"Bischoff, David - Night World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

"In return for a look into your van," Oliver reminded him as he grabbed a gloaming red apple from the mound of fruit centering the table.

"And I must see about organizing some of the entertainment for the Field Feasts," said Lady Jessica, delicately dabbing at her mouth with a cloth napkin.

"I trust you will enjoy our little celebration, Mr. Turner," she added graciously. She frowned slightly as the fat man helped himself to yet another pull from the beer keg. Although she took an occasional glass of sherry, she was famed for disapproval of regular drinking.

Oliver considered his mother. She was a handsome woman. In her time, she'd been quite a beauty. She was not of Fernwold, but rather from Salisbury, a duchy farther west, with which Fernwold regularly traded.

The population centers of Styx tended to be a day's ride apart so as to render night travel unnecessary. Viscount Dolan had been visiting Salisbury on matters of commerce, when he met Jessica Fielding. Though Oliver occasionally heard rumors that their romance had been stormy, his father and mother now seemed quite settled.

Oliver had mixed feelings about his mother. He loved her deeply, yet resented her possessiveness. He was her only child, and he felt it was almost as if she wished him to remain a child all his life. Although she tolerated his casual interest in the young girls of Fernwold, she was obviously not thrilled at their apparent interest in him.

"Yes, my lady," answered Turner, giving her a friendly-bear smile that only fat men seem capable of mustering successfully. "I feel quite fortunate, privileged even, to have arrived at this opportune time."

"How long exactly do you plan to stay?" she asked, more calculation than warmth in her voice.

Turner's left eyebrow rose a trifle. "Ah, I thought tomorrow morning would be a good time to depart. Must be about my mission."

"Oh? So soon, Mr. Turner?" she said.

"I fear so."

"Well, Oliver," she commanded, rising from the table, resplendent in her day dress. "See that Mr. Turner enjoys every instant of his brief stay with us." She nodded politely, turned, and swept away with a rustle of her red satin and corded silk skirts.

"Ah, lad," Turner said, again filling his goblet with beer, "I fear your mother doesn't approve of the likes of me. A stranger, deep in the depravity of drink, come to demoralize her only son."

"If it weren't for you, sir, I wouldn't be around to demoralize. I'm sure she realizes that."

"Enough of this 'sir' and 'Mr. Turner' business, young fellow!" Turner rose imperiously from the table, settling his black beaver on his curls. "In the future you may call me simply 'Geoffrey'. Right? Right. So, let's be about our tour."

First, Oliver led Turner through the interior of the castle's keept Here the director of the community's army of defense, the castellan, resided. The army itself consisted of able-bodied men of Fernwold able to contribute spare hours to drilling and to patrolling the battlements of the encircling walls. The settlement was fortunately situated atop a steep slope, rendering at least half of the wall practically impervious to attack.

The other sections of curtain and towers were more strongly reinforced, studded with arrow slits, and gun placements. Cannon could not be used; the recoil would shatter the walls or tower. The defense measures, as stringent as they were, would not have held up against an attacking army of similar ingenuity and armament.

However, the nightcreatures tended to roam the night alone. Only occasionally had they been known to lay siege to a castle, and even then, restricted to night, their attempts generally failed. Tunnels burrowed under the walls to collapse them could be easily filled in by day. Stones worked out of the thick wall could be fixed and mortared back in place. Nevertheless, oral and written history was stocked with fearful tales of provinces overrun by Satan's minions, their inhabitants subjected to awful fates.

Oliver led Turner to a cupola which overlooked the entirety of Fernwold Town, the forty-foot walls of the community, and the surrounding fields, forests, and streams. The Town was a neat grouping of some three hundred white-washed stuccoed buildings, most with quaint thatched roofs.

"Quite like many of the provincial communities I've visited," Turner commented briefly, the breeze tugging lazily at his longish, curling hair. "Very comfortable, very snug."

"The people are happy enough, I suppose," said Oliver.

"Are they? Growth limited by strict population control; antiquated machinery falling apart daily; the constant threat of very real and physical danger; evenings spiced with supernatural dread; monsters roaming the verges by night? Do you really think they're happy when they must constantly fear that their community will be overrun by the forces of the Devil himself?" He made a sweeping gesture toward the walls, the town, the neat grassy fields where cattle grazed, the fall-painted forests ribboned by sparkling rivers and creeks.

"All this, my lad, all this was once a paradise. And you can see the beauty of it even now. But what you can't see, my boy, what you can't make out down there, are the hidden beasts who patrol the nights of this world, the creatures who would make us all slaves of Satan."

He drew in a deep, clean breath. "And the mindless fear, the dread of the supernatural in the hearts of your people." He pointed at Oliver. "In your heart!"

Oliver shuddered. He looked away.