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

TWO

WHEN he descended from his bath that evening wearing crisp white slacks, a lavender quilt lounge jacket and a rose cravat, Oliver found his father Dudley, Viscount Dolan, hoisting mead with his new friend Geoffrey Turner. They sat at a long, rough-planed oak table, under an ancient chandelier which sported tiny electric light bulbs. In the nearby hearth, a sputtering fire hissed smoky warmth into the cavernous hall. The odor of fresh-cooked venison lingered in the air.

Over the uplifted silver rim of his cup. Turner noted Oliver's return. "Ah, here's the lad." The man's plump red face, flushed further with pleasure as he waved his free hand, gestured Oliver toward a seat.

Settled in the high-backed chair, Oliver glanced hesitantly at his father, a gaunt man who seldom smiled. At that moment his features, a somber collection of angles and etched shadows only faintly softened by the wrinkles of age, were bent into an unusually deep frown. Oliver found his father's serious gaze upon him and could not help but avert his eyes.

"As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Turner," the elder Dolan said in a quiet but resonant voice, "Oliver's mother and I do not know how properly to express our thanks for your rescue of our son. We can but offer hospitality and shelter for as long as you should require it, anytime." He lifted his pewter cup with a thin, blue-veined hand, drained it.

"Think nothing of it," the fat man replied. He stifled a belch. "My job, dealing with creatures like that, don't you know. Dispatched a hundred werewolves if I've dispatched a one."

"Oliver," Lord Dolan said in a soft but urgent voice.

"I trust that an exercise of such poor precaution on your part will not recur."

"There, there, your lordship," Turner interrupted. "The lad handled himself quite well, I think. No need to be overly stern. One cannot go long in this world without eventually encountering the Nightworld crew."

"Nevertheless," Oliver's mother interjected as she refilled the goblets. The white lace on her cuff and about her neck shook with her movement. She wore a pink and beige evening dress reserved for guests, Oliver's favorite, bustle, pleated frills and all. "Oliver should have been more cautious. Asleep in the forest at dusk! He might as well have taken a dive off the topmost of our towers!". Even in middle age, Lady Dolan was a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, graceful, she provided the proper contrast to her darker, dour husband. Her long, lazily curling cream-blonde hair was a casual frame to the even proportions of her face.

Behind her mild appearance, though, lay an essential sternness, a strong, stubborn will that made her pale blue eyes her dominant feature, as she turned them, scolding, to her son. "But I suppose the episode is now properly a thing of the past and best forgotten. Another cup of mead, Mr. Turner?"

"Don't mind if I do," he said, flashing a ready smile at the attractive woman through his dark beard.

Lady Jessica refilled her husband's cup as well, and allowed Oliver a half portion. Its honey and alcohol breath was sweet under Oliver's nose. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must retire. Worrying about Oliver this evening has been quite exhausting."

She exited regally, leaving behind the subtle scent of jasmine.

Absently, the Viscount waved good-bye, then returned to his guest. "You were saying, Mr. Turner? I must confess, communication between our provinces is uncommon. I have heard of your group, vaguely and not always in good terms but I am most intrigued as to its origins, and purpose."

Pausing first to sip at his mead. Turner sprawled back in his chair, arranging his loose pilot coat into a more comfortable hanging on his hefty frame. His face assumed a serious aspect. "First, Lord Viscount Dolan, you dwell in a particularly isolated section of the world." He gestured around him. "I see that you retain some of the electrical conveniences. Lighting.

A few appliances. Yet your culture is principally agrarian, I think."

"We do maintain relations with two other communities. As to the so-called conveniences, they have existed for as long as we have records. Power is supplied by a generator harnessed to a nearby waterfall."

"Not far from the norm on Styxan; almost medieval life-style, robed in the garb of Standard Victorian."

"I don't understand," the Viscount said, a hint of displeasure in his tone.

"Ah, yes, the way Styx used to be, under the Empire and its Queen . . ." Turner's eyes grew far away. They were brown eyes, soft eyes, the most expressive parts of an eloquent face. He biinked. "Oh, forgive me. I do go on sometimes. But it does trouble me how far Styx has descended from its former ideal state. Ah, I've lost you. Never mind. Perhaps you've heard tell of this before. Perhaps you know only sections of it through whatever legends you have hereabouts."

He cleared his throat. His voice was a tenor that occasionally ranged to baritone for emphasis.

"Sir, as you well know, this is a benighted world. But such has not always been the case. At one time, it was part of a great Empire that spanned many stars."