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

did a minute ago." He buried his face in his hands and coughed repeatedly. "This is a very
bad idea," he mumbled.
Anya banged her tankard on the table. "By the grace of Eris, will you stop protesting
your cowardice and show the good manners not to disgrace your commission so lightly in
public? You're pathetic! Look at you. You aspire to practice the Art as a master but you can't
even hold your grape juice! You disgust me!"
 Sebastian sat up and stared at her. His eyes were bloodshot but sober. "Shut up and
let me think, or I'll show you just what I think of your commission," he said bitterly.
A moment later: "It's not my fault, you see. Vargas chose me because no student was
willing to be his apprentice after he flogged and expelled his last apprentice, Zevon, for laxity
and moral corruption – accusations both baseless and without proof, I'll warrant you. Zevon
was among the most brilliant and fascinating – well. Vargas never accepts scholars who
threaten his position, you know; he uses the system to maintain a steady supply of high-born
body servants. Or worse." His grimace softened in to a sly smile. "I showed him." The smile
faded. "Zevon would have shown him, the bastard whoreson villein ..."
Anya stood up. "Very well then," she said, her expression neutral. "I should like to
meet this master of yours before the night is out, Sieur de l'Amoque. Perhaps –" her lips
twitched – "you'll learn something about how to deal with your superiors in the process. But
only if you keep your eyes open. Now forward, bravo, and show the way, for I have a mission
– and if my intelligence is correct there is only this night left in which to accomplish it!"

The chambers of Vargas di Escobar were located in the west wing of the House of
Ambrose Nulcompare, high on the north slope of College Hill. The House presented a
forbidding face to the city. Soot-stained by time, its arched casements stared gloomily out
from beneath eaves supported by stone gargoyles. Rumour had it that they were the family of
the original architect who, upon completing his work, had demanded an extra twenty gold
groats from the Chancellor of the day. Nobody who dwelled in the building could see any
point in debunking this myth, for its probity could not in any way moderate the grim reputation
the building had earned since its construction. The mob gave it a wide berth, not so much
from sympathy as from fear; even when lord lynch was riding through the city the fires of
anarchy generally left the University untouched.
It was to this grim and ill-hallowed heap that Sebastian escorted the Invigilator Anya
of Tigre. The rain had diminished to a light drizzle that pattered upon the cobble-stones like
the memory of some mythical deluge: it chilled to the bone, and by the time they reached the
blackened oak doors Sebastian was damp through. Anya, in contrast, was dry. "How is it that
the rain doesn't touch you, but seems attracted to me like filings before a lodestone?" he
grumbled to her.
She grinned. "I walk between the drops. It is a skill you would do well to master,
scholar."
"Hah. I should be so fortunate." He spat in the gutter and glanced back down the hill.
Lights still glimmered in every upper window, and faint music drifted from beneath a pavilion
on Fiddler's Green. "If I know my master he will be at his studies even now," he said,
changing the subject to one with which he was more comfortable. "If it pleases you to disturb
him then I shall not stand in your way."
"It so pleases me," said Anya. She adjusted her cloak, settled her sword belt around
her waist, and motioned him forward. "Pray lead the way, my lord."
Sebastian could tell when he was being mocked. He mumbled the word of Unbinding
and shoved the door open rudely: the hinges groaned like a seditionist upon the rack.
He swept up the grand staircase without heed to his escort, who was paying
unnecessary attention to the statuary and decorative finish of the magesterial mansion. Anya