"Jack Vance - The Languages of Pao" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

upon a sensitive subject. In a cautious voice he asked, "Do your sons all
live with you?"
"No," said Palafox shortly. "They attend the Institute, naturally."
The boat sank slowly; the indicators on the control board fluttered and
jumped as if alive.
Beran, looking across the chasm, remembered the verdant landscape and
blue seas of his homeland with a pang. "When will I go back to Pao?" he
asked in sudden anxiety.
Palafox, his mind on other matters, answered offhandedly. "As soon as
conditions warrant."
"But when will that be?"
Palafox looked switfly down at him. "Do you want to be Panarch of
Pao?"
"`Yes," said Beran decidedly. "If I could be modified."
"Perhaps you may be granted these wishes. But you must never forget
that he who gets must give."
"What must I give?"
"We will discuss this matter later."
"Bustamonte will not welcome me," said Beran gloomily. "I think he
wants to be Panarch, too."
Palafox laughed. "Bustamonte is having his troubles. Rejoice that
Bustamonte must cope with them and not you."
 A month passed. Bustamonte s temper grew short. He beat the
concubines, berated his followers. The shepherds of the region took to
avoiding the village; the innkeeper and the villagers every day became
more taciturn, until one morning Bustamonte awoke to find the village
deserted, the moors desolate of flocks.
Bustamonte dispatched half the neutraloids to forage for food, but they
never returned. The ministers openly made plans to return to a more
hospitable environment. Bustamonte argued and promised, but the Paonese
mind was not easily amenable to any sort of persuasion.
Early one dreary morning the remaining neutraloids decamped. The
concubines refused to bestir themselves, but sat huddled together, sniffling
with head colds. All forenoon a miserable rain fell; the tavern became dank.
Bustamonte ordered Est Coelho, Minister of Inter-Continental Transport, to
arrange a blaze in the fireplace, but Coelho was in no mood to truckle to
Bustamonte. Tempers seethed, boiled over; as a result, the entire group of
ministers marched forth into the rain and set out for the coastal port of
Spyrianthe.
The three women stirred, looked after the ministers, then like a single
creature, turned to look slyly toward Bustamonte. He was alert. At the
expression on his face, they sighed and groaned.
Cursing and panting, Bustamonte broke up the tavern furniture and built
a roaring blaze in the fireplace.
There was a sound from outside, a faint chorus of yells, a wild "Rip-rip-
rip!"
Bustamonte's heart sank, his jaw sagged. This was the hunting chivvy of
the Brumbos, the clan call.
The yelling and rip-rip-rip! grew keener, and finally came down the
single street of the village.