"Andre Norton - The X Factor 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

The movement of his fingers enlarged the bead of blood on his thumb. It trickled sluggishly, and Diskan
licked it away.

"Deesskaann?"

The lilting song of his name—Rixa! She would come and find him. There would be no mention of shards
of gem blue on the white floor. No one would ever mention again a priceless wonder that had been
reduced to splinters in an instant after centuries of treasuring. If they had raged, if they had once said
what he knew they thought—that would make it easier. Now Rixa would want him to go back with her.
No!

Diskan stood up. The carved bench swayed. He watched with a second of detached acceptance—was
that about to crash into ruins, too? Then he stepped behind the seat, moving with the exaggerated care
that had been a part of him ever since he had come to Vaanchard, knowing at the same time it would be
no use, that he would trample, smash, blunder, that wreckage would mark any path he would take
through this dream world.

He could not retreat to his own quarters; he had done that too many times in the past few days. They
would look for him there first. Nor could he continue to hide out in the garden with Rixa on the hunt.
Diskan surveyed the lighted building. Music, the coming and going of forms before all those windows, no
hiding place unless—

One darkened room on the lower floor— He made a hurried count to place those two windows. He
could not be sure, but they were dark and drew him, as a hurt animal might search out a hollow log for
temporary shelter.

The tide of his misery ebbed a little as he bent his mind to the problem of reaching that promised retreat
undetected. Clumps of bushes dotted the ground, and he could avoid the one glowing statue. Under the
music and voices from the house, he heard the trilling call of a night flying varch. A varch! With a little
luck—

"Deesskaann?" Rixa was on the path not far from the bench.

He made for the next bush and crouched behind it. Now he centered a fierce concentration on the
varch, visualizing the wide green wings with their tipping of gem dust, which created a filmy aura when it
flew, the slender neck, the top-knotted head. Varch—Diskan thought varch, tried to feel varch.

Suddenly that call sounded to his right, beginning as a trill and ending in a squeak of terror. The green
body flashed out of the shadow, winged toward the path. Diskan heard a second startled cry—from
Rixa. But he was on the move, slipping from one bit of cover to the next, until he stood under the nearest
of those dark windows, reaching up for the sill. No mistake now—no clumsy fall. Please, no break—just
let him get into the dark and the solitude he must have!

And for once, one of his formless prayers was answered. Diskan spilled through the window to the
floor, the sweep of curtains veiling him. He sat there, panting, not with physical effort, but with the strain
of steeling himself to master his body. It was several seconds before he parted the curtains to inspect the
room.

A single low light let him see that he had taken refuge where indeed they might not look for him—the