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

wings with the speed of his reflexes and now it was no more than an ungainly air-shrew, damaged and in
pain. So small, and yet so natural, he thought as he closed his fingers around it and squeezed it gently
dead. Then why do I feel incomplete, when creatures such as this need noth ing more in life? It was an
unanswerable question, so Imad forgot about it and passed through the doorway instead, closing another
more insubstantial portal in his mind at the same time.

Inside the room Imad found a small fortune in books lining the walls. There were no vermin, although
numerous small skeletons littered the corners of the library; the former occupant had been efficient. Bat
droppings streaked the spines of some of the tomes and stained the floor white, but there was no
significant damage -- so Imad browsed for an afternoon, taking in the chronicles and metagrammars and
methodologies of the unknown librarian who, judging by the depth of dust, had been dead far longer
than Lord Capeluche's apothecary. This is priceless, he thought after a while, when he looked up and
realised how low the sun had drifted in the heavens. I could have travelled for years and not come upon
such a collection! I must apply myself and study ... there will be clues with which to enhance my


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 Different Flesh

understanding ...

He sighed happily and left the library, taking with him a chap-book written in a crabbed hand. When he
closed the door he renewed the decade-old wards that had destroyed the rodents. It will be good to study
by candle-light again, he thought. He completely failed to wonder why it was so easy for him to rebuild
a charm intended to kill, but that insouciance was completely characteristic of Imad; it was, in effect, the
reason why Jones the Paramage had driven him forth. Imad, unless he grew out of it , was gifted with all
the makings of an excellent sadomancer -- an aptitude for destruction and pain -- and his master had
taken exception to this. But now by accident or destiny he had come to the right place, for Castle
Capeluche was full of pain.

That evening, a mute slave-child came for him. "What is it?" Imad asked, irritated at being accosted by
lamplight as he sat reading at his cramped apothecary's desk.

The child opened his mouth and pointed. "Oh," said Imad. "You want me to come? To his Lordship?"
The child nodded, his eyes stretched wide with fear. Imad yawned. "Very well," he said. "Lead me."

The tongueless boy turned and walked out into the night. Imad followed, not pausing for a cloak; it
occurred to him that his new master was not of a disposition to be impressed by delay. The boy led him
across the yard towards the motte on which stood the central tower, then up the side of the steep hill to a
heavily-barred door. This he gestured at.

"I am to go in? Alone? Very well." He pushed on the door, and it opened inwards, smoothly and silently.

Within the hill, Imad found himself in a tunnel where the smell of damp was pervasive and the only light
was shed by a single guttering cresset mounted on one wall. Pulling the sally-port shut behind him, he
walked forward expectantly. There was a stench in the air that he found distinctly invigorating, for it
made him think of iron. The corridor turned and there were barred doors to either side, but Imad
followed his nose and presently came to a landing where stone steps spiralled up towards the cellars of
the tower above.