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

The two were fencing with words, neither addressing the real problem: the storm
was being taken as an omen, and a bad one, on the nature of Theron's rule.

The aging general fingered a jeweled goblet whose bowl was balanced upon a
winged lion and sighed deeply at almost the same time that Tempus's rattling
chuckle sounded. "An omen, is it, old lion? Is that what you really want-an omen
to make this a mandate from the gods, not a critique?"

"What / want?" Theron thundered in return, suddenly sweeping up the artsy,
jewel-encrusted goblet of state and throwing it so hard against the farther wall
that it bounced back to land among the dregs spilled from it and roll eerily,
back and forth in a circle, in the middle of the floor.

Back and forth it rolled, first one way and then the other, making a sound like
chariot wheels upon the stone floor, a sound which grew louder and melded with
the thunder outside and the renewed clatter of hailstones which resembled
horses' hooves, as if a team from heaven was thundering down the blackened sky.

And Tempus found the hair on his arms raising up and the skin under his beard
crawling as the wine dregs spattered on the floor began to smoke and steam and
the dented goblet to shimmer and gleam and, inside his head, a rustle-familiar
and unfamiliar-began to sound as a god came to visit there.

He really hated it when gods intruded inside his skull. He managed to mutter
"Crap! Get thee hence!" before he realized that it was neither the deep and
primal breathing of Father Enlil-Lord Storm-nor the passionate and demanding
boom of Vashanka the Pillager which he was hearing so loud that the shimmer and
thunder and smoke issuing from the goblet and dregs before him were diminished
to insignificance. It was neither voice from either god; it was comprised of
both.

Both! This was too much. His own fury roused. He detested being invaded; he
hated being an instrument, a pawn, the butler of one murder god, the batman of
another.

He fought the heaviness in his limbs which demanded that he sit, still and pop
eyed, like Theron across the table from him, and meekly submit to whatever
manifestation was in the process of coalescing before him. He snarled and cursed
the very existence of godhead and managed to get his hands on the stout edge of
the plank table.

He squeezed the wood so hard that it dented and formed round his fingers like
clay, but he could not rise nor could he banish the babble of divine
infringement from his head.

And before him, where a cup had rolled, wheels spun- golden-rimmed wheels of a
war chariot drawn by smoke-colored Tros horses whose shod hooves struck sparks
from the stones of the palace floor. Out of a maelstrom of swirling smoke it
came, and Tempus was so mesmerized by the squealing of the horses and the