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swarming with guards, the children could fly over the quarter and go right to
it.
 I talk too much.
 Oh, I don t think so. You re getting what you want without risking your
hide. She chuckled.  Tua
Tua, you ve been working hard to worm this out of me, clever clever young
thief playing pittypat games with the poor old demidemon, making her singe her
aged paws pluck-ing your nuts from the fire.
He opened his eyes wide, angelically innocent, then he gave it up and grinned
at her.  Was clever, wasn t it.
 Shuh. Be more clever. Tell the kids where to find the egg.
He was a tall man with a handsome ruined face and eyes bluer than the sea on a
sunny day. His fine black hair and the beard neatly groomed into corkscrew
curls and the bold blade of his nose proclaimed him a son of Phras. He came in
slowly, the thick, textured wool of his black robe brushing against boots
whose black leather was soft and glowing and unobtrusively expen-sive. He wore
a large ruby on the fourth finger of his left hand, his right hand was bare;
they were fine hands, never-used hands, soft, pale with a delicate tracery of
blue veins. He stood without speaking while Tua shut and locked the door and
joined Brann who was sitting on the bed, Jaril-Mastiff crouched by her knee.
The silence thickened. Tua fidgeted, scratching at his knee, feeling the knife
up his sleeve, rubbing the back of his neck, the small scrapes and rustles he
made the only sounds in the room. Brann continued to sit, re-laxed, smiling.
She intended to force the man to speak first, she had to have that edge to
counter the power and discipline she felt in him, to wrest from him the
knowl-edge she needed. He d spread a glamour about himself, he d dressed in
his best for this meeting, wearing pride along with wool and leather
and power like a cloak, but he was dying, his body was beginning to crumble.
He saw that she knew this and his eyes went bitter and his hands shook. His
mouth pressed to a thin line, he folded his arms across his chest; the shaking
stopped, but there was a film of sweat on his face and a crease of pain across
his brow. He knew the egg was nowhere in the room. (It was with
Yaril who was being a dayhawk sit-ting on the ridgepole of the Inn, the
egg in a pouch tied to her leg; Brann had no way of knowing how close a
sorceror had to be to retrieve his souls and was taking no chances.)  You
called me here, he said; his voice was deep and rich, an actor s voice
trained in decla-mation and caress.  You have something for me.
 I have. She put stress on the I.
 Give it to me.
 Not yet.
Dark power throbbed in the room, lapping at her with a thousand tongues. Brann
kept her smile
(though it went a little stiff), kept her hands relaxed on her thighs (though
the thumbs twitched a few times); tentatively she tapped into the field and
began reeling its energies into herself, scooping out a hollow he couldn t
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
penetrate. The young thief scrambled away from her, went to sit in the window,
legs dangling, ready to jump if Brann faltered. The Jaril-Mastiff came onto
his feet, muscle sliding powerfully against muscle, and padded noiselessly
around the periphery of the zone of force protecting the man. He oscillated
there for several breaths, looking from the sorceror to Brann (who
was sitting unmoved, draining the attack before it could touch her) then he
grew denser and more taut and when he was ready, he catapulted against the
man s legs, bursting unharmed through the zone and knocking him into a painful
sprawl.
Jaril-Mastiff untangled himself and trotted over to Brann. She laughed,
scratched between his ears and watched the sorceror collect himself and get
shakily to his feet.  Are you ready to talk?
He brushed at his sleeves, unhurried, discipline in-tact.  What do you want?
 Information. She smiled at him.  Come. Relax, I m not asking that much. Sit
and let s talk.
He shook his robe back into its stately folds, straight-ened the
chair he d knocked awry in his sprawling fall and settled himself in it.
 Who are you?
 Drinker of Souls. Another smile.  What name do you answer to?
Another thoughtful pause.  Ahzurdan. His blue gaze slid over her, returned to
her face, touched the short delicate curls clustered over her head, again
re-turned to her face.  Drinker of Souls, he said.
 Brann, he said.
She frowned.  You know me?
He glanced at the boy in the window, said nothing.  Turn him loose, she said.
 That s what he s here for.
Abruptly genial, he nodded.  Isoatua, the contract is complete. He raised a
brow.  Go and don t let me see you again.
Tua scowled, turned his shoulder to him.  Fenna meh?
 A minute. Jaril?
The mastiff came onto his feet, yawned, was a glitn-mersphere of
pale light. It drifted upward, whipped through Ahzurdan before he had time
to react, then re-turned to Brann and shifted to Jaril the boy.  He means it,
he said.
 You heard,  Ilia. Next time be a bit more careful what you lift.
Tua started to say something, but changed his mind. Ignoring Ahzurdan he bowed
to Brann, strolled to the door. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he
unlocked it. When he was out, Jaril turned the key again, put his head through
the wall. A moment later he ambled over to Brann.  He s off.
 Thanks. Ahzurdan.
 Yes?
 How do you know me?
 My grandfather was a shipmaster named Chandro bal Abbayd. I believe you knew
him.
 Shuh. You hear that, Jaril? Three. That s not coin-cidence, that s plot. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]