"Fritz Leiber - Gather, Darkness!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leiber Fritz)

anything to him.
Nor he to her, he realized with something of a shock as he quickly slewed his head around so
that he was looking up into her face. For she did not seem to recognize him or take note of him,
although, save for his robe and shaven pate, he was the same as ever. She stood there quietly,
showing none of the cringing nervousness of the men. Her hands, calloused by the loom, were
folded at her waist. Her face, paler for the masses of dark hair, was without emotion—or else a
better mask than his own.
Something—the way she threw her shoulders back—the air of hidden purpose sunk deep, deep
in her green eyes—thrust through the shell of his anger and prodded his heart.
“My little daughter, Naurya,” Chulian cooed importantly, “I have good news for you. A great
honor is yours. For the next six months you are to serve in the Sanctuary.”
There was no change in her expression, no outward indication of her reaction, but it was a few
seconds before she replied.
“It is too great an honor. I am unworthy. Such holy work is not for the likes of a simple weaver.”
“That is true,” said Chulian judiciously, bobbing his chubby hairless head up and down within
the stiff funnel of his collar. “But the Hierarchy may lift up whom it will, even from the ranks of
the most humble. It has deemed you worthy for the holy work. Rejoice, my daughter. Rejoice.”
Her voice was as quiet and grave as when she first replied. “But I am still unworthy. I know it in
my heart. I cannot do it.”
“Cannot, my daughter?” Abruptly Chulian’s voice became querulously stern. “Do you mean
‘will not’?”
Almost imperceptibly, Naurya nodded. The eyes of the commoners behind her grew wide, and
they stopped their nervous fumblings.
Brother Chulian’s soft little mouth set in an implacable pout. The work lists crackled loudly as
he clenched them in his red-gloved hand.
“You understand what you are doing, daughter? You understand that you are disobeying a
command of the Hierarchy, and of the Great God the Hierarchy serves?”
“I know in my heart that I am unworthy. I cannot.”
But this time the nod was very definite. Again Jarles felt something thrusting at his ribs.
Chulian bounced up from the bench he shared with Jarles. “No commoner may question the
judgments of the Hierarchy, for they are right! I sense more here than simple stubbornness, more
even than sinful obstinacy. There is only one sort of commoner who would fear to enter the
Sanctuary when bidden. I sense—witchcraft,” he announced dramatically, and struck his chest with
the flat of his hand. Instantly his scarlet robe ballooned out tautly, until it stood a handbreadth away
from his body at every point. The effect was frighteningly grotesque, like a scarlet pouter pigeon.
And above his shaven head a violet halo glowed.
 The faces of the commoners grew more pale. But Naurya only smiled very faintly, and her green
eyes seemed to bore into Chulian.
“And that, once sensed, is easily discovered!” the swollen little priest continued triumphantly.
He stepped quickly forward. His puffy scarlet glove clutched at her shoulder without seeming
quite to touch it, yet Jarles saw her bite her lips against sudden hurt. Then the scarlet glove flirted
downward, ripping the heavy smock, so that the shoulder was uncovered.
There were three circular marks on the white skin. One burned angry red. The others were
rapidly becoming so.
Jarles thought that Chulian hesitated a moment and stared puzzledly at them, before gathering
himself and shrilling out, “Witchmarks! Proof !”
Unsteadily Jarles got to his feet. His anger made him retch, a nauseating force. He slapped his
own chest, felt the uniform inward pressure of the field at every point of his body, like a bath of
warm wax; saw from the corner of his eye the gleam of his halo. Then he launched his fist at
Chulian’s neck.