"William Forstchen - Magic The Gathering - Arena" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forstchen William R)

Garth leaped across the fissure, stepped up to the twisted body, and reached down to take the satchel
which hung from his belt and, strangely, did not seem to have been touched by the fire.
“You have no claim to that,” the gambler snapped, stepping into the ring. “You are hanin, without
House, and have murdered one of the House of Fentesk; his property now belongs to the House.”

“Then try and stop me,” Garth said quietly, fixing the gambler with his gaze. The man stood silent,
hesitating, and then drew back.

“I’ll tell them, One-eye. They’ll be looking for you,” the gambler cried.

“Before running off, perhaps you owe these people some money and you owe me some as well.”

The crowd, which had been watching the confrontation in silence, suddenly sprang to life and swarmed
around the gambler. As they rushed across the circle some of them fell into the fissure, their wails of
anguish cut short as they hit the bottom. Garth reached down and pulled the satchel free. Turning, he
looked around and saw the boy still holding his cloak.

Garth leaped back across the fissure, took the cloak, and then reached into his own satchel to find a
coin. There was nothing.

From out of the press around the gambler the raggedy man appeared and he slipped up to Garth’s side.

“I got your money for you,” he said and extended a grimy hand, opening it to reveal nine silvers.

“Minus your commission as circle master, of course,” Garth said, taking the coins and then tossing one of
them to the boy, who bowed excitedly and ran off.

“But of course. You were stuck with the bill. Gray disappeared and as for the Orange”—the raggedy
man looked over at the corpse—“Unless his commission is in your prize.”

Garth reached into Okmark’s satchel and felt around, surprised by the touch of some of the amulets
contained within. The man was indeed powerful, more powerful than Garth had assumed. Okmark,
however, had been a fool, not to anticipate that an opponent might hold a reversal of spells for something
as dangerous as the fire that does not die. The man most likely thought he was dealing with nothing more
than a first- or second-rank fighter out to make a reputation and thus did not want to reveal the spells he
would use later in the Festival.

Garth touched a coin and pulled it out. It was gold, and the raggedy man’s eyes glistened with greed.

Garth flipped the coin to the raggedy man.

“Your commission from Orange. Now see that he is disposed of with respect.”

“Not my responsibility now,” the raggedy man chortled, and he grabbed hold of Garth’s arm. “His
friends are coming even now; perhaps it’s time we moved on to safer parts.”

Garth looked up the street to where the raggedy man was pointing. A phalanx of men was coming down
the street, obviously not in a friendly mood. They were all dressed as fighters, with heavily embroidered
shirts, loose-fitting trousers of silk that billowed out over the tops of their polished, calf-high boots, their