Cloud Castles by Michael Scott Rohan Read Free Book Online

to the horrors; any climber who says he doesn’t look down is a liar. It can stiffen you for minutes at a time, even when – as I preferred to – you start from the bottom and work up, getting used to it. This abseiling wasn’t altogether my line but the need for speed prodded me. I’d climbed down the side of a Bangkok hotel once, hadn’t I? Higher than this, too. Admittedly, I hadn’t actually
known
I was doing it, but did that really matter? Gingerly I swung out the other leg, winced as I hit a bruise, then felt down for that ledge and leaned away back and out, letting the doubled line pay out, further and further until I was practically walking down the smooth concrete castings of the hotel’s façade. A few floors lower and I couldn’t have managed this. I’d have fallen foul of the exterior lighting. But up here it was muted, so as not to dim the roof sign; in its shadow all cat-burglars were grey.
    Going down was the easy bit; when I reached what looked like the right level I tied off for a moment and looked for somewhere that might take a peg. Nothing; this trendy façade was covered in slots and sockets, but they were all too big for even a hex nut. I sweated a moment, but there was no help for it; it was slink back up, or do the whole damn pitch in one. I risked a look down; nobody shouting or pointing down there – not yet. No time to lose; I began to jump, pushing myself out from the wall, further and further each time. And just as I was reaching the apex I suddenly saw myself coming crashing through a window, ripped ragged to the bone by plate-glass claws …
    The hell with that! I flung my weight sideways and slipped the brake. With a noise like tearing canvas I flew, out and around, falling, until the line bent suddenly on the massive side-pillar and swung me in. I clamped the descender, the concrete rushed in to meet me and slapped stinging into my hands, my knees, anything that could cling. I bounced, held, slid and scrabbled; a finger caught in a slot, another, afoot – my bruises swore, but I was fast. I took a deep breath, looked up and counted floors. One down – fine. And on this side I was almost invisible from below. I began to climb, taking in the slack, careful not to let the line sag across somebody’s window. Above and to the right there, that ought to be 26’s window, its transom open a crack – and just as my fingers closed on the ledge beneath, the light came on.
    With frantic haste I mantelshelfed myself up, half crouching, hanging on with cramped fingers and creaking back. I had to be careful: almost certainly there’d be others in there, the usual back-up team for this sort of bugging operation. The curtains were open, and pulling the dark hood down over my face I peered over the sill. There she was, moving slowly, just shutting the door; she must have taken the stairs rather than face anyone in the lift – a long, slow, painful hobble. She only just reached an armchair before she folded up and shook with what looked like exhausted sobs. Nobody else spoke; nobody moved. She was alone.
    My stupid irrational conscience needled me again, and I sank back. My fingers and calf muscles protested; I searched hastily till I found slots into which I could sink a couple of pegs. Their weird-shaped double-cam heads expanded to grip the grimy concrete, and I krabbed their straps to my harness. I caught a flicker of movement; she was standing now, unzipping her shell-suit. She crossed and recrossed the floor, and I saw the discarded suit fly across the room with some force; she must have kicked it. Then a T-shirt flapped after it, and I saw her bare arm lift as she gingerly probed the red blotches around her ribs; testing for breaks, no doubt. That conscience of mine was really shrilling now; on the other hand, I had a good few aches of my own to account for. Besides, not to mince matters, I was enjoying myself; she had a nice back, as far as I could see, which wasn’t quite enough. Then