"Brian Thomsen - The Nobles 04 - The Mage in the Iron Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thomsen Brian M)

other, and still stood on opposite sides of the room. They tenta-tively drew closer together,
still halting well before they had reached an arm's distance.
He first noticed the scent of a new perfume as they entered the room, while she
recognized the foul stench of his tobacco. Their eyes never left each other, like two jungle
cats each waiting for the other to be the first to blink, at which point the other would strike a
lethal blow.
She's even icier than usual, the High Blade thought. She is probably already aware that
her plan has gone awry.
Usually he can't remove his eyes from my breasts, the Tharchioness contemplated. Now
he won't break my stare. He knows something and is trying to see if I know it, too. I mustn't
give myself away.
The subtle standoff was interrupted by the arrival of some Arabellan Brandy. The High
Blade seized the opportunity to seemingly relax, and poured his bride and himself a snifter
each.
The Tharchioness sipped.
"Mmmmmm," she purred, licking her lips.
"I'm glad it is to your liking," he said in mock gal-lantry. "I always try to provide you with the
best Mulmaster has to offer, but sometimes plans do go awry, as you no doubt have recently
experienced."
The Tharchioness maintained her composure, and in a tone that she thought of as
schoolgirlish (which, incidentally, turned her stomach every time she used it), she inquired,
"What could you mean, darling?"
"Why the earthquake, of course," he replied, hesi-tating just a moment before adding,
"dear."
"Of course," she said in agreement, realizing the subtext of taunts that he was beginning
to bedevil her with.
"It's a funny thing though," he persisted, "one's misfortune is sometimes another's boon."
"To whose advantage is an earthquake?"
"Why those who are paid to make the repairs af-terward, my sweet," the High Blade
replied in his most subtly condescending tone.
The Tharchioness decided that she needed more time and information before further
dealing with the delicate matter at hand. The High Blade obviously knew something, but of
what and how much, she was not certain. She decided to change the subject.
Delicately dipping her finger into her snifter of brandy, she held it out for her husband's
consideration.
"Care for a taste?" she purred.
Gently taking the proffered hand with its anointed digit in his two hands, he slowly brought
it to his lips, and bestowed a kiss.
"I thought you'd never offer," he replied breath-lessly, then turned to the crowds that had
followed them into the receiving room and instructed the ret-inues, "Leave us! Matters of
state and diplomacy can wait until later. Much later."
In less than the time it took for their lips to meet, they were alone and on the receiving
room settee.
No further words were exchanged, and delicate situations were temporarily postponed.
*****
In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:

Rassendyll's eyes had finally grown accustomed to the dim light of his cell, and the iron
mask that en-shrouded his head no longer shifted with every movement he made. It was as
if the metal of the domed skullcap had taken root in the back of his head, allowing less