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

you're making noises like you want to fight a full-scale war over two crappy little eastern provinces. You
have ignored and insulted the Lipkan trade delegation and have dismissed the Council of Brothers'
admonitions. They've decided that you're no longer fit to rule, if you ever were.

They are tired of waiting. They've paid me a great deal of money to remove you from the throne.
Blink twice if you understand."

His eyes widen stiffly, bug out staring from his head as though he'd make them lidless if only he
could, and his throat works under my hand. He mouths words at me that my poor lipreading skill can't
follow beyond theinitial please please please. He'd like to argue with me, no doubt, or perhaps request
leniency or asylum for his wife and two daughters. I can grant neither; if a war of succession follows this
murder, they'll have to take their chances along with the rest of us.

Finally his eyeballs begin to dry, and he blinks—once. Funny how our reflexes conspire to kill us,
sometimes. In terms of my contract, I'm to ensure his comprehension; if I'm to do this properly, I should
wait for his next blink. All proprieties should be observed, in the death of a king.

His gaze shifts minutely—the old warrior is going to make a try forme, a last desperate convulsion
of his will to survive, calling on other, more recent reflexes to rescue him.

When it's a choice between observing the proprieties and getting caught in the Prince-Regent's
bedchamber, nine infinite floors up the spire of the Colhari Palace, the proprieties can fuck off.

I jam the knife into his eye. Bone crackles and blood sprays. I use the knife to twist his face away
from me: a bloodstain on this livery could be fatal, on my way out. He flops like a salmon that's found
unexpected land beneath an upstream leap. This is only his body's last unconscious attempt to live; it goes
hand-in-hand with the release of his bowels and bladder. He shits and pisses all over himself and his
satin-weave sheets—another one of those primordial reflexes, a futile dodge to make his meat
unappetizing to the predator.

Screw it. I'm not hungry anyway.

He quiets after a year or so. I brace my free hand against his forehead and work the knife back
and forth. It comes free with a wet scrape, and I set about the grisly part of this job.

The serrated edge slices easily through the flesh of his neck, but grates against his third cervical
vertebra. A slightly altered angle of attack puts the edge between the third and fourth, and a couple
seconds' sawing loosens his head. The copper scent of his blood is so thick I can smell it through the
stench of his shit; my stomach twists until I can barely breathe. I uncover the golden tray that I'd carried
up from the kitchens, gently set the plates of steaming food to one side, and put Toa-Phelathon's head in
their place, picking it up carefully by the hair so that none of the gore that drains from it will stain my
clothes. I replace the golden dome and strip off my bloodstained gloves, tossing them carelessly onto the
body beside the discarded knife. My hands are clean.

I lift the tray to my shoulder and take a deep breath. The easy part's over. Now I have to get out
of here alive.
 The trickiest part of this escape is the first hurdle: getting away from the body. If I pass the pair of
guards at the service door cleanly, I'll be out of the palace before anyone knows the old man is dead. My
adrenals sing to me a potent tune that makes my hands tingle and raises goose bumps up my back. My
heartbeat thunders in my ears.