"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Merchant Prince" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

Dee shrugged. “In my brief spell on Earth I have observed that there are many who proclaimed themselves
Messiahs. A few have followers, but nothing more than that. If Fawg is determined to convert believer and
heathen alike, he will have his work cut out for him.”

Dyckon held up the phial. “But none of them possess this.”

Again Dee shrugged. “It could be dismissed as nothing more than a conjurer’s trick. For every believer on
Earth, there are a dozen disbelievers and doubters.”

“The humani can worship what they will,” the Roc snapped. “I do not care if they appoint Fawg set-ut as ruler
of their planet.” He held up the phial again. “This is a virus. Once it is released on Earth, it will propagate with
terrifying speed among people who know nothing of it and are wholly unprepared for what it can do. Think of it,
Doctor, think of the consequences. Think of the madness, of the mindlessness that will surely follow in its
wake.” He held up the phial again. “This tiny phial will destroy the world. And I can do nothing about it. But
you can. You must stop Fawg set-ut before he destroys your planet, Doctor Dee. Bring him back here.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.
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This tale of John Dee wouldn’t be possible without the input and blessings of Michael Scott and Bill Fawcett.I
wouldn’t be possible without the love and partnership of Kitty Swink.

Prologue
NOW HERE’S THE RUB.
I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1527, and it is now, as these people measure time, 2100—though, in truth,
they have changed and altered the calendar to suit themselves so that even I am not entirely sure of the
exact date. The positions of the stars, however, suggest that it is perhaps a decade or two later, which
makes much mockery of their year-end Bacchanalian celebrations. The position of the stars also tells me
that this is a precarious time, with malefics in stronger positions than benefics.
Riddle me this: If I am 573 years old, more or less—and looking remarkable well on it, too, I may say—why
then do the history books insist that I died in the Year of Our Lord 1608? And how is it that I, who was a
searcher after Truth and an explorer of mysteries, should now be a merchant prince in the eyes of many? I
have no goods to sell, no merchandise, and I was not born to the purple, not even on the wrong side of the
blanket, and so have no title to claim beyond astrologer and scholar. Yet so much is new to me in this time
and place that I suppose it is fitting that I reinvent myself in accord with the times. It is a strange society that
has shaped itself in this time, and I am in the position of seeking to find how to go on here, in accord with the
strictures of the age. Thus I am a merchant prince, raised by my knowledge to high position and wealth such
as no one of my time could reckon. I deal in secrets, as I have always done, and I have become the master of
the riches in my mind.
There is one other question that rankles: I have always prided myself on having a logical mind and the logic