"Matthew Woodring Stover - Caine 01 - Heroes Die" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stover Matthew Woodring)

The bedchamber of Prince-Regent Toa-Phelalhon is really pretty restrained, when you consider
that the guy in the bed there rules the second-largest empire on Overworld. The bed itself is a modest
eight-poster, only half an acre or so; the extra four posts—each an overcarved slab of rose-veined thierril
thicker than my thigh—support lamps of gleaming brass. Long yellow flames like blades of spears waver
gently in the breeze from the concealed service door. I close the door soundlessly behind me, and its
brocade paper-covered surface blends seamlessly into the pattern of the wall.

I wade through the billowing carpet of silken cushions, a knee-high cloud of vividly shimmering
primary colors. A flash of maroon and gold to my left, and my heart suddenly hammers—but it's only my
own livery, my servant's dress, captured briefly in the spun-silver mirror atop the Prince-Regent's
commode of lacquered Lipkan krim. The reflection shows me the spell, the enchanted face I present:
smooth, rounded cheeks, sandy hair, a trace of peach fuzz. I tip myself a blurry wink and smile with my
sandpaper lips, ease out a silent sigh, and keep moving.

The Prince-Regent lies propped on pillows larger than my whole bed and snores happily, the silver
hairs of his mustache puffing in and out with each wheeze. A book lies facedown across his ample chest:
one of Kimlarthen's series of Korish romances. This draws another smile out of my dry mouth; who
would have figured the Lion of Prorithun for a sentimentalist? Fairy tales—simple stories for simple
minds, a breath of air to cool brows overheated by the complexities of real life.

I set the golden tray down softly on the table beside his bed. He stirs, shifting comfortably in his
sleep—and freezing my blood. His movement sends a puff of lavender scent up from the pillows. My
fingers tingle. His hair, unbound for napping, falls in a steel-colored spray around his face. That noble
brow, those flashing eyes, that ruggedly carved chin exposed by careful shaving within his otherwise full
beard—he's everybody's perfect image of the great king. The statue of him on his rearing charger—the
one that stands in the Court of the Gods near the Fountain of Prorithun— will make a fine, inspiring
memorial.

His eyes pop open when he feels my hand grip his throat: I'm far too professional to try to stifle his
shout with a hand over the mouth, and only a squeak gets past my grip. Further struggle is discouraged
by his close-up view of my knife, its thick, double-edged point an inch from his right eye.

I bite my tongue, and saliva gushes into my mouth to moisten my throat. My voice is steady: very
low and very flat.

"It's customary, at times like this, to say a few words. A man shouldn't die with no understanding
of why he's been murdered. I do not pride myself on my eloquence, and so I will keep this simple."

I lean close and stare past my knife blade into his eyes. "The Monasteries kept you on the Oaken
Throne by supporting your foolish action against Lipke in the Plains War; the Council of Brothers felt, on
balance, that you would be a strong enough ruler to hold the Empire together, at least until the Child
Queen reaches majority."

His face is turning purple, and veins in his neck bulge against my grip. If I don't talk fast, I' have
choked him out before F m done. I sigh through my teeth and pick up the pace.

"They have discovered, though, that you're an idiot. Your punitive taxes are weakening both
Kirisch-Nar and Jheled-Kaarn— they tell me ten thousand free peasants starved to death in Kaarn alone
last winter. Now you've bloodied the nose of Lipke over that stupid iron mine in the Gods' Teeth, and