"Recording Angel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

Recording Angel - a novelette by Paul J McAuleyRecording Angel
a novelette
by Paul J McAuley




Mr Naryan, the Archivist of Sensch, still keeps to his habits as much as
possible, despite all that has happened since Angel arrived in the city. He has
clung to these personal rituals for a very long time now, and it is not easy to
let them go. And so, on the day that Angel's ship is due to arrive and attempt
to reclaim her, the day that will end in revolution, or so Angel has promised
her followers, as ever, at dusk, as the Rim Mountains of Confluence tip above
the disc of its star and the Eye of the Preservers rises above the far side of
the world, Mr Naryan walks across the long plaza at the edge of the city towards
the Great River.
Rippling patterns swirl out from his feet, silver and gold racing away through
the plaza's living marble. Above his head, clouds of little machines spin
through the twilight: information's dense weave. At the margin of the plaza,
broad steps shelve into the river's brown slop. Naked children scamper through
the shallows, turning to watch as Mr Naryan, old and fat and leaning on his
stick at every other stride, limps past and descends the submerged stair until
only his hairless head is above water. He draws a breath and ducks completely
under. His nostrils pinch shut. Membranes slide across his eyes. As always, the
bass roar of the river's fall over the edge of the world stirs his heart. He
surfaces, spouting water, and the children hoot. He ducks under again and comes
up quickly, and the children scamper back from his spray, breathless with
delight. Mr Naryan laughs with them and walks back up the steps, his loose
belted shirt shedding water and quickly drying in the parched dusk air.
Further on, a funeral party is launching little clay lamps into the river's
swift currents. The men, waist-deep in brown water, turn as Mr Naryan limps
past, knuckling their broad, narrow foreheads. Their wet skins gleam with the
fire of the sunset that is now gathering in on itself across leagues of water.
Mr Naryan genuflects in acknowledgement, feeling an icy shame. The woman died
before he could hear her story; her, and seven others in the last few days. It
is a bitter failure.
Angel, and all that she has told him -- Mr Naryan wonders whether he will be
able to hear out the end of her story. She has promised to set the city aflame
and, unlike Dreen, Mr Naryan believes that she can.
A mendicant is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the steps down to the river.
An old man, sky-clad and straight-backed. He seems to be staring into the
sunset, in the waking trance that is the nearest that the Shaped citizens of
Sensch ever come to sleep. Tears brim in his wide eyes and pulse down his
leathery cheeks; a small silver moth has settled at the corner of his left eye
to sip salt.
Mr Naryan drops a handful of the roasted peanuts he carries for the purpose into
the mendicant's bowl, and walks on. He walks a long way before he realises that
a crowd has gathered at the end of the long plaza, where the steps end and, with
a sudden jog, the docks begin. Hundreds of machines swarm in the darkening air,
and behind this shuttling weave a line of magistrates stand shoulder to