"Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stroud Jonathan)

religious disregard for the sanctity of other people's lives.


In his bed the boy murmured something. He stirred beneath his sheet. The assassin froze rigid,
a black statue in the center of the room.

Behind, at the window, two of his companions insinuated themselves upon the sill. They waited,
watching.

The boy gave a little sigh and fell silent once more. He lay faceup among his cushions, a
dagger's hilt protruding on either side.


file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Jonathan%20Stroud%20-%20Bartimaeus%203%20-%20Ptolemy's%20Gate%20(v1.0).htm (6 of 304)22-12-2006 15:56:56
 Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 3 - Ptolemy's Gate


Seven seconds passed. The assassin moved again. He stole around behind the cushions, looping
the ends of the cord around his hands. Now he was directly above the child; he bent swiftly, set
the cord upon the sleeping throatтАФ

The boy's eyes opened. He reached up a hand, grasped the assassin's left wrist and, without
exertion, swung him headfirst into the nearest wall, snapping his neck like a reed stalk. He flung
off his silken sheet and, with a bound, stood free, facing the window.

Up on the sill, silhouetted against the moon, two assassins hissed like rock snakes.Their
comrade's death was an affront to their collective pride. One plucked from his robe a pipe of
bone; from a cavity between his teeth he sucked a pellet, eggshell thin, filled with poison. He
set the pipe to his lips, blew once: the pellet shot across the room, directed at the child's heart.

The boy gave a skip; the pellet shattered against a pillar, spattering it with liquid. A plume of
green vapor drizzled through the air.

The two assassins leaped into the room; one this way, the other that. Each now held a scimitar
in his hand; they spun them in complex flourishes about their heads, dark eyes scanning the
room.

The boy was gone. The room was still. Green poison nibbled at the pillar; the stones fizzed with
it.

Never once in seven years, from Antioch to Pergamum, had these assassins lost a victim.6 Their
arms stopped moving; they slowed their pace, listening intently, tasting the air for the taint of
fear.

6. And they didn't intend to start now. The Hermit was known to be pretty sniffy about disciples who
returned in failure. There was a wall of the institute layered with their skinsтАФan ingenious display that
encouraged vigor in his students, as well as nicely keeping out the drafts.


From behind a pillar in the center of the room came the faintest scuffling, like a mouse flinching