Songs of the Dying Earth. Gardner Dozois

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СКАЧАТЬ Why, busy myself with management of the estate, I suppose, and other pursuits. Kaiin offers no end of occupation. My swordplay falls short of perfection; I shall continue the practice bouts. There is the theatre, always in want of patrons; the declamatory competitions, the Vringel Attitudes, the Perambulating Rocks, the Scaum Scullers, the quest to replicate the ancient Golden Light of the Sun—”

      “Occupation?” Dhruzen’s lids drooped. “Say rather, diversions, frivolities. Nephew, you squander your force upon trifles. Always you evade the issue of true importance. You speak nothing of magic, whose power measures the eminence of our line. The patriarchs of Karzh all possess some measure of magic. Where is yours?”

      “Oh, I have not the aptitude. I cannot hold the simplest of spells in my head, they fly from me like timid birds.” Farnol flexed a careless shrug. “What matter? There are other pursuits equally meritorious.”

      “Oh, Nephew—Nephew—Nephew.” Dhruzen shook his curled head in smiling sorrow. “Far be it from me to criticize, but you refuse to acknowledge the essential verity. The master of this manse must possess some measure of thaumaturgical skill. It is a tradition of Karzh. For years, you have neglected your studies, and I—shame upon me—I have indulged your idleness. Now that you have come of age, matters must alter.”

      “It is a little late for alteration. Uncle, pray do not trouble yourself,” Farnol counseled easily. “I have not turned out so badly, and no doubt all is for the best.”

      “Brave philosophy. I am not without hope, however, that I may yet persuade you to my point of view.” So saying, Dhruzen struck the small gong on the table beside him, and a brazen note resounded.

      Into the chamber stepped Gwyllis, household fixture for years beyond count, dry and brittle as an abandoned chrysalis.

      “Bring it in,” commanded Dhruzen.

      Gwyllis bowed and retired. Moments later, he was back, tottering beneath the weight of a sizable object that he placed with care at the center of the table.

      Farnol leaned forward in his chair. He beheld a swirling complexity of interlaced vitreous coils, colorless for the most part, but marked with occasional touches of crimson. At first, the great glass knot appeared randomly formed, but closer inspection revealed elements of structure and design. Here, a subtle pattern of glinting scales. There, the suggestion of a talon. The hint of a snout, the wink of a fang. And visible at the center of the gleaming mass, a compact dark heart, its nature open to conjecture.

      “Beguiling, is it not?”

      “Indeed.” Farnol looked up to meet his uncle’s happy gaze. A nameless pang assailed him.

      “Nephew, you will observe the small leaden casket reposing at the center of the glass knot. Its contents are not without interest to you, but will not be reached save by way of sorcerous art. I invite you to open the casket.”

      “Sorcery is quite beyond me. An iron hammer of good weight, fit to shatter the glass impedimenta, should serve just as well.” Farnol spoke with a lighthearted air designed to conceal growing uneasiness.

      “Impractical. The importunate blows of a hammer would serve only to reinforce the resolve of the defenders.”

      “Defenders?”

      “The glass reptiles, Nephew. They appear lifeless, but do not deceive yourself. They brim with righteous defensive zeal. Once roused, their tempers are short and their venom swift.”

      “Indeed?” Farnol took a closer look, and now discerned the intricately interlaced, transparent saurians. Crimson color marked their eyes, their claws, and their bulging poison ampoules. Their number was impossible to gauge. “Well. They seem stout guardians. Let them protect their treasure, whatever it may be. I will not disturb them.”

      “I urge you to reconsider. The casket at the center of the reptilian knot recommends itself to your attention, for it contains the sole known antidote.”

      “Antidote?”

      “To the bane that you have just swallowed. It was in the excellent wine. I had feared that you might note the addition of a foreign substance, but your mind seemed set on other things. Perambulating Rocks, perhaps. Or Vringel Attitudes.”

      “Poison! Then you have murdered me, Uncle?”

      “My dear lad, you must not think it. Do you take me for an ogre? What I have done reflects pure avuncular affection. I offer you an opportunity to honor the traditions of Karzh. If the conditions I impose appear extreme, you may take it as an expression of my absolute confidence in your abilities. Now attend, if you please. The draft that you have swallowed is trifling in its effect, scarcely more than an inconvenience. Three or four days must elapse before internal desiccation occasions anything beyond passing discomfort. Another two or three before desiccation gives way to conflagration, and a full ten days before the inner fires consume heart, mind, and life. But why speak of such unpleasantness? Surely it is irrelevant. You need only apply the most rudimentary of magical spells to loosen the knot, open the casket, and swallow the antidote. No doubt you will complete the task within hours, if not minutes, for how could the legitimate master of the manse fail? Nephew, I know that you will make me proud.” Rising from his chair, Dhruzen clapped his kinsman’s shoulder, and departed.

      For some seconds, Farnol of Karzh sat motionless, studying the tangle, then spoke without turning his head. “Gwyllis. Fetch me a hammer, an ax, or a crowbar.”

      “Useless, Master Farnol,” returned the ancient servant, in tones treble and tweetling. “Be certain that it is magic alone will serve your purpose. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”

      “I shall summon a magician from the city.”

      “The adept will not be admitted. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”

      “I shall carry the glass knot into Kaiin, then.”

      “The knot may not leave the manse. Master Dhruzen—”

      “I shall order otherwise, and the servants must obey. I have come of age.”

      “An alteration in status perhaps unrecognized by the duller among the household menials.”

      “Ah, Gwyllis—my uncle has planned it well. I fear I am a dead man. There is but one course left. I must kill Dhruzen before the poison takes me. It is a small consolation, but it is better than nothing.”

      “Permit me to suggest an alternative. While it is true that your uncle’s methods and motives appear questionable, there can be no denying the validity of his argument. It is more than probable that you possess a certain measure of sorcerous ability. You have been given considerable incentive to discover it. You must now apply yourself.”

      “Impractical. My mind is not constructed to encompass magical spells. My measure of natural ability expresses itself as a negativity.”

      “Here is neither the time nor place for negativity. As for the construction of your mind and the quality or quantity of your abilities, such things are perhaps less immutable than you imagine. Tcheruke the Vivisectionist, who dwells among the hives at the edge of Xence Moraine, is just the man to sift your brain for hidden talent.”

      “Vivisectionist?”

      “A СКАЧАТЬ