"Charles Stross - Ancient Of Days" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

Ancient of Days might cast her eyes and ears. He pushed onwards, ever deeper into the
maze of fetid burrows beneath the city, wading knee-deep in ancient effluent. His thoughts
were grim.
He arrived at a dead end. A pile of rocks and mud had collapsed through a hole in
the ceiling, blocking off the tunnel ahead. Cracked and rotted timbers poked out of the heap,
and a pool of black mud had gathered at its foot. Kris paused, then reached out and pushed
down hard on one of the exposed timbers. With a gurgling sigh the water around his feet
drained away; whirlpools swirled briefly about his ankles as he braced himself against the
powerful current leading to the concealed grate. Presently the floor was dry – dry enough.
Bending down he felt through the mud for a projecting iron ring and pulled up on it. The
trapdoor was ancient but well-maintained, and he let it swing shut above him as he
descended the steps below. Now there was no need for a torch. Ancient of Days had passed
here before him, and where she walked darkness was not permitted. Kristoph shivered, not
from cold but from awe and a slight, small dread. He had met generals of State Security and
deputy directors of Central Intelligence and he had worked with assassins and spies and
defectors and the other shadowy predators of the cold war jungle; but none of them
possessed even a fragment of the legendary power which Ancient of Days controlled. And
never before had she taken a direct interest in his affairs, to the point of requesting his
attendance ...
He looked around. He stood on dry stone flooring at the bottom of a high, narrow
room similar in shape to an oubliette in a mediaeval castle, except that it was considerably
larger and there was a door set in one wall. It was a modern door, plywood and aluminium,
and it was as jarringly out of place here as a plastic denture in the jaw of an Egyptian
mummy. He shook his head disapprovingly then reached into a pocket for the key which he
had been given. Then he unlocked the door and went through.
"You can leave it open," she said. Kris's head snapped round and he froze, staring at
the woman who stood in the corner of the room behind him. "We're expecting three more
guests," she added.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Call me Helena." She came forward, out of the shadow cast by the weak light bulb
that hung from one corner of the ceiling, and Kristoph realised that she couldn't possibly be
Ancient of Days; for one thing she was far too young, even though she bore the marks of
encroaching middle age. Her left cheek was scarred by a patch of psoriasis, an angry red
margin around a silvery, scaly patch, and with a sudden jolt Kris realised that she might
actually be human. "Don't worry: I'm not as – human – as I look." She rubbed the back of one
gloved hand against her cheek. "There are two others coming, then Ancient of Days herself.
You brought the documents, I take it?"
Kris glanced round, taking in the rest of the room. It was furnished, albeit sparsely,
with camping seats and an upturned tea-chest as a table. It was also very cold. "I'd prefer to
leave that until the others arrive."
"Very well then," she said, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her coat: "it can
wait. I hope you appreciate the gravity of the situation –"
"Lady, I'm the one who turned over the office," he said with heavy irony. "I was on the
Kennedy assassination committee; I set up spy swaps during the fifties. Before that, I was
site officer on Operation Silver. Trust me, I'm a professional."
She laughed, which was not unexpected, then abruptly looked away, which was.
"Bullshit. Spy stuff. Fun and games." She turned back to him. "This is the real thing," she said
intensely: "you'd better believe it! This is so important that –"
He held up a hand and she stopped. The noise of hands and feet descending a
ladder was clearly audible. "We have company."