"Asprin, Robert - Thieves' World 08 - Soul of the City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asprin Robert)

opposite of what he said, "will appease the hungry gods."

And Theron, old and as gray as the shadows in this newly acquired but not yet
conquered palace full of politicians and whores, gave Brachis a tare fully as
black as the raging sky outside and said, "Right, priest. Let's have a dozen of
your worst enemies bled out in Blood Square by lunch."

Tempus stayed an impulse to touch his old friend Theron's knee under the table.

But Brachis didn't rise to Theron's bait. The priest bowed his way out in a
swish of copper-beaded robes.

"God's balls, Riddler," said the aging general to the ageless one, "do you think
we've angered the gods? More to the point, do you think we've got one to anger?"

Theron's jaw jutted so that the pitting of age made it look like a walnut shell,
or the snout of the moth-eaten geriatric lion he so much resembled from his
thinning, unkempt mane to his scarred and twisted claws. He was a big man still,
his power no mere memory, but fresh and flowing in corded veins and leathery
sinews-big and powerful in his aged prime, except when seen in close proximity
to Tempus, the avatar of Storm Gods on earth, whose yarrow-honey hair and high
brow free from lines resembled so much the votive statues of Vashanka still
worshiped in the land. Tempus's eyes were long and full of guile, his form
heroic, his aspect one of a man on the joyous side of forty, though he'd seen
empires rise and fall and fully expected to see the end of this one-to bury
Theron as he had and would so many other men, with all their might ranged round
them. And Theron knew the truth of it-he'd known Tempus since both were
seemingly of an age, fighting the Defender on Wizardwall's skirts when the
Rankan Empire was just a babe. The two were honest with one another when it was
possible; they were careful when it was not.

"Got a god to anger? We've got something mad enough to spit, I'll own," Tempus
replied. Now, Tempus knew, was not the time to raise false hopes of Vashanka the
Missing God's return in a warrior who'd willingly and knowingly come to a throne
whose weight would kill him. It was the dirtiest of jobs, was kingship, and
Theron had become the man to do it by default. "If it's Vashanka, then it's a
matter between Him and Enlil. Theomachy tends to kill more men than gods. Don't
be too anxious to get the armies' hopes up-the war with Myg-donia won't end by
gods' wills, any more than it will by Nisi-bisi magic."

"That's what you think this infernal darkness is, then- magic? Your nemesis,
perhaps ... the Nisibisi witch?"

"Or yours, the Nisibisi warlocks. What matter, gods or magic? If I thought he
had the power, I'd pick Brachis as the culprit. He'd do without both of us well
enough."

"We'd do without all of his well enough. But we're stuck with one another, for
the nonce. Unless, of course, you've a suggestion... some way to rid me, as the
saying has gone from time immemorial, of all meddlesome priests?"