"Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 5 - Elminster's Daughter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

into the long dark chill of oblivion.
Caethur applied another knife, this one slaked liberally with brain-burn, to both of
the men he'd just slain, and calmly set about collecting everything of value in the
room full of corpses. After all, brain-burn was expensive . . . and after word got
around of this night's deaths, the hiring-price of guards agreeing to work for him was
bound to go up sharply.
Still, the cost of just one man informing the Lords of Waterdeep of his deeds
would be much higher. Kamburan's cloak, still draped over the back of his chair,
was unstained, and when bundled around Caethur's takings, served well as a
carry-sack. He drew his own cloak around him with not a hair out of place nor any
change in his easy half-smile at all.
It wasn't the first time Caethur the moneylender had walked away alone from a
room full of dead men. Such things were, after all, a regrettable but all-too-often
inevitable feature of his profession.
Outside, the shadow moved, swinging up and away from the shutter, seeking the
edge of the roof. A booted foot slipped, a curse blazed sudden and bright in a mind
that kept its dangling body coldly silent—and with a sudden surge of effort, the
shadow gained the roof and scrambled away.

*****

As soon as he entered the portal, he felt it: a disturbance in the flow of the Weave,
straight ahead. Someone or something was casting a spell on his intended destination
or had laid a trap of enchantment on it already. Only those like himself, highly
attuned to the Weave, could feel it—and move to avoid whatever danger was
waiting.
Chuckling soundlessly, the archmage stepped aside, moving through the drifting
blue nothingness to emerge elsewhere, from a portal linked to neither the one he'd
entered nor the imperiled one it reached.

*****

Narnra crouched in the lee of a large but crumbling chimney, wincing at the
burning ache in her shoulder. She'd torn something inside, it seemed. Something
small, thank the gods.
Ah, yes, the watching, all-seeing gods. She glanced up, and thought another silent
curse upon the enthusiastically devout idiots who enspelled the Plinth to glow so
brightly by night. Thieves don't welcome beacons that illuminate their working world
well.
And a thief was what Narnra Shalace was. That had been her profession since her
mother's mysterious death and the rush of neighbors, clients, and Waterdhavians
she'd never laid eyes on before to snatch all they could of what had belonged to her
mother. Only frantic flight had kept a frightened and furious Narnra from being taken
herself, doubtless to be sold as a slave by whichever noble had set his men to
chasing her.
Everyone knew there were laws in Waterdeep that touched nobles and many more
that—somehow—did not. Moreover, noble and rich merchant families had ships and
wagons in plenty and outlying lands beyond Waterdeep's laws to travel to, where
anything or anyone could be taken.
Leaving a suddenly coinless, bereft Narnra Shalace hunted through the alleys and