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.A perfect lift is where the mark never knows, but I've never runinto an opportunity for one of those, although Carlos claimed that he had, onmore than one occasion.Primary route, check.Three: decide on secondary escape route.Again, it could have been argued that there was no real need for this one;if either Van or any one his three massive guards spotted me, running wouldonly of delay the inevitable.Then again, a thief lives by delaying the inevitable.I shrugged; I couldslide under the jeweler's table, then crawl on my belly behind the stall, andmake my getaway, shedding my tunic, peeling off the pseudoflesh, and strippingdown to my breechclout.Add a bit of dirt, and I wouldn't look at all as I nowdid.Secondary route, check.Four: check the disguise.The physical parts of the disguise were already set, by the time I lefthome.My face was well shaved and my hair was freshly cut.Makeup under my eyes hidthe dark hollows; the cut of my tunic and a scant ounce of pseudoflesh undermy chin made me look just a tad overweight.Page 18ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlI looked for all the worlds like a half-rich buzh's son, out for someshopping.But the mental parts of the disguise are just as important as the physicalones.If I'd dressed the part but didn't act the part, I'd look like a lowerin costume; a buzh doesn't walk like the rest of us lowers; more pride, a bitmore anxiety those with less to worry about worry more and a lot less fear.So I straightened out of my natural quarter-crouch, threw my shoulders back,and shifted my weight to my heels as I walked closer, staring at the piecesarrayed under the plexi sheath in front of the massive schrift.Disguise, check.The staring was supposed to be part of the disguise, but it quickly becamemore when my eyes caught the pitcher, sitting in a wallmount above and behindthe schrift.That's all it was: a silver pitcher, a third of a meter tall.All of onepiece, smoothly curved from its solid base to its narrow lip.Something came over me; my breath caught in my chest.The pitcher was so beautiful that I could have cried.Seamless and wonderful,its highly burnished surface caught and caressed the daylight.My handsstarted to reach out for it, as though it was right in front of me, notseparated by two meters.My eyes misting over, I forced my hands back down to my sides.The schrift turned away from van Ingstrand to stare at me, its glowing purpleeyes boring in.There was no hint of threat in that motion, as though it knewthat I could never touch the pitcher for fear my fingers might mar its perfectsurface.I wouldn't have done that, not for anything."It iss my chrostith, young human," the schrift said, its voice a bassorumble."My& master-work-so-far.It is not for sale."Nodding, I tore my eyes away.I was supposed to be stealing Van's brooch, notfawning over silver.Icouldn't understand it; how could that pitcher affect me this way?I started to look at it again, but caught myself.Never mind whether it shouldor not; the fact was it did affect me, did make me feel& happy, and joyous,and inadequate, all at the same time.Best not to even look at it, even thinkabout it.There was, after all, work to do.And this was as good an opportunity as I waslikely to get.Less than two meters away, Amos van Ingstrand was reachingacross the table for a proffered purse, his huge flipper of a hand extended.To his right and behind him, his two blocky bodyguards stood, their eyes onthe crowd, their left hands at their truncheons, their right hands concealedin the folds of their cloaks, probably resting on illegal powerguns.Five: distract, and go.I turned as though to leave, dropping my left hand below the surface of theschrift's table, and dug my thumb into the pseudoflesh, triggering theconcussior's fuse.I thumb-flicked it above and beyond vanIngstrand's bulk, then smoothly continued my turn before closing my eyestightly, opening my mouth to protect my eardrums against the pressure wave [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]