"Katherine Kerr - Deverry 10 - The Black Raven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kerr Katherine)

Since in winter the Bardekian days ended early and lacked a proper twilight,
the troupe of performers went into Myleton well before sunset. At nightfall
the western sea swallowed the sun in one gulp to leave only a faint greenish
glow at the horizon. As oil lamps began to flicker into life in the bazaar,
the troupe set up for a show. Although they carried a portable stage of planks
in their caravan, Myleton supplied - for a suitable bribe to the archon's men
- a better stage than that, the long marble terrace running alongside the
Customs House at the edge of the bazaar. While some of the acrobats set up
brass poles for the standing torches, the musicians, led by Kwinto and Tillya,
paraded through the crowd and cried the show with a loud banging of drums.
Below an audience gathered, small at first, then suddenly swelling as the word
went round the bazaar: the Great Krysello is here! He's going to perform! By
the time the parade returned, there were too many spectators to count.
The Great Krysello, or Salamander, as Ebany thought of himself, because on
that particular night Salamander was the only name he could remember, waited
in the darkness at the far side of the stage while the dancers performed,
swirling with scarves to a flute and drum accompaniment. While he watched, he
sang along to the music and laughed. Once he stepped onto the stage, he felt
in command of himself again, sure of where he was and what exactly he should
do there.
Many years ago he'd been a juggler, and juggler only, and to warm up the crowd
he still tossed scarves and juggled eggs and such, talking and singing all the
while. But somewhere along the years he'd discovered he could do much more to
entertain. Or had he perhaps always known he could summon the Wildfolk of Fire
and Aethyr to fill the sky with fire in lurid colours? Dimly he could remember
being warned against such things. An old man had spoken to him harshly about
it, once a long time ago. Somewhere in his mind, however, he also remembered
that this fellow was no one. Since nothing was left of the memory but those
words, 'he's no one,' Salamander could assume the memory image of a tall old
man with ice-blue eyes and white hair was just another dream come to walk the
day.
And on nights like this one, when he walked onto the stage and looked out at
the dark swelling shape of the audience, a single animal it seemed, lying just
beyond the glare of oil lamps and the torchlight, he forget any strictures he
might have once heard. When the crowd roared and clapped, he felt its love
pour over him, and he laughed, throwing his arms into the air.
'Greetings!' he called out. 'The Great Krysello gives you his humble thanks!'
From his sleeves he flicked scarves and began to circle them from hand to
hand, but always he was aware of the Wildfolk, sylphs and sprites, gnomes and
salamanders, gathering on the stage, forming above the incense braziers,
flocking around him and flitting this way and that, grinning and pointing at
the crowd. In a flood of Elvish words he called out orders, and for the sheer
love of play they obeyed him. Suddenly, far above the crowd, red and blue
lightning crackled. With each boom of false thunder, sheets of colour fell and
twisted in every rainbow the Wildfolk knew. The crowd roared its approval as
the sheets broke into glowing drops and vanished just above their heads.
A green and purple mist burst into being around the stage, and deep within it
voices sang alien songs. Once the crowd fell silent to listen, Salamander
added explosions and bursts of gold and silver. Then back to the colours
sheeting the sky - on and on he went until sweat soaked his costume and