assassin
took
the girl by the arm and thrust her within. Those in the tavern looked up from
the low tables. There were three Musicians against one wall. They stopped
playing. The slave girls in Pleasure Silk turned and stood stock still, the
Paga
flasks cradled over their right forearms. Not even the bells locked to their
left ankles made a sound. Not a paga bowl was lifted nor a hand moved. The men
looked at the Assassin, who regarded them, one by one. Men turned white under
that gaze. Some fled from the tables, lest, unknown to themselves, it be they
for whom this man wore the mark of the black dagger.
The Assassin turned to the man in a black apron, a fat, grimy man, who wore a