[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
back the bolts and locks. Without putting his crossbow aside, he carefully peered out.
He didn't notice the fist clad in a black silver-studded glove as it flew towards the side of his
head. But although the night was dark, the moon was new and the sky overcast, he suddenly
saw ten thousand dazzlingly bright stars.
Toublanc Michelet drew the whetstone over the blade of his sword once more, looking totally
engrossed in this activity.
'So we are to kill one man for you.' He set the stone aside, wiped the blade with a piece of
greased rabbit skin and closely examined the blade. 'An ordinary fellow who walks around the
streets of Oxenfurt by himself, without a guard, an escort or bodyguards. Doesn't even have
any knaves hanging about. We won't have to clamber into any castles, town halls, mansion
houses or garrisons to get at him ... Is that right, honourable Rience? Have I understood you
correctly?'
The man with a face disfigured by a burn nodded, narrowing his moist eyes with their
unpleasant expression a little.
'On top of that,' Toublanc continued, 'after killing this fellow we won't be forced to remain
hidden somewhere for the next six months because no one is going to chase or follow us. No
one is going to set a posse or reward seekers on us. We won't get drawn into any blood feuds
or vendettas. In other words, Master Rience, we're to finish off an ordinary, common fool of
no importance to you?'
The man with the scar did not reply. Toublanc looked at his brothers sitting motionless and
stiff on the bench. Rizzi, Flavius and Lodovico, as usual, said nothing. In the team they
formed, it was they who killed, Toublanc who talked. Because only Toublanc had attended
the Temple school. He was as efficient at killing as his brothers but he could also read and
write. And talk.
'And in order to kill such an ordinary dunce, Master Rience, you're hiring not just any old
thug from the port but us, the Michelet brothers? For a hundred Novigrad crowns?'
'That is your usual rate,' drawled the man with the scar, 'correct?'
'Incorrect,' contradicted Toublanc coldly. 'Because we're not for the killing of ordinary fools.
But if we do . . . Master Rience, this fool you want to see made a corpse is going to cost you
two hundred. Two hundred untrimmed, shining crowns with the stamp of the Novigrad mint
on them. Do you know why? Because there's a catch here, honourable sir. You don't have to
tell us what it is, we can manage without that. But you will pay for it. Two hundred, I say.
You shake on that price and you can consider that no-friend of yours dead. You don't want to
agree, find someone else for the job.'
Silence fell in the cellar reeking of mustiness and soured wine. A cockroach, briskly moving
its limbs, scudded along the dirt floor. Flavius Michelet, moving his leg in a flash, flattened it
with a crunch - hardly changing his position and not changing his expression in the least.
'Agreed,' said Rience. 'You get two hundred. Let's go.'
Toublanc Michelet, professional killer from the age of fourteen, did not betray his surprise
with so much as the flicker of an eyelid. He had not counted on being able to bargain for more
than a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty at the most. Suddenly he was sure that he had
named too low a price for the snag hidden in his latest job.
Charlatan Myhrman came to on the floor of his own room. He was lying on his back, trussed
up like a sheep. The back of his head was excruciatingly painful and he recalled that, in
falling, he had
thumped his head on the door-frame. The temple, where he had been struck, also hurt. He
could not move because his chest was being heavily and mercilessly crushed by a high boot
fastened with buckles. The old fraud, squinting and wrinkling up his face, looked up. The boot
belonged to a tall man with hair as white as milk. Myhrman could not see his face - it was
hidden in a darkness not dispersed by the lantern standing on the table.
'Spare my life . . .' he groaned. 'Spare me, I swear by the gods . . . I'll hand you my money . . .
Hand you everything . . . I'll show you where it's hidden . . .'
'Where's Rience, Myhrman?'
The charlatan shook at the sound of the voice. He was not a fearful man; there were not many
things of which he was afraid. But the voice of the white-haired man contained them all. And
a few others in addition.
With a superhuman effort of the will, he overcame the fear crawling in his viscera like some
foul insect.
'Huh?' He feigned astonishment. 'What? Who? What did you say?'
The man bent over and Myhrman saw his face. He saw his eyes. And the sight made his
stomach slip right down to his rectum.
'Don't beat about the bush, Myhrman, don't twist up your tail.' The familiar voice of Shani, the
medical student came from the shadows. 'When I was here three days ago, here, in this high-
backed chair, at this table, sat a gentleman in a cloak lined with musk-rat. He was drinking
wine, and you never entertain anybody -only the best of friends. He flirted with me, brazenly
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]