"Rhys Hughes - P Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Rhys)

but compensated with my own songs, melancholy ballads learned in the beerhalls of Vienna. Nothing satisfied my
mood; my lips had forgotten how to pout. A savage wind clapped leaves against my ears like ironic applause.
As evening approached, I sought shelter from the elements. Standing at a fork in the road, a ragged figure raised a
fist and tried to snatch my reins. His beard twisted upon his chest in three prongs, as if it had been combed with a
trident. In the twilight, his eyes sparkled fitfully, the left with wisdom, the right with lunacy. I decided to trust only one
side of his gaze and shook him free. He pointed along the wider path and I deliberately chose the other, branches
clawing my hair as I spurred my horse up the overgrown slope. Soon we had left him behind, together with the
nightshade which sprouted at his feet. He had obviously been waiting many weeks in that location. For whom?
Certainly not for me — my operation was more secret than the groin of my employer, Nicola I Petrovic. The
bishop-prince had timed his rule perfectly, taking much of the credit for doubling Montenegro's territory with one
scratch of a quill. The Congress of Berlin had earned him vital access to the sea; modernisation was at full tilt. In the
fresh ports of Antivari and Dulcigno, ships were unloading steam-engines and tracks for railways, coils of telegraph
wire and dynamos. He spent whole afternoons praying for a local scientific breakthrough, something to impress Russia
and France, who derided his country as a technophobic backwater. So with church gold he had bought my talents.
The path grew steeper and narrower until I began to doubt its claim on any future map. Abruptly it broke out at the
base of a cliff on which rested a ruined castle. The turrets jumped so seamlessly from the living rock that I would have
mistaken them for unique stalagmites had they not betrayed their real function with windows and lamps. The entire
southern wing of the edifice had fallen into the chasm below; the remainder bound itself to the summit with flowers.
Exposed rooms and furniture blossomed over the edge; doors and staircases led from walls into nothingness. For a
moment, I assumed the structure had been turned inside-out. Despite my exhaustion, I resolved to explore it.
Abandoning my horse at the foot of the heights and scaling a ladder pegged into the granite, I gained a ledge which
twisted around the scarp and emerged, after numerous loops, before a brass gate. There was a bell and chain hanging
from a bracket and I tugged this with suitable vigour. On the fifth pull, the gate opened and I was confronted with an
odd kind of host — a withered fellow in archaic clothing, arms thrust elbow-deep into pockets more monstrous than
my own. His pale hair retained tints of a fuller colour and the lines around his eyes were those of jovial youth rather
than decrepitude; when he winked, they grew old. 1 guessed he had aged only on his upper layer of skin.
I waved my documents in his swarthy face.
"My name is Batavus Droogstoppel and I am a legitimate agent of the crosier. You are required to lend me every
assistance. Bread and a glass of Vinjak will be accepted. Also, a soft bed."
He sneered. "What is the nature of your mission?"
Neither his accent nor his complexion were Montenegrin. In the stab of his vowels, I recognised Latin edges
stropped on the leathery tongues of matadors. And his scented moustache curled at each tip like the screw of an
olive-press. I recalled the apparition at the fork — was it a new fashion to cultivate helical facial hair? Yet this castellan,
if such he was, had adopted no other modern styles.
"My brief cannot be divulged. The bishop-prince has sewn coins into my mouth to keep my voice heavy. It is your
duty as a believer to invite me into your abode. Why do you giggle so? Are you aware of the penalties to be suffered
for impeding the Church?"
"Naturally. But I merely desire a general outline of your quest. Is your assignment religious or political?"
I sighed. "It is a scientific enquiry."
His manner abruptly changed. Backing away from the door, he allowed me to cross into the dim passage. I strode
forward warily and he gripped my elbow. I considered my pistol as a discourager, but I was put at ease by his chatter.
As he escorted me down the corridor, he revealed himself as a kindred spirit, an amateur scholar.
"Yes, I am also a member of the fraternity. For twenty years I have devoted myself to private research in the
discipline of geography. There are few creeds to compare with science."
"That is not Orthodox opinion. Are you a Catholic?"
"Here, the Vatican's followers are mostly Croats. No, my family was cast out of Spain for exalting atheism."
"Then this castle is not rightfully yours?"
"Oh, we were exiled centuries ago. We spread ourselves over Europe. It was my ancestor, Bartleby Cadiz, who
raised this pile. Our names tend to repeat over the generations. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Unfortunato,
last of the Balkan branch."