"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 10 - Jondelle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

"The Kladour? Hell, man, you won't find nothing there. You
want the Narn. Everything to satisfy a man in the Narn. Girls,
wine, gambling, sensitapes, analoguesтАФ you name it and it's to
be had: Fights too. You like to watch a good fight? Ten-inch
blades and to the death. Tell you whatтАФyou hire me and I'll take
you to where you want to go."

A tout eager to make a commission. Dumarest said, "Forget
it. I want the Kladour."

"First right, second right, first left, third left, straight ahead.
If you change your mind and hit the Narn, ask for Jarge
Venrush. If you want action, I can show you all you can use.
Remember the name. You'll find me in the Disaphar."

Dumarest nodded and moved on. The second on the right was
a narrow alley thick with emerald shadows, a gash cut between
high buildings and prematurely dark. He trod softly, keeping to
the center, ears strained with instinctive caution. Something
rattled ahead and he tensed as a shape darted from behind a
can. A small animal seeking its prey; lambent eyes glowed as he
passed where it crouched, feeding. Beyond it, the the left-hand
turn showed an opening little wider than the alley.

He slowed as he neared it, his skin prickling with primitive
warning. It was too dark, too convenient for any who might
choose to lie in wait, and the tout could have sent him into a
trap. Sargone was a city no better than any other. It had its dark
corners and own species of savage life. Men who lived on helpless
prey. Robbers and those who would find it more convenient to
kill from a distance.

Dumarest halted, then turned to retrace his steps, halting
again as he heard the cry.

It was high, shrill, more of a scream than a shout, and it came
from the opening behind. He spun, one hand dropping to the
knife in his boot, the nine-inch blade glowing emerald as he
lifted it from its sheath, faded sunlight bright on needle point
and razor edge. Two steps and he had reached the opening, was
racing down the alley as the cry came again. A woman, he
thought, a girl, then corrected the impression as he saw the
tableau ahead. Not a girl, a child, a small boy pressed tight
against a wall.

He wasn't alone. Beside him stood a man, thickset, his hair a
tangled darkness, his face drawn and reflecting his fear. His
hands were clenched in baffled helplessness as he faced the three
standing close. They were decked and masked, glittering tunics
bright with a variety of symbols, the masks grotesque with beak