"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Poor cruel folk" - читать интересную книгу автора

burping, that those arrows can be cast by anyone, that special slings are
needed that the angels have and that would be nice to take from them. And he
said then -- he was drunk then, -- that if it is nice to have, why not have
it, why not... Soon after that table talk one angel fell off the wall into
the moat, probably slipped. Next to him they found one of uncle's body
guards with a javelin between his shoulder blades. It was a dark, dark
deed... It good that the people did not care about the angels, they were
scary to look at, but it is not clear why is it scary -- angels were happy,
cordial people. Only their eyes were scary. Small, shiny, and they keep
racing around... non humanoid eyes, not peaceful. So the people hushed down,
although father, King Prostyaga gave them such freedom that it is shameful
to remember... although, before the Coup, father, they say was a saddle
maker. For saying so, with my own hands I had torn eyes out, and sewen ears
shut. But I remember, he used to sit in the evenings by the Crystal Tower,
and he would cut out leather -- beautiful work. And I would perch myself at
his side, it's warm and comfy... The angels were singing from the rooms, so
quietly, and in harmony, and father would start to accompany -- he knew
their language -- it used to be spacious, nobody around... not like now,
guards are stuck at every corner, but there is no sense in it...
The King lamented. Yes, he was a good father, just that he did not die
for a long time. You can't do that while your son is still alive... The son
is also the King, the son also want's to... But Prostyaga did not age, I'm
over fifty,and he still looks younger than me... It looks like the angels
had asked God for his health... They asked for his health, but they forgot
about me. They say that the second one they managed to pin down in the
father's room, he had a sling in each hand, but he did not fight. Before
death, they say, he threw both of them out the window, they burst into a
blue flame, there was no dust left... Too bad about the slings... And
Prostyaga, they say, cried and got drunk then, within an inch of his life --
the first time since his reign -- looked for me, they said, loved me,
believed...
The King drew his knees to his chin, and hugged his leggs. So what if
he believed? One should know one's limit, abdicate, like it is done
elsewhere... and I do not know anything, and do not want to. There was only
a conversation with my uncle, His Highnesss.
"Prostyaga, -- he said, -- doesn't age". -- "Yes, -- I tell him, -- but
what can we do, the angels pleaded for his health." Uncle then sneered,
scum, and wispered: "Angels, -- he said, -- no longer sing their songs
here". And I blurted out: "It is true, but now there is a way to deal with
them, not just with humans". Uncle looked at me soberly, and immediatelly
left... And I didn't really say anything... Empty words, without meaning...
And in a week Prostyaga died from a heart attack. So what? It was his time.
He looked young, but in reality he was over one hundred. We'll all die...
The King was startled, and covering himself, awkwardly sat up. Into the
temple came the High Priest Agar. Lay brothers were leading him by the
hands. He didn't look at the King, came up to God and kneeled in front of
the eminence, tall, hunch-backed, with waist length dirty-white hair. The
King gloated "It's the end of you, Your Highness, you did manage, I'm not
like Prostyaga, you'll ravage your oun intestines, drunken swine..." Agar
spoke in a rich voice: