Songs of the Dying Earth. Gardner Dozois
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Название: Songs of the Dying Earth
Автор: Gardner Dozois
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780007290666
isbn:
THE SUN stood near its low zenith when Farnol rode away from Manse Karzh. The weary star glowed through a veil of purple haze. The warmer tones faded out of existence at the horizon, where the indigo skies deepened to the color of ink. To the south rose Kaiin, its white walls reflecting faintly violet light. The burnished dome of Prince Kandive the Golden’s palace dominated the skyline, and beyond glinted the waters of the Bay of Sanreale. The narrow track before him circled the northern extremity of the city, winding through the quiet hamlets and leading by leisurely degrees to the Old Town, a silent wilderness of tumbled ruins, broken walls and prostrate columns, fallen turrets and shattered towers, all worn smooth and rounded of contour by the passage of uncounted ages. Past a broken obelisk he rode, beyond which spread a wide court, and now he found his way littered with eyeless corpses—here a great warrior in cloison armor, there a young man in a green cloak, and others, many others. Their cavernous regard chilled him to the heart, but could not extinguish the little fire burning hot at the pit of his stomach. He nudged his horse and rode on.
The senescent red sun limped across the sky, and now the Old Town lay behind him. The grade of the path steepened as the land began to undulate. Shaggy fields of Foun’s dalespread clothed the hillocks and hollows in patinated bronze, sparked with the bright rose-gold of vessileaf. Another hour of riding brought him to the verge of Xence Moraine.
FARNOL DREW rein and gazed about him. The land dipped and rolled like the waves of a petrified sea. Everywhere bulked the great boulders and mounds of debris deposited in the lost ages of the past; all of them polished to satiny sheen. The long rays of the westering sun warmed multifarious crowns and summits to crimson. Shadows pooled purple and charcoal in the hollows. Among the hills wound a slow brown stream, its banks lined with tall, narrow, emphatic mounds, whose regularity of size and shape suggested intelligent construction. He studied them for a time, but caught no hint of motion or life. At length, he urged his horse forward at a cautious pace.
The deserted mounds rose twice the height of a man. Closer inspection revealed them to be formed of rock, mortared with glinting crystalline adhesive and plastered over with a black substance whose even luster suggested porcelain. For the most part, the outer coverings were intact and unblemished. Here and there, however, the force of some ancient assault had ripped away chunks of matter to reveal interiors comprising countless compact polyhedral chambers strung like beads upon narrow corridors and galleries. Farnol resisted the impulse to halt and inspect. The sun was sagging toward the horizon, and the shadows rose like specters from the depths of the ancient earth. He rode on, following the curves of the listless stream until he encountered a gigantic mound, towering above its companions, rising five times the height of a man. The featureless structure communicated nothing beyond assertiveness, yet instinct pushed him toward it. Twice he circled the mound, discerning no gleam of light, no evidence of habitation. Dismounting, he approached and rapped upon the hard surface. No response, but now at last he glimpsed life. A sinuous form slipped along the edge of his vision, and was not there when he turned to look. The wind sighed in regret. His heartbeat quickened, and the spot of heat at the bottom of his stomach seemed to pulse. Farnol drew a deep breath, tried to moisten dry lips, and rapped again.
A nearby tuft of rewswolley shuddered in response. The bristling stalks parted to reveal a hole. A lean figure thrust its head, shoulders, and torso up into the dying light. Farnol glimpsed grey garments; a narrow face partially concealed by a mask fitted with bulging, faceted eyepieces; bony white hands with long, curved fingernails; and a cloak of diaphanous, transparent stuff.
“Well, and what do you seek?” asked the stranger.
“I seek Tcheruke the Vivisectionist.”
“What do you want of Tcheruke?”
“His assistance, for which I am willing to pay well.”
“And what does he care for your terces? Shall he bury them on the Xence Moraine, and wait to see if they sprout?”
“I can offer him an interesting tale—the story of a foolish young heir to a fine estate, a treacherous uncle, and a murder taking place slowly, over the course of ten days.”
“I state with assurance that Tcheruke will hear it, for I am he. Enter.” Head and torso vanished into the hole.
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