"Allston, Aaron - Doc Sidhe 01 - Doc Sidhe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allston Aaron)

Then theyТd fired up the equipment, the noise of transformers and discharging electricity striking fear into HarrisТ heart. That was only the start; things got worse when a continuous chain of green lightning poured into the cylinder and washed over him, rattling HarrisТ teeth and standing every hair of his body on end.
But that had been over soon, and theyТd sent the shocked (and, he suspected, smoking) Harris up to his room immediately after.
Doc continued, УThe Firbolg Valence was zero. Meaning that youТre not Gifted. You canТt influence your surroundings except through normal means.Ф
УYou mean, not like Alastair does with his medicine.Ф
Doc nodded. УBut you have a Tallysin Aura like none IТve ever seen. ThatТs what Alastair sees around you. With normal peopleЧФ he ignored HarrisТ bark of laughter УЧit shows up among the Gifted. In your case, when I subjected your aura to analysis, it indicated that you were . . . from somewhere else.Ф They roared by another red rail-bus, and Harris barely glimpsed the man dancing merrily atop the vehicle.
Harris glared. УI told you that last night. So tell me, where is this Сsomewhere elseТ of yours?Ф
There was a stoplight on the median ahead. It was different from the ones Harris was used to. It didnТt change colors; a black-and-white sign swung out of the poleТs summit, reading УHalt.Ф DocТs car and the other traffic slowed to a stop at the corner.
Doc took his time answering, not speaking until long after the УHaltФ sign snapped back into the pole and was replaced by УGo.Ф
They left one cluster of skyscrapers and too-tall round towers behind and headed into a second one, near what should have been the financial district. Harris looked around to see if he could spot any familiar landmark, but there was nothing until a side street gave him a glimpse of the distant BrookЧthe Island Bridge.
УSome of the old stories say that there used to be two worlds,Ф Doc said; his voice sounded as though he were reciting. УThe fair world and the grim world. On one lived the fair folk, on the other the grim folk. And it was easy to go from one to the other.
УThe fair folk were our ancestors, in our thousand clans: light, dark, and dusky. Smaller than people today, of course, and knowing many things that modern man has forgotten. Ignorant of many things modern man has learned.
УThe grim folk were barbarians. They were bigger than our ancestors, stronger, more constant in size and form, but savage. Bloodthirsty men who preferred killing to lovemaking or anything else.
УAnd the grim men were entirely immune to iron and ironТs daughter metals.Ф
Harris frowned as what Doc was saying sank home. УHey, wait a minute.Ф
УSome of the men and women of the grim folk were better than others. More beautiful, more tolerable. They came to live on the fair world. And they were more prolific than the fair folk, more fertile. Those of our ancestors who wanted to have larger, healthier families found it no hardship to bring some of the grim folk into their bloodlines. And while this was going on, while these crosses were taking place, it became harder and harder to move between the grim place and the fair place.Ф
УYou think IТm from this grim world.Ф
Doc nodded. УIТve been rooting around in antique records and collections of legends, calling to experts on the talk-box, since you went to sleep. A lot of them put credence I never would have imagined into this twin-world idea.Ф
УSo IТm a savage.Ф Harris felt himself get mad.
Doc cracked one of his rare smiles. УAnd most of us are the descendants of you savages, too. Caster Roundcap, an arcanologist I talked to this morning, who takes this sort of thing seriously, suspects that most modern men owe a quarter or more of their ancestry to the grim men. It explains a lot. A greater resistance than our ancestors had to iron poisoning. Increasing uniformity in the size and physical nature of people over the last three thousand years, something that still confuses arcanologists.Ф
Harris sat back, his thoughts running around in circles. They thought he was a caveman. Some sort of Neanderthal.
But, wait. If his people were the ancestral boogey-men of the fair world folk, what were their ancestors to his people? He shot Doc another glance, looking again at the sharp-pointed ear revealed by the wind whipping at DocТs hair.
Then another thought occurred to him. УWait a minute. ThereТs no way.Ф
УWhy not?Ф
УSomething I learned in college. I was a theater major. That accounts for my glittering job prospects. When people move apart and live in isolated communities, their language changes. ThatТs where dialects come from. After long enough, the languages are almost completely different. It takes a scholar to figure out that theyТre related.Ф
УTrue.Ф
УBut youТre speaking English. Weird English, maybe. But I understand it.Ф
УWe are speaking Low Cretanis.Ф
УI donТt speak Low Cretinish at home.Ф
Doc shrugged. УPerhaps your speech adapted itself when you came here, a mystical transformation. ItТs something I admit I hadnТt considered. ItТs a good question. But youТre speaking the vulgar speech of the Islands, regardless of what you spoke on the grim world.Ф
УThe hell you say.Ф Harris thought furiously, then recited: УаСThe playТs the thing/Wherein IТll catch the conscience of the King.Т There, did that rhyme?Ф
Doc looked startled. УYes.Ф His lips began moving silently as though he were reciting to himself.
УWhat are the odds of a random rhyme surviving some sort of hocus-pocus translation like you were suggesting?Ф
Doc didnТt answer. For the first time since Harris had met him, he looked stunned. УThat was William Shakespeare.Ф
УYes!Ф
УHamlet, Prince of Denmark. Act Two, Scene Two.Ф
УYes, goddammit, yes! How do you know that?Ф
УThereТs no need to curse . . . Shakespeare was an insane fabulator several centuries ago. He wrote plays about places that never existed. TheyТve survived as classical examples of fantastic literature. There has never been any proof that he himself really existed; itТs long been suspected that Shakespeare was a quill name for Lord Conn MaqqMann, the poet who СdiscoveredТ his work.Ф
УNo, he was real. Where I come from. And Denmark was real, and Richard the Third was real, and England was real, and William Shakespeare wrote about them.Ф Harris blinked. УOkay. So there are some people who think somebody else wrote the plays for him. But they donТt deny he existed. And weТre speaking the modern version of his language, English, whether you like it or not.Ф
Doc pulled over and parked beside a high, rickety wooden fence and looked closely at Harris. УOf all the things I have seen since you arrived, I think that disturbs me most. For everything else there is a reason. Not for this . . . duplication.Ф
УSorry.Ф Harris waited a long moment. УShouldnТt we get going again?Ф
УNo. We are there.Ф
Harris looked up. Over the fencetop, he saw the metal girder framework of a skyscraper under construction.

Phipps entered the Manhattan office of his employer and cursed to himself as he felt his armpits go suddenly damp. The air-conditioning never seemed to help. He didnТt know why his employer affected him this way. The old man might be murder on those who stood in his way, but he was always solicitous of his own people. Fixing their ties, inquiring after their families, giving them little gifts and big bonuses. And yet there was something about him, as though he were a hooded cobra hiding inside a teddy bear.
The old man sat in his leather-bound throne of an office chair behind his gleaming desk and smiled. УBill. HowТs the arm?Ф
Phipps, rueful, gestured with his right arm. He didnТt move it much; in its cast, hampered by the sling, it wasnТt very mobile and still gave him shooting pains. УCould be worse. I canТt wait to catch up to the guy who kicked me. He got his lucky shot in. Next time I kill the son of a bitch.Ф
УNo need to curse, Bill. But, yes, youТll get that chance. Do you have some news?Ф
УWe found her.Ф Phipps set the manila folder in front of the old man. His employer flipped it open and peered at the files and photographs it contained.
УThe woman is Elaine Carpenter, born Elaine Johnson, one of her friends from high school. The man is James Carpenter, her husband. She works with a suicide hotline part-time. HeТs a tax lawyer. They live in Connecticut, and this Donohue girl is staying with them.Ф
УGood, good. How did you find out?Ф