[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
to take along. She moved to the chest. Another lock. She squatted beside it,
knocked her wounded hand as she lowered herself. For several breaths she
clutched at the chest with her good hand, cradled the other on her thighs and
wept with pain, shock, dizziness.
The worst of the shock passed off; she pulled herself together and cut through
the lock. Grunting with the effort, she pushed the lid up and looked inside.
She smiled. The cavity was filled with small canvas bags, tied neatly at the
neck with heavy cord, the knots sealed with red wax, a sigil stamped into the
wax. She sliced one open and dumped out hexagonal gold coins, the Lesket
Perpao mintage that wide-ranging Balayar traders had turned into something
like universal exchange counters. She gathered them up and dumped them into
the lootbag. One by one she opened the bags (not trusting Tod in any way, she
needed to be sure she knew exactly what she had) and dumped the gold after the
first coins. When the lootbag was three-quarters filled and about at the limit
of her ability to haul it around, especially now when her strength was so
depleted, she shut the chest and got unsteadily to her feet. Her knees went
watery and she collapsed onto the lid. Djabo's weepy eyes! Come on, Skeen, so
you've got a bad hand and a throat so sore suffocating would be a pleasure,
you've been through worse. Lost a little blood, so what. She passed her good
hand across her face, surprised herself with a jaw-straining yawn. Oh fuck,
it's stimtab time, you know it, woman, you just don't want to admit it.
Willpower won't do it, that's obvious by now. So you pay for it later. Later's
when you've got the time. She dug out a stimtab, glared resentfully at the
small gray-brown pill, tossed it to the back of her throat and swallowed it;
she sat for several breaths waiting for the pill to act, then got to her feet
and began inspecting the contents of the boxes. Jewelry. Some was fairly
standard, diamonds and gold, fussy stuff; that she discarded without bothering
to evaluate it; its weight wasn't worth what it'd bring on the far side, too
much floating about just like it. In one large flat box she found a massive
gold chain, odd dullish stones set in every third link; each of the ungemmed
links was engraved with a fantastically convoluted line, many of the details
too small to make out. even when she moved a pinlight close and scanned the
shadows. She clicked the lid shut and tucked the box into the lootbag. The
bag's flap couldn't be buckled down over it but she ignored that and went on
searching. Another box held triangles of jet, Skirrik work; someone had killed
an old male and pried loose his jet inlays. Each piece was intricately carved,
low relief, semi-abstract plant forms. They felt warm, vibrant, as if the life
of the old Skirrik had passed into them. She closed the lid, hesitated, but
put the box into the bag. They were lovely things and she knew a buyer who'd
salivate over them. Very tempting to take them and keep quiet about it, but
the one rule she never broke was don't hit on your friends; in spite of the
compromises life forced on you, real friends were rare and to be cherished.
And you had to live with yourself. The Skirrik hadn't harmed her; no, they'd
gone out of their way to help her; besides, she liked Chulji, he was a good
kid. Bona Fortuna/Mala Fortuna, she wasn't leaving this with Tod the Creep.
Chulji could have it and do what he wanted with it. She opened one of the
Page 60
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
thicker boxes and stopped breathing for a minute. Ancient Min work, drawn
silver brooches and rings set with ovals of crystallized resin that glowed
blue then green then purple and released a subtle scent when she warmed it
with her hand. Sweetamber. She recognized it for she'd got a tiny flawed piece
of sweetamber set in a stab pin of a ring brooch as part of her pay for
extracting Timka from Dum Besar and the Poet's bed. Feeling a little
lightheaded, she grinned down at the treasure in the box and made the warding
circle, a tribute to Bona Fortuna and an attempt to chase away the bad vibes
that sniffed about her gifts. She clicked the lid down and shoved the box into
the bag. Mala takes, Bona gives almost like it was a payment for sticking to
principle and giving up thief's right to the jet. She looked around at the
unopened boxes, sighed. The bag was full and there was some question about
whether she was going to be able to haul it out. It was heavy, yes, heavy was
the definitive word. She sat on the chest, got her uninjured arm through the
strap and heaved. With considerable effort she got the strap over her shoulder
and managed to stand. She giggled; there was a pronounced list to the left.
She collected the stickum, clicked it off and put it away. Forcing her
bandaged hand to work, she got out the darter and held it along her thigh.
Anything that came at her she'd have to deal with at a distance. Not much
fight left in this poor old body.
She glanced at the woffits and the handler as she went past. The darts would
hold them for two, three hours more. Probably. Anyway, long enough for Domi to
get us well away from Cida Fennakin. She pushed past the arras and cut across
the Great Hall, moving as steadily and quickly as she could; already the strap
was biting into her shoulder and every time the bag tapped into her hip, it
jarred her whole body, starting new waves of pain out from her wounds and
bruises. It offended her sense of herself to be so slapdash; ordinarily she
would have closed and locked the strongroom door, drawn the curtain over it;
ordinarily she would have taken time to close and rebar the refectory door,
but she couldn't spare the energy or the time; she slipped out the kitchen
door and stepped into a thick swirling fog, couldn't even see her own feet.
She crossed to the wall and the door that led from the private quarters into
the guards' quadrangle. It was barred on this side, but it had no lock. She
slid the bar out of its hooks and pushed cautiously at the door.
For all her care, the hinges squealed; she stopped being careful, shoved the
door open and ran through, counting on the fog and the darkness to conceal
her; the only concession to caution she made was to stay close to the midwall
where the shadow was thickest until she reached the watchtower by the slave
pens; Timka had reported that the guards passed into the auction section
through the tower, matched doors standing open during the day. Skeen sliced [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
to take along. She moved to the chest. Another lock. She squatted beside it,
knocked her wounded hand as she lowered herself. For several breaths she
clutched at the chest with her good hand, cradled the other on her thighs and
wept with pain, shock, dizziness.
The worst of the shock passed off; she pulled herself together and cut through
the lock. Grunting with the effort, she pushed the lid up and looked inside.
She smiled. The cavity was filled with small canvas bags, tied neatly at the
neck with heavy cord, the knots sealed with red wax, a sigil stamped into the
wax. She sliced one open and dumped out hexagonal gold coins, the Lesket
Perpao mintage that wide-ranging Balayar traders had turned into something
like universal exchange counters. She gathered them up and dumped them into
the lootbag. One by one she opened the bags (not trusting Tod in any way, she
needed to be sure she knew exactly what she had) and dumped the gold after the
first coins. When the lootbag was three-quarters filled and about at the limit
of her ability to haul it around, especially now when her strength was so
depleted, she shut the chest and got unsteadily to her feet. Her knees went
watery and she collapsed onto the lid. Djabo's weepy eyes! Come on, Skeen, so
you've got a bad hand and a throat so sore suffocating would be a pleasure,
you've been through worse. Lost a little blood, so what. She passed her good
hand across her face, surprised herself with a jaw-straining yawn. Oh fuck,
it's stimtab time, you know it, woman, you just don't want to admit it.
Willpower won't do it, that's obvious by now. So you pay for it later. Later's
when you've got the time. She dug out a stimtab, glared resentfully at the
small gray-brown pill, tossed it to the back of her throat and swallowed it;
she sat for several breaths waiting for the pill to act, then got to her feet
and began inspecting the contents of the boxes. Jewelry. Some was fairly
standard, diamonds and gold, fussy stuff; that she discarded without bothering
to evaluate it; its weight wasn't worth what it'd bring on the far side, too
much floating about just like it. In one large flat box she found a massive
gold chain, odd dullish stones set in every third link; each of the ungemmed
links was engraved with a fantastically convoluted line, many of the details
too small to make out. even when she moved a pinlight close and scanned the
shadows. She clicked the lid shut and tucked the box into the lootbag. The
bag's flap couldn't be buckled down over it but she ignored that and went on
searching. Another box held triangles of jet, Skirrik work; someone had killed
an old male and pried loose his jet inlays. Each piece was intricately carved,
low relief, semi-abstract plant forms. They felt warm, vibrant, as if the life
of the old Skirrik had passed into them. She closed the lid, hesitated, but
put the box into the bag. They were lovely things and she knew a buyer who'd
salivate over them. Very tempting to take them and keep quiet about it, but
the one rule she never broke was don't hit on your friends; in spite of the
compromises life forced on you, real friends were rare and to be cherished.
And you had to live with yourself. The Skirrik hadn't harmed her; no, they'd
gone out of their way to help her; besides, she liked Chulji, he was a good
kid. Bona Fortuna/Mala Fortuna, she wasn't leaving this with Tod the Creep.
Chulji could have it and do what he wanted with it. She opened one of the
Page 60
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
thicker boxes and stopped breathing for a minute. Ancient Min work, drawn
silver brooches and rings set with ovals of crystallized resin that glowed
blue then green then purple and released a subtle scent when she warmed it
with her hand. Sweetamber. She recognized it for she'd got a tiny flawed piece
of sweetamber set in a stab pin of a ring brooch as part of her pay for
extracting Timka from Dum Besar and the Poet's bed. Feeling a little
lightheaded, she grinned down at the treasure in the box and made the warding
circle, a tribute to Bona Fortuna and an attempt to chase away the bad vibes
that sniffed about her gifts. She clicked the lid down and shoved the box into
the bag. Mala takes, Bona gives almost like it was a payment for sticking to
principle and giving up thief's right to the jet. She looked around at the
unopened boxes, sighed. The bag was full and there was some question about
whether she was going to be able to haul it out. It was heavy, yes, heavy was
the definitive word. She sat on the chest, got her uninjured arm through the
strap and heaved. With considerable effort she got the strap over her shoulder
and managed to stand. She giggled; there was a pronounced list to the left.
She collected the stickum, clicked it off and put it away. Forcing her
bandaged hand to work, she got out the darter and held it along her thigh.
Anything that came at her she'd have to deal with at a distance. Not much
fight left in this poor old body.
She glanced at the woffits and the handler as she went past. The darts would
hold them for two, three hours more. Probably. Anyway, long enough for Domi to
get us well away from Cida Fennakin. She pushed past the arras and cut across
the Great Hall, moving as steadily and quickly as she could; already the strap
was biting into her shoulder and every time the bag tapped into her hip, it
jarred her whole body, starting new waves of pain out from her wounds and
bruises. It offended her sense of herself to be so slapdash; ordinarily she
would have closed and locked the strongroom door, drawn the curtain over it;
ordinarily she would have taken time to close and rebar the refectory door,
but she couldn't spare the energy or the time; she slipped out the kitchen
door and stepped into a thick swirling fog, couldn't even see her own feet.
She crossed to the wall and the door that led from the private quarters into
the guards' quadrangle. It was barred on this side, but it had no lock. She
slid the bar out of its hooks and pushed cautiously at the door.
For all her care, the hinges squealed; she stopped being careful, shoved the
door open and ran through, counting on the fog and the darkness to conceal
her; the only concession to caution she made was to stay close to the midwall
where the shadow was thickest until she reached the watchtower by the slave
pens; Timka had reported that the guards passed into the auction section
through the tower, matched doors standing open during the day. Skeen sliced [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]