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

skin was black as tar. His eyes glowed like red coals in his sockets and his teeth were a sharp set of
fangs, upper and lower. Coarse, stringy black hair twined down to his powerfully muscled shoulders, and
his arms and legs ended in twisted claws with razor-sharp nails. He was totally naked, and his grotesque
penis was easily a cubit long with a barbed tip.

Hakem Rafi once again knew the fear that he might not be able to control this powerful being, yet even
as he stood trembling the daeva made a proper salaam and said, “Welcome to your new home, O my
master, if you will accept it as such."

“I ... I'll have to look it over first."

“Certainly. There are stairs this way.” So saying, Aeshma led the way to a staircase that descended from
the roof into the center of the palace. The gigantic daeva had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on some
of the entranceways, but in general the ceilings were high enough that he could walk upright with no
problem. In Aeshma's hand appeared a large lamp with five wicks that lit the way for the thief. Behind
Aeshma, Hakem Rafi followed cautiously, still fearing the power of his nominal slave.

At the bottom of the stairs they reached a central hall with arched ceilings high enough for three Aeshmas
to have stood, one on another's shoulders. The open area of the floor was larger than the maidan in
Ravan and corridors branched off from it in several directions. The smallest corridor could have
accomodated five men walking abreast, while the largest was wider than most houses. Hakem Rafi
looked down these diverging hallways and could see no end to any of them.

Through these hallways had once moved the commerce of three continents. Once the walls rang with the
din of many different tongues crying in untold numbers of voices. Once ambassadors brought their
legations here, and merchants their wares, and musicians their instruments. Once the air had been alive
with the scent of spices and sweat, with the sound of bells and hawkers’ cries, with the tang of oranges
and wine, with the sight of camels and horses, and even elephants. Once these walls had known life and
excitement, the intrigues of an empire, the lusts of a king alive with power.

Now the dust of the ages hung thickly in the air, making Hakem Rafi sneeze and cough. Insects buzzed
unconcerned through the air, and the rats that fed on them chittered quietly in the corners. The air smelled
musty and dry, and felt warm from the heat of the afternoon sun.

Hakem Rafi took a couple of steps as he looked around, and the sound of his boots on the tiled floor
echoed through the chamber and down the corridors. His voice, when he spoke, echoed like a drum in
the still air, frightening some of the rats back into their holes. “It's all so dead,” he said. “I'm not sure I like
that."

“With my help, O master, you will make it live again and restore the palace of Rashwenath to its former
grandeur."

“It'd take an army of slaves a year to clean this up,” the thief said, looking at the dust.

“It is but the work of a single night. When you awake in the morning, the palace shall gleam as it did on
the day it was built. Just leave everything to me."

“Very well. First rid this room of its choking dust. But if I don't like the place when you're all done will
you take me elsewhere and build me a new palace?"