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

Arbas--called by many, Arbas the Assassin--was in a foul mood. A sudden and ill-timed (suspiciously
ill-timed, it seemed to Arbas) run of bad luck with the dice earlier this evening had stripped from him a
comfortable pile of winnings and all his ready coin as well. The adoring tavern maid, who had been
slipping teasing fingers over the lean muscles beneath his leather vest, then turned coldly aloof and left him
with a scornful air. Perhaps it was a disappointed air, Arbas mused sourly.

Then had come this stranger, whose upper-class manner was in dubious contrast to the rough dress he
displayed. The stranger had simply introduced himself as Imel and volunteered no further information
other than cautiously chosen gossip. Seemingly he was an altruist solely devoted to keeping Arbas's mug
filled to the brim with strong ale. Unconvinced, Arbas decided to let the fool throw away his money. He
was not a man who got drunk easily. Eventually Arbas knew that the other would in some very offhand,
so very casual manner, begin to talk about some rival, some black hearted son of a bitch--someone for
whose demise Imel would pay.

Arbas had been professionally estimating exactly how much Imel might be able to pay when the stranger
had abruptly demolished all the assassin's calculations. Somehow the conversation had shifted to the one
man whose death the Combine authorities so fervently prayed for. With a gait Arbas realized that the
outlander was seeking information about Kane.

"Evil? But then, his character is not my concern. Anyway, I'm not searching the slums of Nostoblet to
recruit a household treasurer. I simply wish to talk with him, is all--and I was told that you can tell me
how to reach him." The stranger spoke the dialect of the Southern Lartroxian Combine with a burr that
marked him a native of the island of Thovnos, capital of the Thovnosian Empire about five hundred miles
to the southwest.

"Then you're a fool!" retorted Arbas and emptied his mug. Beneath his hood the stranger's thin face
flushed with anger. Silently damning the assassin's impertinence, he signalled a passing tavern maid to refill
Arbas's mug. Carelessly he tossed her three bronze coins from his purse, making certain that Arbas
noticed its weight. The tavern maid did, and she brushed against Imel's shoulder as she poured, smiling as
she swung away.

"Fickle bitch!" mused Arbas illogically, studying the crimson imprint of her rouged breast on the
Thovnosian's gray cloak. The assassin slowly sipped his ale, but gave no indication he had noticed the
almoner. "Someone talks too much for me. Too damn much! Who told you I could find him?"

He asked me not to give his name."

"Names, names, please mention no names. By Lato! You'll give me the name of that loose-tongued lying
bastard who sent you to me--or you can go look for him in the Seventh Hell, where he damn well
belongs! With that price on his head, there's not a handful of men in the Combine who'd not sell their
souls for a chance to turn him in."

About them the tavern was bustling with activity. The cadaverous form of Selram Honest could be seen
near the door to his wine cellar. A smile was etched through the grease of the gaunt proprietor's face as
he looked over the noisy crowd. Most were in a festive mood, loudly going about their pleasures,
gambling, whoring, carousing. Boisterous thugs from the ill-lit streets of Nostoblet, reckless mercenaries
in the dark green shirts and leather trousers of the Combine's cavalry, strange-accented wanderers
passing through the city for unguessable purposes, seductively clad street tarts whose hard laughter never
echoed in their too-wise eyes. Two blond mercenaries from Waldann were about to cast aside the bonds
of long companionship and draw knives over same lethal quarrel intelligible only to themselves. A