"Banks, Iain - Song of Stone, A" - читать интересную книгу автора (Banks Iain M)

Such mistake perhaps finds itself reflected and exaggerated in the distorting mirror of our present difficulties. To my present regret I never did care much for politics, even as something to despise with any knowledgeability, and so arguably speak with less authority in this than other matters, but it seems to me that the conflict now surrounding us was at least partly born in a similar lack of consideration. There are tensions between states, peoples, races, castes and classes which any given player individual or group - simply neglects, takes for granted or attempts to manipulate for their advantage only at the risk of their very existence and by placing in jeopardy all that they hold dear. To do so knowingly is to he foolhardy enough; to do so without such awareness is loudly to proclaim oneself an utter idiot indeed.

How many pointless tragedies, struggles to the death and bloody wars have begun with the search for some small advantage, one minor. piece of territory, a slight concession or minor admission, only to grow, through mutual resistance, up welling pride and actions demanded by that self righteous sense of justice, into an encompassing horror that altogether obliterates the very edifice the contestants sought only to amend?

Old Arthur sits, panting on the seat in the cloud of dust his sitting raised. It occurs to me that he has aged significantly in the last few months. Of course, he truly is old; by far the most venerable of our staff, and as we approach the grave I suppose the steps grow steeper. He was the only one to choose to stay with the castle rather than come with us and trust to the roads and the supposed anonymity of the fleeing displaced. We understood, and did not try too hard to 'persuade him otherwise; the road promised only prolonged privations, while the castle, occupied by others, offered the chance for someone of his years to take advantage of any dregs of respect the warlike young might still bestow upon the innocent old or at worst, perhaps, a quick end.

He sneezes. 'Excuse me, sir.'

'Are our guests treating you well, Arthur?'

'Me sir?' The old fellow looks bemused.

I meant it in the plural. "You and the other servants; are the soldiers treating you decently?'

'Ah.' He looks at his handkerchief, then blows his nose in it and folds it away. 'Yes, sir, well enough. Though they do tend to make a terrible mess.'

'I think they have lived outside, or in ruined places, for too long.'

'Sir, given it was them and their sort did the ruining in the first, place,' he says, leaning closer and dropping his voice, 'perhaps that's where they belong!' He sits back, nodding but looking alarmed, as though he wishes not to take full responsibility for what his lips have just expressed.

'A good point, Arthur,' I say, amused. I swing my legs to the floor and sit up. I lift a glass of tepid milk from the tray and drink. There is toast, an egg, an apple, some preserves and a pot of coffee, which tastes tired just from the length of time it has been stored, but is still welcome.

'D'you know, sir,' Arthur says, shaking his head. 'One of them sleeps outside the lieutenant's door each night, like a dog! It's that one with the red hair; Karma I heard someone call him, or some funny name like that. I saw him last night, lying there in the doorway with just a blanket over him. Apparently he always does that wherever she is; at her feet if they're camping in the outside, sir; at her feet, just like a dog!'

'Commendable,' I say, finishing the milk. 'And they'll tell you you can't find the staff these days, eh?'

'Shall I fetch some fresh clothes, sir?' Arthur asks, smoothly resuming his professional manner. 'There are still some in the laundry.'

'I ought to wash first,' I tell him, choosing a slice of toast; the bread has been unevenly toasted, but one must become inured to such privations, I suppose. 'Is there any hot water?'

'I'll fetch some, sir. Will you be bathing in your own apartments?'

I rub my face, greasy from the day and night before. 'Am I allowed to?' I ask. 'Does our brave lieutenant consider my punishment complete?'

'I believe so, sir; she told me to take you breakfast and let you out, before she left.' His eyes widen as he takes in what I have just said. 'Punish you, sir? Punish you? What right has she?' He sounds quite indignant. I have not heard his voice raised so since I was a child, and used to torment him. 'What but what right ? What could you do, in, in, in your home that let her ?'

'I let slip a sack of what was neither edible nor mountable,' I tell him, trying to calm him. 'But what do you mean, "left"? Where has she gone?'

Arthur sits tutting for a moment or two longer, then hauls his attention back. 'I oh, I don't know, sir; they left I think there's a half dozen of them still here the rest, the lieutenant and the rest, the ones she took, they left just after dawn. just a handful of them still here. In search of hardware, the ones that left, that is, I think I heard one say, but that could be wrong sir; my hearing . . .' Arthur shakes his head, withered fingers trembling near one ear.

'And our good lady? Is she abroad?' I ask, smiling.

'Abroad, with them, sir,' the old servant says, expression troubled. 'The lady lieutenant ... she took her too, as some sort of guide.'

I use the little fruit knife on the apple, silent for a while. 'Did she indeed?' I say eventually, dabbing at my lips with a napkin, clean but not, alas, pressed. 'And did they say when they expected to return?'

'I did ask, sir,' Arthur says, shaking his head. 'The lieutenant

lady just said, "In good time." I'm afraid that's all I was able to get out of her.'