"Banks, Iain M - Inversions 2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Banks Iain M)

The chief torturer turned away and spat into the brazier, his foot stamping on the bellows and breathing life into that instrument of death as we were ushered out of the low door by the assistant Unoure.
Two hundred heartbeats later we were met at the tall iron doors which led into the rest of the palace by a footman of the royal chamber.
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'It's my back again, Vosill,' the King said, turning on to his front on the wide, canopied bed while the Doctor rolled up first her own sleeves and then the King's tunic top and shift. And we were in the principal bed-chamber of King Quience's private apartments, deep within the innermost quadrangle of Efernze, the winter palace of Haspide, capital of Haspidus!
This has become such a regular haunt of mine, indeed such a regular place of work, that I confess I am inclined to forget that I am honoured indeed to be present. When I stop to consider the matter though, I think, Great Gods, I an orphan of a disgraced family am in the presence of our beloved King! And regularly, and intimately!
At such moments, Master, I thank you in my soul with all the vigour that is mine to command, for I know that it was only your kindness, wisdom and compassion that put me in such an exalted position and entrusted me with such an important mission. Be assured that I shall continue to try with all my might to be worthy of that trust, and fulfil that task.
Wiester, the King's chamberlain, had let us into the apartments. 'Will that be all, sir?' he asked, bending and hunching over as well as his ample frame would allow.
'Yes. That's all for now. Go.'
The Doctor sat on the side of the King's bed and kneaded his shoulders and back with her strong, capable fingers. She had me hold a small jar of rich-smelling unguent which she dipped her fingers into every now and again, spreading the ointment across the King's broad, hairy back and working it into his pale gold skin with her fingers and palms.
As I sat there, with the Doctor's medicine bag open at my side, I noticed that the jar of brown gel which she had used to treat the wretch in the hidden chamber was still lying opened on one of the bag's ingeniously fashioned internal shelves. I went to stick my own finger into the jar. The Doctor saw what I was doing and quickly took hold of my hand and pulled it away from the jar and said quietly, 'I wouldn't, Oelph, if I were you. Just put the top back on carefully.'
'What's that, Vosill?' the King asked.
'Nothing, sir,' the Doctor said, replacing her hands on the King's back and leaning forward on to him.
'Ouch,' the King said.
'Mostly muscular tension,' the Doctor said softly, flicking her head so that her hair, which had partly fallen across her face, was sent spilling back over her shoulder.
'My father never had to suffer so,' the King said morosely into his gold-threaded pillow, his voice made deeper by the thickness and weight of fabric and feathers.
The Doctor smiled quickly at me. 'What, sir,' she said. 'You mean he never had to suffer my clumsy ministrations?'
'No,' the King said, groaning. 'You know what I mean, Vosill. This back. He never had to suffer this back. Or my leg cramps, or my headaches, or my constipation, or any of these aches and pains.' He was silent a moment as the Doctor pushed and pressed at his skin. 'Father never had to suffer anything. He never'
'had a day's illness in his life,' the Doctor said, in chorus with the King.
The King laughed. The Doctor smiled at me again. I held the jar of ointment, inexpressibly happy for just that moment, until the King sighed and said, 'Ah, such sweet torture, Vosill.'
Whereupon the Doctor paused in her rocking, kneading motion, and a look of bitterness, even contempt, passed briefly over her face.
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2. THE BODYGUARD
This is the story of the man known as DeWar, who was principal bodyguard to General UrLeyn, Prime Protector of the Tassasen Protectorate, for the years 1218 to 1221, Imperial. Most of my tale takes place in the palace of Vorifyr, in Crough, the ancient capital city of Tassasen, during that fateful year of 1221.
I have chosen to tell the story after the fashion of the Jeritic fabulists, that is in the form of a Closed Chronicle, in which if one is inclined to believe such information of consequence one has to guess the identity of the person telling the tale. My motive in doing so is to present the reader with a chance to choose whether to believe or disbelieve what I have to say about the events of that time the broad facts of which are of course well known, even notorious, throughout the civilised world purely on the evidence of whether the story 'rings true' for them or not, and without the prejudice which might result from knowing the identity of the narrator closing the mind of the reader to the truth I wish to present.
And it is time the truth was finally told. I have read, I think, all the various accounts of what happened in Tassasen during that momentous time, and the most significant difference between those reports seems to be the degree to which they depart most outrageously from what actually happened. There was one travesty of a version in particular which determined me to tell the true story of the time. It took the form of a play and claimed to tell my own tale, yet its ending could scarcely have been wider of the mark. The reader need only accept that I am who I am for its nonsensicality to be obvious.
I say this is DeWar's story, and yet I freely admit that it is not the whole of his story. It is only part, and arguably only a small part, measured solely in years. There was a part before, too, but history allows only the haziest notion of what that earlier past was like.
So, this is the truth as I experienced it, or as it was told to me by those I trusted.
Truth, I have learned, differs for everybody. Just as no two people ever see a rainbow in exactly the same place and yet both most certainly see it, while the person seemingly standing right underneath it does not see it at all so truth is a question of where one stands, and the direction one is looking in at the time.
Of course, the reader may choose to differ from me in this belief, and is welcome to do so.
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'DeWar? Is that you?' The Prime Protector, First General and Grand Aedile of the Protectorate of Tassasen, General UrLeyn, shaded his eyes from the glare of a fan-shaped plaster-and-gem window above the hall's polished jet floor. It was midday, with Xamis and Seigen both shining brightly in a clear sky outside.
'Sir,' DeWar said, stepping from the shadows at the edge of the room, where the maps were kept in a great wooden lattice. He bowed to the Protector and set a map on the table in front of him. 'I think this is the map you might need.'
DeWar: a tall, muscular man in early middle-age, dark-haired, dark-skinned and dark-browed, with deep, hooded eyes and a watchful, brooding look about him that quite suited his profession, which he once described as assassinating assassins. He seemed both relaxed and yet tensed, like an animal perpetually hunkered back ready to pounce, yet perfectly capable of remaining in that coiled position for as long as it might take for its prey to come into range and let drop its guard.
He was dressed, as ever, in black. His boots, hose, tunic and short jacket were all as dark as an eclipse-night. A narrow, sheathed sword hung from his right hip, a long dagger from his left.
'You fetch maps for my generals now, DeWar?' UrLeyn asked, amused. The General of generals of Tassasen, the commoner who commanded nobles, was a relatively small man who by dint of the bustling, busy force of his character made almost everybody feel that they were no taller than he. His hair was brindled, grey and thinning but his eyes were bright. People generally called his gaze 'piercing'. He was dressed in the trousers and long jacket he had made the fashion amongst many of his fellow generals and large sections of the Tassasem trading classes.
'When my general sends me away from him, sir, yes,' DeWar replied. 'I try to do whatever I can to help. And such actions help prevent me dwelling on the risks my lord might be exposing himself to when he has me leave his side.' DeWar tossed the map on to the table, where it unrolled.
'The borders . . . Ladenscion,' UrLeyn breathed, patting the soft surface of the old map, then looking up at DeWar with a mischievous expression. 'My dear DeWar, the greatest danger I expose myself to on such occasions is probably a dose of something unpleasant from some lass newly brought in, or possibly a slap for suggesting something my more demure concubines find excessively rude.' The General grinned, hitching up the belt round his modest pot-belly. 'Or a scratched back or bitten ear, if I'm lucky, eh?'
'The General puts us younger men to shame in many ways,' DeWar murmured, smoothing out the parchment map. 'But it is not unknown for assassins to have less respect for the privacy of a great leader's harem than, say, his chief bodyguard.'
'An assassin prepared to risk the wrath of .my dear concubines would almost deserve to succeed,' UrLeyn said, eyes twinkling as he pulled at his short grey moustache. 'Providence knows their affection is rough enough at times.' He reached out and tapped the younger man's elbow with one bunched fist. 'Eh?'
'Indeed, sir. Still, I think the General could '
'Ah! The rest of the gang,' UrLeyn said, clapping his hands as the double doors at the far end of the hall opened to admit a number of men all clad similarly to the General and a surrounding flock of aides in military uniforms, frock-coated clerks and assorted other helpers. 'YetAmidous!' the Protector cried, walking quickly forward to greet the big, rough-faced man leading the group, shaking his hand and clapping his back. He greeted all of the other noble generals by name, then caught sight of his brother. 'RuLeuin! Back from the Thrown Isles! Is all well?' He wrapped his arms round the taller, thicker-set man, who smiled slowly as he nodded and said, 'Yes, sir.' Then the Protector saw his son and bent down to lift him into his arms. 'And Lattens! My favourite boy! You finished your studies!'
'Yes, Father!' the boy said. He was dressed like a little soldier, and flourished a wooden sword.
'Good! You can come and help us decide what to do about our rebellious barons in the marches!'
'Just for a while, brother,' RuLeuin said. 'This is a treat. His tutor needs him back on the bell.'
'Ample time for Lattens to make all the difference to our plans,' UrLeyn said, sitting the child on the map table.
Clerks and scribes scuttled over to the great wooden map lattice on one wall, fighting to be first. 'Never mind!' the General called after them. 'Here's the map!' he shouted, as his brother and fellow generals clustered round the great table. 'Somebody already...' the General began, looking round the table for DeWar, then shaking his head and returning his attention to the map.
Behind him, hidden from the Protector by the taller men gathered about him but never more than a sword length away, his chief bodyguard stood, arms casually crossed, hands resting on the pommels of his most obvious weapons, unnoticed and almost unseen, gaze sweeping the surrounding crowd.
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'Once there was a great Emperor who was much feared throughout what was then all the known world, save for the outer wastelands which nobody with any sense bothered about and where only savages lived. The Emperor had no equals and no rivals. His own realm covered the better part of the world and all the kings of all the rest of the world bowed down before him and offered him generous tribute. His power was absolute and he had come to fear nothing except death, which comes eventually for all men, even Emperors.
'He determined to try and cheat death too by building a monumental palace so great, so magnificent, so spell-bindingly sumptuous that Death itself which was believed to come for those of royal birth in the shape of a great fiery bird visible only to the dying would be tempted to stay in the great monument and dwell there and not return to the depths of the sky with the Emperor clutched in its talons of flame.