"Richard Paul Russo - The Dread And Fear of Kings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russo Richard Paul)

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The king is kept alive by machines and a large retinue of physician attendants. He has
been sustained by machines since he was eleven years old, and that was more than a
century ago, but now even the machines and physicians struggle greatly—they cannot
forever keep Death at bay. The old king is dying, and he knows it.
I saw him earlier this evening when I accompanied the First Minister to a council session
with the king and the other six ministers. The old king sat in his long glass vat, afloat in
the bubbling amber fluids that preserve his withered, discolored flesh. One arm rested on
the edge of the vat, the hanging skin dotted with golden droplets that reflected the
dancing torchlight from all around him. The king's chamber, installed in the now
imprisoned proconsul's quarters, was stifling with a damp heat; at the same time, tendrils
of cold air curled across the floor from the vat's cooling fans.
The king sat up, yellowed neck and shoulders rising above the fluid. He lifted his right
hand, waved it generally in the direction of the gathered ministers. When he spoke, his
mouth hardly moved, but his amplified and distorted voice emerged from the base of the
vat, a harsh and metallic grating like some mechanical beast imitating human speech.
"Is the city secure?"
The Second Minister, still dressed in black battle armor, stepped forward and nodded.
"Yes, Excellency," she said. "There was little resistance. We took a few minor casualties,
no deaths. Kazakhan deaths were minimal. Currently we have posts established
throughout the city, in all major residential and commercial districts. No trouble
reported."
"Hold," the king said, stiffening his fingers. He called forth the Royal Astronomer, who
stepped out of the shadows—a tall, thin man with wire spectacles. "Any sign of change in
the heavens?"
The astronomer sniffed, scratched at his ear, and cleared his throat. "No, Excellency." His
voice was hesitant.
The king was clearly disappointed. I had witnessed this exchange several times before,
but had no idea what the king was hoping for. Had he inexplicably become a convert to
astrology? What changes was he expecting? He waved the astronomer away and returned
his attention to the Second Minister.
"What is the condition of the stained glass windows?"
"Nearly all intact, Excellency. A few cracked, with minor damage. Only one seriously
damaged, in a prelate's house."
"Good," the old king said, nodding. His eyes seemed large in that gaunt head of his.
"They will believe their precious handiwork safe. Tomorrow, I want every stained glass
window in this city shattered. Every one. Break every piece of stained glass you can
find—windows, lamps, door panels, decorative artifacts, vases, goblets. Everything. I
want to see the streets of Kazakh-Ir littered with broken glass."
"Yes, Excellency." The Second Minister stepped back with a snapping click of her boots.
"Perhaps …" the king began, rolling back his head. "Perhaps that will finally be enough
to bring them back from the stars."
The king's eyes closed, and his raised hand went limp for a moment; he shuddered,
rippling the surface of the amber fluids. Then his eyes opened once again and he turned