"Dave Duncan - A Man Of His Word 2 - Faery Lands Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

Trees had wedged in every unused crevice, hanging welcome shadow over
steep alleyways and winding stairs. On the crest of the hill, celebrated
in many ancient stories, the Palace of Palms was a marvel of domes and
spires and towers, graced with lush parks and exotic gardens, as
widespread in itself as many a respected town.

Throughout recorded history, a sultan of Arakkaran had ruled in that
palace. There had been many sultans; their names and deeds were
uncountable as the shells of the beaches. Some had held sway over half
of Zark, while others had barely controlled the docks. A few were
celebrated for justice and wisdom; many had been despots of a savagery
to make the Gods recoil. No single family had ever dominated for long,
no dynasty prevailed; old age had rarely troubled them.

Whatever he had been-warrior or statesman, tyrant or scholar, poet or


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giver of laws-every sultan of Arakkaran had invariably been renowned for
his ferocity and for the number and beauty of his women.

2

From the dark cold of Krasnegar, Inos stumbled through a curtain of
jewels into blinding light and a heat that took her breath away. Her
willful feet carried her several paces farther before she felt them
returned to her control.

But Rap and Aunt Kade were in danger-without even pausing to take stock
of where she was, she spun around and rushed blindly back to the drape.

There was nothing there to stop her except many dangling strands of
gems, flickering and tinkling in the breeze. A moment earlier she had
passed between the strings with no trouble at all, but now she bounced
off, stubbing her toe and almost falling. From this side, apparently,
the curtain was as impenetrable as a castle wall. Yet it still shimmered
and. rippled. Infernal sorcery! She thumped fists on it furiously.

"Anger will not help," said a harsh male voice behind her. She wheeled
around, screwing up her eyes against the glare. He was big, as tall as a
jotunn. His pale-green cloak billowed and danced in the breeze, making
him seem even larger. Yet in a moment she could make out his ruddy-hued
face, and the thin line of red beard framing it. He was a djinn,
therefore. Of course.

Under the cloak he wore voluminous pajamas of emerald silk, but she
doubted he had just climbed out of bed. The scimitar hanging at his
side, for example, its hilt glittering with diamonds-not a comfortable