"Ball, Margaret - Shadow Gate, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ball Margaret)

Cliff paused in the snarl of traffic on Fifth Street, enjoying his own memories and oblivious to the backed-up cars that blocked his way. There'd been that old man, the dean, who didn't understand why Cliff had ever been admitted to college and didn't
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think he should be allowed to graduate . . . until Cliff looked at him. There'd been girls, too, but they were too easy, wanting to be submerged in his superior will. Except for oneЧhe still remembered her, that snippy redhead who'd laughed out loud when he asked her out. Cliff smiled, remembering how it had been when he finally got her alone and made her look into his eyes. After that the memories faded into a blur, so many (aces, so many eyes, shamed, beseeching, begging. Years went by, wheedling and dealing and telling fine stories that didn't even feel like lies, only slight rearrangements of the truth to make a more fitting background for him: his father's played-out forty acres turned into a plantation, the red brick schoolhouse transformed into a private academy for the sons of the southern gentry. Loading himself with the trappings of success, German cars and English tailored suits. And always this gnawing need to exercise his power one more time, to prove to himself again and again that he really was someone special, set apart from common people by his rare talent.
Each time it was less of a rush, more commonplace. Each year he doubted his own early memories, wondered if he'd been fooling himself. Maybe he was just a fast-talking wheeler-dealer like the men he played cards with, a poor boy making it by his own hard work and pretending it was due to a touch of magic.
Until a few weeks ago, when the glass paperweight began talking to him.
Cliff grinned at the red-faced, honking drivers around him. Why hurry? The traffic jam would break up soon, he'd be back in his office with the cube, and this headache that was plaguing him would go away. Meanwhile, it was funny to think how people would call him crazy if he told them that his paperweight told him what to do.
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It was true, though. From the first time he'd seen the swirling images form, vague and indistinct against the smoky glass, Cliff had known he was seeing truly. It was all as he'd known it must be, somewhere, someday: the circle of hooded figures, a secret society of some sort dedicated to finding and fostering just such arcane powers as he possessed. Finally his striving had come to their attention, and now, if he could just prove himself, he would be admitted into the inner circle. Cliff had always known in his heart that there must be some sort of secret circle running things. Probably these men were the real power in the country; the President and the legislatures and the banks were their puppets, dancing to their tune. And if he served them well, he would be one of themЧone of the secret masters! CUffs heart pounded and his hands grew sweaty on the wheel. The traffic was moving forward again. In a few minutes he'd be at his office. Then he could call to his masters and tell them what he had done. It hadn't been complete success, but he had made progress. Definite progress. He thought they ought to be pleased.
The instructions themselves hadn't been that definite. The MastersЧthat was what he called them in his own mindЧthe Masters did not speak in words, rather in feelings that manifested themselves like vague pressures on the inside of his head, pictures that formed and vanished in the swirl of dark glass. The Templeton house had been clear in those pictures; finding out where it was had been his first, easiest task. Then there was the bookЧalso clear, opened to show that stupid painting of some trees and some broken stonesЧand a command that was like a swelling in his brain. He was to bring the girl and tiie picture together. What girl? The girl in the house. But there are people all over the house! Cliff had protested after his first visit there. Couldn't they
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show him a picture of the girl, the way they had shown him die other things?
No. It is your task to find her.
But how would he know which one?
There was an impression of a dry laugh. That is your task. Look for the one without a past.
And a fat lot of help that was, Cliff thought sourly as he turned into the parking garage under his building. When you were dealing with a bunch of overage hippies and weird stuck-up college professors, you could just about say that none of them had a past! That Templeton woman was adopted and didn't even bother to make a secret of it, acted just as uppity as if she had been a real member of the family instead of some girl's bastard baby left at an agency. The witch who ran the Crystal Healing place was rumored to have spent ten doped-out years in the Haight between the failure of her marriage and her present life as Ginevra the Crystal HealerЧalthough you could hardly call her a girl. And the mousy little secretary had no resume, at least none that he'd been able to discover in Miss Penny's mixed-up files, and she kept her own drawers locked and looked so scared that you knew there had to be a secret somewhere in her past.
And they all responded powerfully to the picture. It could be any one of themЧor none; perhaps it was one of the fiaked-out dames who came for classes in astrology and yoga and deep breathing and whatever other garbage the Center was purveying this month. Oh, well. He'd go back and try again, once he got over this headache. It would be better when he was in his own office.
It wasn't better. It grew worse; from a pressure in his skull to a rhythmic pounding interspersed with flashes of light. And for some reason, looking into the cube only made it worse. Maybe this, too, was a test from the Masters. Cliff held the cube in both hands,
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squinting against the office lights that hurt his eyes now, and concentrated as strongly as he could on calling up the images that filled the glass.
The cube responded almost at once, and he felt a rush of exultation that almost overrode the headache. Clouds swirled and coalesced, tiny lights sparkled inside the cube, and the image of a single man, hood drawn down over his face, became clear.
Find the woman. Why do you delay?
It wasn't exactly like words inside his head; more like a pulling and a sense of impatience. But the only way he could communicate back was with words. Stammering a little, Cliff tried to explain the difficulties he'd encountered and the progress he'd made. He had access to the house, he'd made the old woman who owned the place sign it over to him for practically nothing; now he could come and go at will.
Find the woman.
He tried to explain that he hadn't quite identified her yet; it was harder than they thought, there were so many people wandering in and out and most of them seemed to react to the picture. Even the men. But now that he practically owned the placeЧand the deal should be final tomorrowЧhe could take his time about identifying the right person. . . .
Fool. You have no time. It must be done now.
The sense of impatience grew, swelling into a crescendo of pain that made his previous headache seem like nothing.
"You don't understand!" Cliff howled at the glass cube. "I'm doing the best I canЧthe best anybody could!"
Useless.
On that last, chilling declaration the cube went black, and though Cliff shook it and held it close to his face he could not cause the image to return.
"You all right, mister?"
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Some idiot in a dark blue uniform was at the door.
"Who are you?" Cliff snapped. "Go away. I'm busy."
"Security, Mr. Simmons," the uniformed man said cheerfully. "Sorry to disturb you. Thought I heard sounds of an altercation in here." He glanced around the office. "I see you're alone, though?"
"Telephone call," Cliff said. "IЧguess I lost my temper for a moment. You know how it is."
"Sure," said the security man with a grin. "In my business you see all kinds of kooks. Well, if everything's okey-dokey, I'll be on my way." He saluted, waved, grinned and winked.
Only after he left did Cliff realize that he'd been trying to cradle his black glass paperweight on the telephone stand.
At least his headache was gone.
And he could make plans. The Masters might be annoyed with him, might be punishing him by withdrawal, but surely they wouldn't be gone forever. If he could still serve them, they would forgive him and let him into the inner circle. They had to. In his brief communications with the Masters, Cliff had glimpsed powers far beyond anything he'd aspired to, strength and control that made his ability to influence people seem like a child's first game with blocks. He had to have that. They couldn't show it and then deny it to him. It wasn't fair.
Somehow he would prove his worthiness to them.
The circle of men gathered in the chapter house of the Remegius monastery sighed and relaxed as one man when their leader wiped his hand across the scrying-glass and broke the delicate threads binding their minds to the other world. All of them together, concentrating totally, could barely achieve die link required; and it was still frail, flawed, incomplete.
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"The man is useless," the leader repeated his condemnation. "And our time is too short."
Berengar's worry over his fosterling, distracting him from the task of watching die Gate, was an unexpected boon but one that would not last forever. By morning he would surely have remembered his duty, and he or one of his household knights would resume the guard over the Stonemaidens.