"Charles Stross - Examination Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

men of the city watch refuse to detain scholars of the art. They've been scandalising the
burghers ever since –"
He didn't finish the sentence. Anya was no longer around to hear it, and there wasn't
any point. "I hope she succeeds," he said quietly to the swinging door; "I hope she finds him
before it's too late."

Sebastian stumbled into the streets and wandered down the hill in a self-absorbed
trance. It had stopped raining and a thin fog was rising from the open sewers; it bore with it
the stench of spent dinners. The damp cobblestones offered treacherous footing, and he
found that he was tired and headsore from the events of the past hour. I need to think he
decided, although his circumstances were not altogether suited to this activity.
For one thing there wasn't enough time, he realised, as his unwilling feet carried him
home. Damn and blast the bitch, he thought angrily. Why Zevon? He wouldn't do a thing like
that – would he? To try to become a Dark Pretender by the ritual of Mummu – he tried to
recall the details by which an adept might bind the forces of the abyss to obey their naked will
without treachery and malice. Certainly a vital preliminary step for any who would aspire to
true mastery of the diabolic arts – and totally forbidden by the Invigilation ever since the last
Last Battle. Something about there being seven sacrifices; one of them arbitrary, the rest
subtly structured ...
The area where Sebastian lived was particularly rough, adjoining the district where
the mercantile warehouses hulked along the banks of the river. Many of the poorer students
lived there, scattered among the struggling tradespeople and ne'er-do-well's of the lower city.
The houses overhung the narrow alleys and little light reached the ground to guide the
intrepid traveller past piles of muck and the verminous hovels of the poor. He traced his way
to his home and unlocked the door with a three-fingered gesture and a strange word. Of
burglars he had no fear; students of the Art had more serious causes for concern than human
intrusion upon their property.
It was a small studio, beams blackened by the resinous smoke of a thousand
candles. His possessions were strewn all about, mingled promiscuously with those of Zevon;
here an oak chest full of cloth, there a sack full of potatoes. A grimoire, possibly stolen, lay
open atop the odd-legged desk that Zev had filched from the office of the richest merchant
prince of the city whilst under a spell of deception. "Zev?" Sebastian called quietly. "Are you
awake?"
He realised as soon as he'd said it that this was a mistake. Bat-shadows fluttered
against the diamond-leaded window panes, blue-spark silhouettes illuminating the
floorboards: "Not now!" Zevon snapped in a voice as brittle as glass. "Come not in that form!"
he chanted, in a tone that made Sebastian's hair stand on end and his teeth rattle in their
sockets. "I command thee! Come not in that form! Quick, oaf – into the sanctum! Your life
depends on it!"
Sebastian, who was not so slow-witted as to remain confused for long, jumped to
obey as Zevon plucked a handful of ivory-tinted powder and cast it into the glowing crucible
on the stove. "What in the seven names of hell do you think you're –" he began..
"Come not in that form!" Zevon screamed. There was a bang not unlike thunder and
the crucible shattered. "Fuck! Now look what you've done, Seb! Zycor, Aharseus, Ixtal, I
dismiss thee! In the name of Septuat, begone!" Of a sudden the atmosphere in the room
lightened. Nevertheless, the smell lingered: burning brimstone mingled with a hint of old,
dried blood.
"Is it safe?" Sebastian looked down at the powdery circle of chalk that ringed his
trembling feet. The line was unbroken: if his jump had been miscalculated he would not now
be alive enough to understand what had befallen him.