Silverthorn. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ choice for a marksman, being less accurate than any good bow. It would do for someone with little training, for it delivered a bolt with thundering force – a wound less than fatal from an arrow could kill if from a bolt, because of the added shock of the blow. Jimmy had once seen a steel cuirass on display in a tavern. The metal breastplate had a hole in it the size of Jimmy’s fist, punched through by a bolt from a heavy crossbow. It had been hung up not because of the size of the hole, which was usual for the weapon, but because the wearer had somehow survived. But the weapon had its disadvantages. Besides being inaccurate past a dozen yards, it had a short range.

      Jimmy craned his neck to watch the Nighthawk and felt a tic in his right arm. He shifted his weight slightly to his left. Suddenly a tile gave way beneath his hand and with a loud crack it broke. It fell away, clattering over the roof to crash down on the cobbles below. To Jimmy it was a thunder peal sounding his doom.

      Moving with inhuman speed, the assassin turned and fired. Jimmy’s slipping saved his life, for he could not have dodged fast enough to avoid the bolt, but gravity had provided the necessary speed. He struck the roof and heard the quarrel pass over his head. For a brief instant he imagined his head exploding like a ripe pumpkin and silently thanked Banath, patron god of thieves.

      Jimmy’s reflexes saved him next, for rather than standing, he rolled to his right. Where he had lain a moment before, a sword came crashing down. Knowing he couldn’t gain enough of a lead to outrun the assassin, Jimmy leapt up into a crouch, pulling his dirk from his right boot top in a single motion. He had little love for fighting, but he had realized early in his career that his life might depend upon his use of the blade. He had practised diligently whenever the opportunity had presented itself. Jimmy only wished his rooftop foray had not precluded his bringing along his rapier.

      The assassin turned to face the boy, and Jimmy saw him teeter for a brief instant. The Nighthawk might have quick reflexes, but he was not used to the precarious footing the rooftops offered. Jimmy grinned, as much to hide his fear as from any amusement at the assassin’s unease.

      In a hissing whisper the assassin said, ‘Pray to whatever gods brought you here, boy.’

      Jimmy thought such a remark odd, considering it distracted only the speaker. The assassin lashed out, the blade slicing the air where Jimmy had been, and the boy thief was off.

      He dashed along the roof and leapt back to the building wherein lived Trig the Fuller. A moment later he could hear the assassin landing also. Jimmy ran nimbly until he was confronted by a yawning gap. In his hurry he had forgotten there was a wide alley at this end of the building and the next building was impossibly distant. He spun about.

      The assassin was slowly approaching, his sword point levelled at Jimmy. Jimmy was struck by a thought and suddenly began a mad stomping dance upon the roof. In a moment the noise was answered by an angry voice from below. ‘Thief! I am undone!’ Jimmy could picture Trig the Fuller leaning out of his window, rousing the city watch, and hoped the assassin had the same picture in mind. The racket below would surely have the building surrounded in short order. He prayed the assassin would flee rather than punish the author of his failure.

      The assassin ignored the fuller’s cries and advanced upon Jimmy. Again he slashed and Jimmy ducked, bringing himself inside the assassin’s reach. Jimmy stabbed with his dirk and felt the point dig into the Nighthawk’s sword arm. The assassin’s blade went clattering to the street below. A howl of pain echoed through the night, silencing the fuller’s shouts. Jimmy heard the shutters slam closed and wondered what poor Trig must be thinking, hearing that shriek right over his head.

      The assassin dodged another thrust by Jimmy and pulled a dagger from his belt. He advanced again, not speaking, his weapon held in his left hand. Jimmy heard shouts from the street below and resisted the urge to cry for aid. He felt little confidence about besting the Nighthawk, even if the assassin was fighting with his off hand, but he was also reluctant to explain his presence upon the fuller’s roof. Besides, even should he shout for aid, by the time the watch arrived, gained entrance to the house, and reached the roof the issue would be decided.

      Jimmy backed to the end of the roof, until his heels hung in space. The assassin closed, saying, ‘You have nowhere left to run, boy.’

      Jimmy waited, preparing a desperate gamble. The assassin tensed, the sign Jimmy had watched for. Jimmy crouched and stepped backwards all at once, letting himself fall. The assassin had begun a lunge, and when his blade did not meet the expected resistance, he overbalanced and fell forward. Jimmy caught the edge of the roof, nearly dislocating his shoulder sockets with the jolt. He felt more than saw the assassin fall past, silently speeding through the darkness to crash on the cobbles below.

      Jimmy hung for a moment, his hands, arms, and shoulders afire with pain. It would be so simple just to let go and fall into soft darkness. Shaking off the fatigue and pain, he urged protesting muscles to pull himself back onto the roof. He lay gasping for a moment, then rolled over and looked down.

      The assassin lay still on the cobbles, his crooked neck offering clear evidence he was no longer alive. Jimmy breathed deeply, the chill of fear finally acknowledged. He suppressed a shudder and ducked down as two men rushed into the alley below. They grabbed the corpse and rolled it over, then picked it up and hurried off. Jimmy considered. For the assassin to have confederates about was a certain sign this had been a Guild of Death undertaking. But who was expected down this street at this hour of the night? Casting about for a moment, he weighed the risk of staying a little longer to satisfy his curiosity against the certain arrival of the city watch within a few more minutes. Curiosity won.

      The sound of hoofbeats echoed through the fog, and soon two riders came into the light that burned from the lantern before Trig’s home. It was at this moment that Trig decided to open his shutters again and resume his hue and cry. Jimmy’s eyes widened as the riders looked up towards the fuller’s window. Jimmy had not seen one of the men in over a year, but he was well known to the thief. Shaking his head at the implications of what he saw, the boy thief judged it a good time to depart. But seeing that man below made it impossible for Jimmy to consider this night’s business at an end. It would most likely be a long night. He rose and began his trek along the Thieves’ Highway, back towards Mockers’ Rest.

      Arutha reined in his horse and looked up to where a man in a nightshirt shouted from a window. ‘Laurie, what is that all about?’

      ‘From what I can make out between the wails and screams, I judge that burgher to have recently been the victim of some felony.’

      Arutha laughed. ‘I guessed that much myself.’ He did not know Laurie well, but he enjoyed the singer’s wit and sense of fun. He knew there was now some trouble between Laurie and Carline, which was why Laurie had asked to accompany Arutha on his journey to Krondor. Carline would be arriving in a week with Anita and Lyam. But Arutha had long ago decided that what Carline didn’t confide in him wasn’t his business. Besides, Arutha was sympathetic to Laurie’s plight if he had fallen into her bad graces. After Anita, Carline was the last person Arutha would wish to be angry with him.

      Arutha studied the area as a few sleepy souls in neighbouring buildings began shouting inquiries. ‘Well, there’s bound to be some investigation here soon. We’d best be along.’

      As if his words had been prophecy, Arutha and Laurie were startled to hear a voice coming out of the fog. ‘Here now!’ Emerging from the murk were three men wearing the grey felt caps and yellow tabards of the city watch. The leftmost watchman, a beefy, heavy-browed fellow, carried a lantern in one hand and a large nightstick in the other. The centre man was of advancing years, close to retirement age from appearances, and the third was a young lad, but both had an air of street experience about them, evidenced in the way they casually had their hands resting on large belt knives. ‘What passes this night?’ СКАЧАТЬ