"Karl Edward Wagner - Kane 01 - Darkness Weaves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wagner Karl Edward)

Imel snapped out of his musings as Kane addressed him. Looking up, he found Kane had quit the fire
and was half-sitting on the table across from him. He was watching Imel closely, a mocking smile over his
brutal features--the hellish blaze of his eyes subdued but smouldering still. His long fingers were toying
with a silver ring. Imel assumed it was one from the pile of artifacts.

"I think you'd better have a very good reason for demanding to see me. Not that my time in this hole is in
anything like short supply, but your coming here has put myself and Arbas in some danger." He held the
ring to the light appraisingly. Seemingly he was intrigued with its intricate carvings. "You're sure, of
course, that no one followed you..."

Casually Kane drew the lamp closer to him, the better to examine the ring. Imel frowned in vexation.
"Interesting..." Kane muttered, extending the ring into the light. A soft violet glow emanated from the huge
amethyst. Imel recognized the ring.

Cold fear seized him as realization dawned. Imel's hand streaked for the sword at his side. He had but
touched its hilt when an arm whipped around from behind him, and a dagger point painfully tickled the
flesh of his throat. Arbas! He had forgotten the assassin.

"Don't kill him just yet, Arbas," said Kane, who had not moved throughout. "You know, I think Imel
knows that ring."

The assassin tickled his dagger point as the Thovnosian wanted to rise. Imel subsided. "Now how do
you figure that?" Arbas asked with assumed bewilderment.

"Well, I think it's the way his face turned pale when he saw it. Or what do you make of that?"

"Could be he's just startled by that large a sapphire."

"No, I doubt that. Anyway, this is an amethyst."

"Same thing."

"No, I think you're on the wrong track, Arbas. I'll bet Imel was just thinking that the last time he saw this
ring, it was on someone's hand he knew. Say, maybe that big skulking bastard who was following you
two."

Arbas's voice was edged. "Following us! Now, Imel, that makes me look sort of gullible." He dug the
dagger point deeper. Imel's breath came in ragged gasps as he attempted to contract his throat from the
stinging blade.

"This is a Mycean blade," the assassin explained in Imel's ear. "Those mountain clansmen spend weeks
forging their steel, shaping it just so. They say the steel will grow weak and brittle like a lowland
blade--unless it takes a long drink of an enemy's warm blood every ten days or so."

"From here I'd say the workmanship was Pellinite," Kane observed.

"That's because it was a Pellinite craftsman who fitted the haft for me," rejoined Arbas in an offended
manner. "Anyway, the nobleman who owned the knife before I killed him had always sworn it was a
Mycean blade. The steel is unmistakable--watch how it glides through Imel's throat."