"Briggs, Patricia - Sianim 3 - When Demons Walk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Briggs Patricia)

flared and she snatched her fingers back. The opening solidified until she faced a wall where a cave had
been.

“Good girl,” Maur laughed. Standing up, he ruffled her hair with one hand as he unworked the
wardings with another.

“Who put them there, Master?” she asked.

“Now that’s a story,” he said, leading the way into the tunnel. “I first found this cave by chance when
I was a young man. Have you ever heard the stories of Golden Jo?”

She tilted her head and grinned. “Who hasn’t? There aren’t many thieves with the—” she hastily


dropped the word she’d picked up from her father’s men and substituted something less shocking,
“er—rashness to rob the king in his own chambers.” She paused and thought about what she’d said.
“This is where you found the king’s lost crown?”

Maur smiled.

“I thought you did that with magic.” For a moment she was disappointed; finding the crown was
touted as proof of Maur’s powers throughout Southwood.

“Magic,” replied Maur, tapping on the runes, “—wit, and a little luck are always more powerful than
magic alone. Remember that. I also found the remains of Golden Jo next to the crown; not much left of
him after all these years. It looked like he took too much time storing the crown and got trapped in the
cave. From the scorch marks in the cave and on the bones. I’d say that he tried to teleport and drew
more magic than he could handle—the Spirit Tide’s funny that way sometimes. All in all it’s a better way
to go than dying of thirst.”

“He had luck and magic,” said Sham slowly, “but his wits were lacking if he trapped himself here.”

Maur nodded. “You remember that, child. Never trust to any one of the three: And don’t stay in the
caves too long.”

* * *

once through the mouth and several steps into the cave beyond, she called her magelight. By its
illumination she worked her way upward through the damp tunnels until she passed the high-tide mark.
The small grotto where she kept her treasures was well above the highest mark the water had made.

She stored the coins in the oiled-leather pouch with the considerable pile she had already amassed.
There were other things in the cave, too. She knelt, and loosened one of the oilcloths that protected her
treasures from dampness. When she was finished, she held a small footstool.

* * *

large feet encased in neatly darned damp woollen socks rested on the battered footstool near the fire
in her father’s office. The warmth caused a faint mist to rise from the wool as her father wiggled his toes
and set aside the crumb-covered wooden platter.