"David Gemmell - Morningstar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

who shape all tomorrows, and only the old and the weary who twist our today’s - stunting
them, holding them back,making them safe. There he sits, waiting, ghostly and
transparent. Once I could have dressed him in purple, and any who saw him would marvel at
his appearance. Now he shifts and fades. But that, I suppose, is how a ghost should look.

Where shall I begin, spirit? What would you like to hear?

Naturally he does not answer, but I know what he would be thinking, were he able to
think.

Begin at the beginning, storyteller. Where else but Ziraccu?

Chapter One

It is all ruins now but back then, under a younger sun, the city walls were strong
and high. There were three sets of walls on different levels, for Ziraccu was an ancient
settlement, the first of its buildings raised during the Age of Stone, when Neolithic
tribesmen built their temples and forts on the highest hills of this Highland valley.
Hundreds of years later- perhaps thousands, for I am no expert on matters historical - a
new tribe invaded the north, bearing sharp weapons of bronze. They also built in the
valley, throwing up walls around the four hills of Ziraccu. Then came the Age of Iron,
and the migration of the tribes who now populate the mountains of the north. The painted
warriors of Bronze were either killed or absorbed by these fierce new invaders. And they
too built their homes in the high valley. And Ziraccu grew. On the highest levels dwelt
the rich in marble palaces surrounded by fine gardens and parks. On the next level down
dwelt the merchants and the skilled craftsmen, their houses more homely yet comfortable,
built of stone and timber. While at the foot of the hills, within the circle of the lower
walls, were the slums and tenements of the poor. Narrow streets, stinking with sewage and
waste, high houses, old and dilapidated, alleys and tunnels, steps and stairways, dark
with danger and bright with the gleam of the robber's blade. Here there were taverns and
inns where men sat silently listening for the Watchmen.

Ziraccu, the merchant city. Everything had a price in Ziraccu. Especially in the
years of the Angostin War, when the disruption to trade brought economic ruin to many.

I was young then, and I could weave my stories well. It was a good living,
traveling from city to city, entertaining at taverns -and occasionally palaces - singing
and magicking. The Dragon's Egg was always a favorite, and I am sorry it has fallen into
disregard in these latter days.

It was an evening in autumn in Ziraccu, and I was hired to play the hand-harp at a
wedding celebration in the south quarter. The daughter of a silk merchant was marrying
the son of a spice trader. It was more an alliance than a marriage and the bride was far
from attractive. I will not dwell on her shortcomings for I was, and am, a gentleman.
Suffice to say that her ugliness was not so great as to be memorable. On the other hand I
felt great pity for the groom, a fine, upstanding youngster with clear blue eyes and a
good chin. I could not help but notice that he rarely looked at his bride, his eyes
lingering on a young maiden seated at the foot of the table.

It was not the look of a lascivious man, and I knew instantly that these two were