"Barker, Clive - Weaveworld (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive)

'Have you broken anything?Т the man wanted to know.

Cal opened his eyes a fraction wider.

'Say something, man.Т

He raised his head a few inches, and looked about him. He was lying in the yard, on the carpet.

'What happened?Т

'You fell off the wall,' said Shane.

'Must have missed your footing,' Gideon suggested.

'Fell,' Cal said, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He felt nauseous.

'Don't think you've done much damage,' said Gideon. 'A few scrapes, that's all.Т

Cal 'looked down at himself, verifying the man's remark. He'd taken skin off his right arm from wrist to elbow, and there was tenderness down his body where he'd hit the ground, but there were no sharp pains. The only real harm was to his dignity, and that was seldom fatal.

He got to his feet, wincing, eyes to the ground. The weave was playing dumb. There was no tell-tale tremor in the rows of knots, no sign that hidden heights and depths were about to make themselves known. Nor was there any sign from the others that they'd seen anything miraculous. To all intents and purposes the carpet beneath his feet was simply that: a carpet.

He hobbled towards the yard gate, offering a muttered thanks to Gideon. As he stepped out into the alley, Bazo said: 'Yer bird flew off.Т

Cal gave a small shrug and went on his way.

What had he just experienced? An hallucination, brought on by too much sun or too little breakfast? If so, it had been startlingly real. He looked up at the birds, still circling overhead: They sensed something untoward here too; that was why they'd gathered. Either that, or they and he were sharing the same delusion.

All, in sum, that he could be certain of was his bruising. That, and the fact that though he was standing no more than two miles from his father's house, in the city in which he'd spent his entire life, he felt as homesick as a lost child.

IV

CONTACT

Immacolata crossed the width of heat-raddled pavement between the-steps of the hotel and the shaded interior of Shadwell's Mercedes, she suddenly let out a cry. Her hand went to her head, the sunglasses she always wore in the Kingdom's public places falling from her face.

Shadwell was swiftly out of the car, and opening the door, but his passenger shook her head.

СToo bright,' she murmured, and stumbled back through the swing-doors into the vestibule of the hotel. It was deserted. Shadwell came in swift pursuit, to find Immacolata standing as far from the door as her legs would carry her. The wraith-sisters were guarding her, their presences distressing the stale air, but he couldn't prevent himself from snatching the opportunity, in the guise of legitimate concern, to reach and touch the woman. Such contact was anathema to her, and a joy to him made more potent because she forbade it. He was obliged therefore to exploit any occasion when he might pass such contact off as accidental.

The ghosts chilled his skin with their disapproval, but Immacolata was quite able to protect her inviolability. She turned, her eyes raging at his presumption. He immediately removed his hand from her arm, his fingers tingling. He would count the minutes until he had a private moment in which to put them to his lips.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I was concerned.Т

A voice intervened. The receptionist had emerged from his room, a copy of Sporting Life in hand.

'Can I be of help?Т he offered.

'No, no...Т said Shadwell.