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.His father was a legend.A legend was, above all, a lie.And Jason was the son of a legend.But maybelies could become real, maybe you could twist the universe, bend it to shape, and make the lies real, ifyou could only keep your voice from shaking, your hand from trembling."Of course I am, Baron," he said, as he stood, drawing the damp, smelly, woolen blankets around himas though they were robes of state."I am a Cullinane."The baron didn't quite know how to take it, so Jason forced himself to meet his gaze until the baronlooked away."I guess you are," Bren Adahan said. CHAPTER 23A Tap on the ShoulderAm I a god? I see so clearly!--Johann Wolfgang von GoetheHis clothes had been uncomfortably damp until he stepped out into the rain, but his belly was warm, histongue and throat still aching with the taste of a last cup of almost scalding tea.Now his clothes were simply soaked again as he splashed down in the waterlogged grass behind theSteer's Head Inn, then stepped back into the cover of the balcony.Between the flashes of lightning the night was dark, the darkness broken only by lamps in the windowsof the buildings that vanished into the distance in the rain and the gloom.Most places, that was enoughlight to see by, but just barely.He stood silently next to the shingled side of the building.Wiping the back of his dripping hand across hiseyes, he took a moment to get his bearings.The inn was to his back and to the south.Immediately to the east were the inn's stables, where theirhorses waited under the none-too-watchful gaze of the stablemen, both of whom had reeked of cheapwine.To the west, further up the street, were three residences, clearly of upper middle-class merchants,and then the stables of the Silver Mushroom Inn.The Mushroom itself was across the street from itsstables.Two streets over and three down was the Slavers' Guildhall.That was Jason's ultimate target for thenight, but it was hours away, at least.When you're on a stalk, move slowly and carefully, WalterSlovotsky had said.Move not at all, if possible; wait for the prey to come to you.Well, that wasn't possible here.He'd have to keep away from open spaces.Dressed as he was in wet, dark clothes, he would beinvisible in the shadows, but in a flash of lightning he could easily be seen if somebody happened to belooking the right way.On the other hand, immediately after a flash of lightning would be a safe time.He closed his eyes andwaited.When brightness flickered through his eyelids and thunder crashed in his ears, he opened his eyesand stepped off into the night, adjusting the coil of thin climbing rope that ran diagonally over his leftshoulder.With every step, his boots would sink ankle deep into the muck.That did no harm, but they madesucking sounds when he pulled them out.Nobody would be able to hear it very far, not over the soundof the rain, but it did carry a few yards.Jason hid in the lee of an old oak tree, leaning against it, the wet bark painfully rough against his backeven through his -tunic.He pulled off first one boot, then the other; he tied them together with a thongfrom his belt pouch and slung them over his shoulder, then used another thong to tie them to his chest.A stone bit into the ball of his right foot with his first step; the edge of a rock cut into the side of his leftfoot when he hopped to one side.Shit.This wasn't going to make it.He leaned back against the tree and felt at his toes.This had themakings of a disaster, but you had to do the best with what you could.That was the rule.Rinsing his feet off as best he could in the muddy water, he untied his boots, then pulled them back on,mud squishing -between his toes.With his first step, something gave beneath his right foot; he tripped andfell flat on his face in the mud, the fall knocking the wind right out of him.Some hero.Face down in the mud, he fought to get his hands underneath him and push himself out of the mud,struggling both to not breathe in the cold goo and to get some air.Finally he was able to force himself up to his hands and knees, and draw a jagged, shuddering breath,before he almost fell over in a coughing fit.He knelt again and wiped as much of the mud from his mouth,eyes and nose as he could.There was nothing to do but press on.He staggered to his feet and off into the night as quietly as hecould, a taste of mud and grit between his teeth, shivering, miserable, exposed, cold, dirty and utterlyalone.The first four buildings he checked turned out to be just what they had appeared to be: the homes ofmiddle-class merchants, or noble merchants--it was hard to tell which, in Salket.Jason guessed that onewas an ironmonger, another an olive dealer, the other -involved in the sale of dried fish, but he could havebeen wrong, and couldn't guess what the owner of the fourth house was.What the houses weren't were barracks, and that was what was important.Was the rain starting to ease, or was that just his imagination? As if in answer it beat down harder on hishead, the wind picking up, driving the icy water into his face.He moved on.The Silver Mushroom Inn had been built primarily for comfort, not security; each of its several suitesseemed to have its own balcony, lower than those of the Steer's Head Inn.Ladderlike trellises supportedtrails of ivy.Above his head, a narrow shaft of light from a gap in the curtains cut into the night; laughter and the rattleof dice in a cup suggested what was going on.Jason waited under the balcony until he could count atleast four different voices, although he thought it was probably more like half a dozen.He moved on tothe next balcony; the window above was dark.He thought for a moment about climbing the trellis, but that was just too tempting, and too dangerous.There could easily be some sort of trap, some sort of alarm cord hidden beneath the dripping leaves. Still, that was the sort of thing that it was best to find out about.He stooped to check one of the rungs ofthe trellis, one at his knee level.He carefully inserted his fingers in the gap, gently probing for anythingsuspicious.Nothing.He stiffened his fingers and arm, and then rested part, then all of his weight on it.The rung didn't give at all.Not surprising; the Salkes were known for building things to last.Still, thewood was old and splitting.He thought about splinters, and about pulling on his climbing gloves, butdecided that good touch was the better part of valor here.He tested another rung, and then another, and then slowly, carefully began to climb.He reminded himselfagain: patience on a stalk wasn't preferable--it was essential.You had to master time, not let it be yourmaster.Haste was dangerous.It was fifteen rungs to the balcony; slowly he put some weight on it, until he was standing on the ninth.He reached up to close his hand on the railing and pull himself the rest of the way up--and then he caughthimself.He couldn't see it, and he'd better see it before he put his weight on it.He put his hand on the top rung, and started to draw himself up, but it gave fractionally.Slowly, slowly,he withdrew his hand, then felt around, slowly, carefully.Pretend that there might be sharpened razorshidden behind the trellis, at any moment, that was the trick.There might be [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]