"Stasheff, Christopher - A Wizard in Rhyme 04 - The Secular Wizard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)

THE SECULAR WIZARD
by
Christopher Stasheff


Prologue

The tall roan stallion looked up and nickered. The other horses
crowded to the doors of their stalls to watch Accerese the groom as he
came into the barn with the bag of oats over his shoulder.
A smile banished his moroseness for a few minutes. "Well! At
least someone's glad to see me!" He poured a measure of grain into the
trough on the stallion's door. "At least you eat well, my friends!"
He moved on down the line, pouring grain into each manger. "And
well-dressed you are, too, not like we who-" Accerese bit his tongue,
remembering that the king or his sorcerers might hear anything,
anywhere. "Well, we all have our work to do in this world-though some
of us have far less than-" Again he bit his tongue-but on his way out
of the third stall he paused, to trace the raw red line on the horse's
flank with his finger. "Then again, when you do work, your tasks are
even more painful than mine, eh? No, my friends, forgive my
complaining." He opened the door to the fourth stall. "But you,
Fandalpi, you are-" He stopped, puzzled.
Fandalpi was crowded against the back wall, nostrils flared, the
whites showing all around its eyes. "Nay, my friend, what-" Then
Accerese saw the body lying on the floor.
He stood frozen in shock for a few minutes, his eyes as wide and
white as the horse's. Then he whirled to the door, panic moving his
heels-until he froze with a new fear. Whether he fled or not, he was a
dead man-but he might live longer if he reported the death as he
should. Galtese the steward's man would testify that Accerese had
taken his load of grain only a few minutes before-so there was always
the chance that no one would blame him for the prince's death.
But his stomach felt hollow with fear as he hurried back across
the courtyard to the guardroom. There was a chance, yes, but when the
corpse was that of the heir apparent, it was a very slim chance indeed.

King Maledicto tore his hair, howling in rage. "What cursed fiend
has rent my son!"

But everyone could see that this was not the work of a fiend, or
any other of Hell's minions. The body was not burned or defiled; the
prince's devotion to God had won him that much protection, at least.
The only sign of the Satanic was the obscene carving on the handle
of the knife that stuck out of his chest-but every one of the king's
sorcerers had such a knife, and many of the guards besides. Anybody
could have stolen one, though not easily.

"Foolish boy!" the king bellowed at the corpse. "Did you think
your Lord would save you from Hell's blade? See what all your praying