Читаем Nightside the Long Sun полностью

“Yes, sir,” the monitor said. “Your future whereabouts will be problematical.”

“Good. Now vanish at once. Go wherever it is that you go.” Silk draped the glass, covering it completely in a way that he hoped would seem merely careless, and opened the door to his right.

For the space of a heartbeat, he thought the spacious, twilit bedchamber unoccupied; a faint moan from the enormous bed at its center revealed his mistake.

The woman in the bed writhed and keened aloud from the depths of her need. As he bent over her, something within him reached out to her; and though he had not touched her, he felt the thrill of touch. Her hair was as black as the night chough’s wings, and as glossy. Her features, as well as he could judge in the uncertain glow, exquisite. She groaned softly, as though she knew he was looking down on her, and rolling her head upon her pillow, kissed it without waking.

Beyond the boudoir, the drawing room door opened.

He tore off his black robe and straw hat, ducked out of his torn tunic, kicked all three far under the big bed, and scrambled in, shoes and all. He was drawing up the gold-embroidered oversheet when he heard the door through which he had entered the boudoir open.

Someone said distinctly, “Nothing in here.”

By then his thumb had found the safety catch. He sat up, leveling the needier, as the searchers entered.

“Stop!” he shouted, and fired. By the greatest good luck, the needle shattered a tall vase to the right of the door. The report brought the bedchamber’s lights to their brightest.

The first armored guard halted, his slug gun not quite pointing at Silk; and the black-haired woman sat up abruptly, her slightly tilted eyes wide.

Without looking at her, Silk grated, “Go back to sleep, Hyacinth. This doesn’t concern you.” Faintly perfumed, her breath caressed his bare shoulder, deliriously warm.

“Sorry, Commissioner,” the guard began, uncertainly. “I mean Patera—”

Too late, Silk realized that he was still wearing the old, blue-trimmed calotte that had once been Patera Pike’s. He snatched it off. “This is unforgivable. Unforgivable! I shall inform Blood. Get out!” His voice was far too high, and mounting toward hysteria; surely the guard must sense how frightened he was. In desperation, he brandished the tiny needler.

“We didn’t know—” The guard lowered his slug gun and took a step backward, bumping into the delicate-looking Musk, who had stepped through the boudoir behind him. “We thought everybody had— Well, just about everybody’s already gone.”

Silk cut him off. “Out! You’ve never seen me.”

It had been (as he decided as soon as he had said it) the worst thing he could possibly have said, since Musk had certainly seen him only a few hours earlier. For an instant he felt certain that Musk would pounce upon it.

Musk did not. Silencing the sputtering guard with a shove, Musk said, “The outside door should’ve been locked. Take your time.” He turned on his heel, and the guard shut the boudoir door quietly behind them.

Trembling, Silk waited until he heard the corridor door close as well before he kicked away the luxurious coverings and got out of the bed. His mouth was parched, and his knees without strength.

“What about me?” the woman asked. As she spoke, she pushed aside the oversheet and the red silk sheet, revealing remarkably rounded breasts and a small waist.

Silk caught his breath and looked away. “All right, what about you? Do you want me to shoot you?”

She smiled and threw her arms wide. “If it’s the only thing you can do, why, yes.” When Silk did not reply, she added, “I’ll keep my eyes open, if that’s all right with you. I like to see it coming.” The smile became a grin. “Make it fast, but make it last. And make it good.”

Both had spoken softly, and the lights were no longer glaring; Silk kicked the bed to re-energize them. “You have been given a philtre of some sort, I think. You’ll feel very differently in the morning.” Pushing up the safety catch, he dropped her needier back into his pocket.

“I was given nothing.” The woman in the bed licked her lips, watching for his reaction. “I took what you’re calling a philtre before the first ones got here.”

“Rust?” Silk was on his knees beside the bed, groping for the clothing he had kicked beneath it. Fear was draining from him, and he felt immensely grateful for it. Lion-hearted Sphigx still favored him—nothing could be more certain.

“No.” She was scornful. “Rust doesn’t do this. Don’t you know anything? On rust I’d have itched to kill them all, and I might’ve done it, too. Beggar’s root’s what they call it, and it turns a terrible bore into a real pleasure.”

“I see.” Wincing, Silk pulled out his ruined tunic and his second-best robe.

“Want me to give you some? I’ve got a lot more, and it only takes a pinch.” She swung amazingly long legs over the side of the bed. “It’s a lot more expensive than rust, and a lot harder to find, but I’m in a generous mood. I usually am—you’ll see.” She favored Silk with a sidelong smile that made his heart leap.