"Charles Stross - Different Flesh" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

This is what he saw:

Imad nearly died in the Marches, hanged as a poacher and a horse-thief and anything else they cared to
accuse him of. The fact that he was travelling afoot was beside the point, for there was no notion of a
fair trial in that harsh land of exiles and river-barons. The villagers who apprehended him as he dozed by
the highway one afternoon bore him up to the gates of the small and ruinous castle, and were already
preparing a celebratory rope for his gullet when the knight of the demesne and his soldiers rod e back
from the hunt and interrupted the lynching.

"What is going on?" demanded the lord. "Who is this man?" His shadow fell across the villagers, who
cowered in abject terror before his mounted might. Imad, his arms twisted behind him in the grip of two
peasant lads, gulped and stared fixedly at the mounted warrior clad all in chain mail, with his lance at his
side and six armoured riders behind him.

The village hetman blinked stupidly, then knelt. Behind him, the two peasants pushed Imad face-down.
"He be a stranger, y'r highness," said the hetman, still holding the coarse noose in his hands. "Caught'm
lurkin' by th' fields, 'e was. Up ter no good, 'll warrant."

"But what has he done?" asked the knight, idly fingering the pommel of his saddle. His eyes were dark
and utterly unreadable. Insects creaked in the background, but not a man dared move.

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 Different Flesh



"Rr ... nuthin' yet, y'r highness. But 'e was goin' ter!" The hetman was agitated. "There be a demon in
'im! 'E's a stranger round 'ere, see!" His Lordship looked bored.

"I understand. You." He pointed at Imad with an armoured finger. "What have you to say for yourself?"
Imad couldn't see, but he could hear when he was being addressed. And he knew what was likely to
happen, should he fail to speak in his own defence.

"I've done nothing, your Lordship," he said desperately. "I'm just a journeyman of magic, learning my
trade at country fairs! I haven't done anything! Please -- "

All of a sudden, the peasants who were holding him down released his arms. He scrambled to his knees
and looked up, meeting the eyes of the knight for the first time. The warrior stared down at him
pitilessly, one hand gripping his lance as if challenging Imad to outrun his steed.

"A magician," said the knight, slowly. "Well, well ... " He pointed an iron finger at Imad. "My
apothecary died last month," he said quietly. "You will take his place, won't you?"

Imad looked at the hetman, who was still fingering his noose, and nodded violently. "Anything you say,"
he blurted. "Anything at all!"

"Good." The knight didn't smile. "Welcome to Castle Capeluche. I hope you enjoy your stay."

Imad was happy to escape with his life, but less pleased with his new accommodation. A flea-ridden
straw tick in an outhouse within the courtyard was his closest approach to privacy; that, and a workroom