"George Alec Effinger - Marid 3 - The Exile Kiss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

"Sit in your seat and shut up, Audran," Hajjar uttered through clenched teeth. "Make a move or a sound, and I'll
have your friend over there break your face."
I was getting bored, anyway. I put my head back and closed my eyes, thinking that when we arrived in Asir, I
might need my strength. I could feel the maneuvering engines roar to life, and the pilot began turning the giant
shuttlecraft in a long, slow arc toward the west. We de-scended rapidly, spiraling down through the night sky.
The shuttle began to tremble, and there was a long booming noise and a high-pitched wail. Hajjar's goon looked
frightened. "Landing gear locking into place," I said. He gave me a brief nod.
And then the shuttle was down and screaming across a
concrete field. There were no lights outside that I could see, but I was sure we must have been surrounded by a great
airfield. After a while, when the pilot had braked the shuttle to what seemed like a crawl, I could see the out-lines of
hangars, sheds, and other buildings. Then the shuttle came to a complete stop, although we hadn't ar-rived at a
terminal building.
"Stay in your seats," said Hajjar.
We sat there, listening to the air-conditioning whining above our heads. Finally, the qadi reappeared from the rear
cabin. He still clutched his sheaf of papers. He held up one page and read from it:
" "Witness, that regarding the acts of members of the community, which acts are certain crimes and affronts to
Allah and all brothers in Islam, those in custody identified as Friedlander Bey and Marid Audran are herein found
guilty, and their punishment shall be exile from the com-munity which they so grievously offended. This is a mercy
shown unto them, and they should count the remainder of their days a blessing, and spend them in seeking the
near-ness of God and the forgiveness of men.' "
 Then the qadi leaned against the bulkhead and put his signature to the paper, and signed a duplicate copy so that.
Papa could have one and I could have the other. "Now, let's go," he said.
"Come on, Audran," said Hajjar. I got up and moved into the aisle behind the qadi. The goon followed me with
Papa behind him. Hajjar brought up the rear. I turned to look back at him, and his expression was oddly mournful. He
must have thought that soon we'd be out of his hands, and so his fun was almost over.
We climbed down the gangway to the concrete apron. Papa and I stretched and yawned. I was very tired and
getting hungry again, despite all the food I'd eaten at the amir's celebration. I looked around the airfield, trying to learn
something of value. I saw a big hand-painted sign that said Najran on one of the low, dark buildings.
"Najran mean anything to you, O Shaykh?" I asked Friedlander Bey.
"Shut up, Audran," said Hajjar. He turned to his goon. "Make sure they don't talk or do anything funny. I'm
holding you responsible." The goon nodded. Hajjar and the qadi went off together toward the building.
"Najran is the capital city of Asir," said Papa. He com-pletely ignored the goon's presence. For his part, the goon
no longer showed much interest in what we did, as long as we didn't try streaking across the landing field toward
freedom.
"We have friends here?" I asked.
Papa nodded. "We have friends almost everywhere, my nephew. The problem is getting in touch with them."
I didn't understand what he meant. "Well, Hajjar and the qadi will be getting back aboard the shuttle in a little
while, right? After that, I guess we're on our own. Then we can contact these friends and get some nice, soft beds to
spend the rest of the night in."
Papa gave me a sad smile. "Do you truly think our troubles end here?"
My confidence faltered. "Uh, they don't?" I said.
As if to justify Papa's concern, Hajjar and the qadi came out of the building, accompanied now by a burly guy in a
cop-like uniform, carrying a rifle slung under his arm. He didn't look like a particularly intelligent cop or a
well-disciplined cop, but with his rifle he was probably more than Papa and I could handle.
"We must speak soon of revenge," Papa whispered to me before Hajjar reached us.
"Against Shaykh Reda," I replied.
"No. Against whoever signed our deportation order. The amir or the imam of the Shimaal Mosque."
That gave me something else to think about. I'd never learned why Friedlander Bey so scrupulously avoided
harming Reda Abu Adil, whatever the provocation. And I wondered how I'd respond if Papa ordered me to kill Shaykh
Mahali, the amir. Surely the prince couldn't have received us so hospitably tonight, knowing that when we left his