"Stephen Goldin - Storyteller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

governed by King Shahriyan, the great hero who defeated Aeshma and founded the holy city of Ravan.

But Rashwenath had lived many millennia ago, in the Third Cycle of the world. As great as his power
had been, it was now all for naught. Rashwenath was dead and dust, his name forgotten even by the
storytellers, his history recounted only in the most obscure tomes. Hakem Rafi had never heard of the
name, nor had anyone of his acquaintance. So when the thief asked Aeshma who Rashwenath was, it
was pointless for the daeva to recount the magnificent history of this one -time emperor. Instead, Aeshma
replied, “He was a great king many years ago. His palace stands empty now, and it is there I take you.
Only that magnificent structure is grand enough to suit a man of your power and importance."

“If Rashwenath was such a great king, why does his palace stand empty?” Hakem Rafi asked
suspiciously. He was not going to let Aeshma pull any tricks on him.

Aeshma could have told a story of political intrigues, of treachery, corruption, decay, and a rebellion that
seethed across three continents—a rebellion in which he and his daevas played no small role—but he
chose to keep the tale simple for the simple mind of a common thief. “Rashwenath died,” he answered
curtly. “His sons fought over the lands, and soon the empire was torn apart by civil wars. No one could
afford to maintain such a magnificent palace, so it was abandoned and the empire soon disintegrated. No
one has occupied the palace for thousands of years. But soon, if you so desire it, the palace will live
again, a tribute to the power and majesty of my new master, Hakem Rafi."

Hakem Rafi had never been in even a small palace, let alone such a wonderful structure as the daeva
was describing. He was intrigued by the possibilities. He reminded himself to start behaving like a man of
wealth and property, for any riches he could imagine would soon be his for the asking. It was only right
that he should occupy the grandest palace in the world and have an army of slaves to do his bidding. He
felt he'd worked hard to steal Aeshma's urn and spirit it out of Ravan against all odds; he'd earned the
right to live in lavish splendor.

They flew at great height and speed over the barren desert below, and Hakem Rafi's anticipation grew
till he could barely wait to see this promised palace. On the horizon a chain of mountains came into view
and began to grow as the two approached. The rukh descended now, making it apparent that their
destination lay within those mountains.

Hakem Rafi's sharp eyes spotted something at the base of those hills, and as they drew closer he could
see it looked like a vast city stretched out along the desert floor. Then, as they came closer still, the thief's
eyes widened when he realized it was not a city he saw, but a single vast building stretching defiantly from
the base of the mountains well into the desert. A single roof covered the grounds, with numerous small
breaks for courtyards, gardens, and solaria; domes, towers, and minarets reached upward from its
surface toward the sky. The stones of its walls were only slightly eroded after all this time, though the
brightly colored facade and fabrics that had once graced its exterior had worn away. The structure was
so huge that all of Yazed, Hakem Rafi's native town, could be hidden within the building's perimeter with
yet room for a few minor country villages.

The rukh descended toward the roof of the palace. Setting Hakem Rafi down most gently, the rukh alit
beside him and transformed itself once more. It became a cloud of oily black smoke, sulfurous and
impenetrable, and shrank somewhat in size. As it shrank it condensed from a bird to a more vertical
shape, until at last it took the features that could be called most natural for it—but for Hakem Rafi the
new shape was far more frightening than the rukh.

Aeshma's form was an enormous obscene parody of a man. He stood well over five cubits tall and his