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.His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, which was not complete.From the underside, the illusion was like a thick filter of smoke.Against it he could make out the lip of the real floor.It curved a semicircle against the back side of the small chamber, except for a small landing at the very wall that most certainly had to be in front of the shelf.The gap formed a moat, the last line of defense around the royal regalia.The slithering below grew louder, though not closer.It was as if a host had been roused and not some single thing.In the near darkness, Pinch could barely see a gleam of white, perhaps the floor, though strangely folded and misshapen.He looked again, harder, straining to see clearly, when all at once the floor heaved and shifted.Gods damn, I'm looking at bones.His fingers creaked and almost gave way, so that Pinch couldn't suppress a shriek of pain.The cry reverberated through the pit and, as if in eager concert to it, his voice was taken up by a sussurant hiss as the white gleam of the bones rippled and pulsed in a slithering crawl.The floor was alive with maggots, thick fleshy things that coated the shattered arches of bone like pustulant skin and mounded themselves in squirming heaps against the walls.The skeletons beneath him were the bones of those who'd tried before, scoured clean by a slow death in the nest below.How long could a man live among them? How excruciating would the pain be as they burrowed into his flesh? Better to die in the fall.Fear dragged from inside Pinch the last reserve of his strength.With his fingers slipping, he kicked his legs up madly.His toes flailed for the ledge, scraping it once as his fingers started to pull free.Desperately he tried again.One foot hooked over the edge and he pressed his weight on it.The leather sole slid, then held, but his strength was fading fast.Frantically, the rogue levered one elbow over the edge and kicked his other foot up until he could raise his head above the sea of phantasm and see the real world again.Half-supported on his forearm, Pinch risked letting go with one hand.Almost immediately he started to slip backward, so with a desperate lunge he slapped his hand down as far onto the stone as he could.His cramped fingers burned, his palm stung, but his crude grip held for the least of instants.In that second he wrenched himself up and over, seizing on the momentum of his lunge to carry him to safety.Barely he twisted his hips over the edge and onto solid ground.Pinch lay drained on the cool stone floor, unable and unwilling to try any more.All he wanted to do was collapse and rest, to come back another night and try again.Sweat soaked his doublet, and beads of it matted down his curly gray hair.His shoulders were shaking and his fingers were knotted like claws, clumsy and useless to his trade.Nonetheless, Pinch knew he wouldn't quit.As he lay panting on the marble, he felt alive with the thrill of it all.It was the joy of risk, the game that he'd outwitted again.This, surely, was what a thief lived for.If he left tonight, he knew he'd just come back tomorrow to risk it all again.Sprite was waiting, he reminded himself as he struggled to his feet.There was no more time to waste here.Barely collected or steady on his feet, the rogue gauged the distance to the ledge.The priests had designed their trap well.The moat, he guessed, was just large enough for a man to cross in a single giant stride, like clearing a puddle at the side of the street.The landing gave enough space for him to stand discreetly but well, from what he remembered from below.It was just a matter of knowing where to step and where to avoid, and he'd had that lesson already.Taking up the bag Cleedis had brought, Pinch sized up the possibilities and then finally, with only a small twinge of misgiving, boldly stepped out over the emptiness.The next thing he knew, he stood on the landing, the box of rosewood and gold right before him.The Cup and the Knife were dazzling as merited their role, but even the box was extraordinary [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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