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

with cluttered benches, a stuffed crocodile hanging from the rafters, and such a profusion of dusty herbs
and simples as to make his nose sting and his eyes water. After his arrival he was acquainted with his
post by one of the men-at-arms, and then ignored by everybody except the cook -- who cursed him r
oundly when he enquired after victuals.

"But what am I to do?" he asked in confusion. "What are my duties here?"

The dark-skinned chef fixed him with a beady stare as he honed his cleaver upon a leather strop. "Keep
out of way," he said. "See tower? Lord Capeluche keeps wife locked up there. Her father, he come to
war soon. Very bad thing; Lord Capeluche very angry, want death spells, demons, big loud curses.
Meanwhile, best not let self be seen."

He put down his cleaver and rotated the spit. The truncated torso of a small pig sizzled and dripped fat
into the fireplace. "Lord Capeluche not like women," he hinted darkly, his voice drowned in the
crackling of the flames. "He had vision, told him they all evil. Look at village -- see any wives, huh? He
sent them away. Don't cross him. He wears skin of enemies under his armour."


file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk...ten/spaar/Charles%20Stross%20-%20Different%20Flesh.html (8 of 58)19-2-2006 17:14:45
 Different Flesh


Imad looked at the spitted pig and swallowed. Saliva filled his mouth, even though when he looked
closer the roast didn't look much like a pig at all. In such a backward area as this, it was unwise to
enquire too closely about the dietary habits of the residents. He turned away as the chef rolled the spit
again. "Is there a library here?" he asked slowly. "A place with books?"

The chef nodded. "Other tower," he said. "Has old guy's books, what-his-name -- he cast spell here
before he dead. Warn you -- not to tamper with Lord Capeluche's place. Don't get them mixed, huh? Bad
for you."

"Thanks," said Imad without any real feeling. His fingers were itching. Real books? he wondered: in a
place like this? Imad was an ob-sessive bibliophile, pursuing his habit to extremes. He was also a
magician. He resolved that he would not attempt to escape until he had seen this library; who knew what
he might discover?

Leaving the kitchen he walked across to the far tower. It was decrepit, the window-slits boarded with
rotted timbers and the thatching on the roof turned grey-green with age. Although Lord Capeluche's
guards patrolled the walls, none so much as glanced down at him as he pushed open the door to the
abandoned turret and went inside. Their attention was focused on the other tower, their master's boudoir,
and the wild forest beyond the walls.

Within the tower, everything was dark. A thick layer of dust coated the broken furniture; leaves had
drifted in, and something scuttled away in sudden panic as Imad tugged the boards away from one of the
windows. With added light, the scene that met his eyes was dismal. Although it looked unpromising and
he was still unfed, Imad climbed the tightly-spiralling staircase to the upper floor and shoved his way
through the first door he came to.

A roosting bat flashed past his head, squeaking in panic; he instinctively reached out and plucked it from
the air. It lay in the palm of his hand, twitching slightly as he examined it; he'd broken one of its delicate