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

"I believe so, O Shaykh. My friend, Jacques Devaux."
"The Moroccan boy? The Christian?"
"Yes," I said, "although I'm not sure that I completely trust him."
Papa nodded. "It's good that you think so. It's not wise to trust any man until he's been tested. We will talk about
this more after I hear the estimates from the datalink companies."
"Yes, O Shaykh."
I watched him carefully pare an apple with a silver knife. "You were told of the gathering this evening, my
nephew?" he said.
We'd been invited to a reception at the palace of Shaykh Mahali, the amir of the city. "I'm startled to learn that I've
come to the prince's attention," I said.
Papa gave me a brief smile. "There is more to it than joy over your recent marriage. The amir has said that he
cannot permit a feud to exist between myself and Shaykh Reda Abu Adil."
"Ah, I see. And tonight's celebration will be the amir's attempt to reconcile you?"
"His futile attempt to reconcile us." Friedlander Bey frowned at the apple, then stabbed it fiercely with the knife
and put it aside. "There will be no peace between Shaykh Reda and myself. That is quite simply impossible. But I can
see that the amir is in a difficult position: when kings do battle, it is the peasants who die."
I smiled. "Are you saying that you and Shaykh Reda are the kings in this case, and the prince of the city is the
peasant?"
"He certainly cannot match our power, can he? His influence extends over the city, while we control entire
nations."
I sat back in my chair and gazed at him. "Do you expect another attack tonight, my grandfather?"
Friedlander Bey rubbed his upper lip thoughtfully. "No," he said slowly, "not tonight, while we're under the
protection of the prince. Shaykh Reda is certainly not that foolish. But soon, my nephew. Very soon."
"I'll be on my guard," I said, standing and taking my leave of the old man. The last thing in the world I wanted to
hear was that we were being drawn into another in-trigue.
During the afternoon I received a delegation from Cappadocia, which wanted Friedlander Bey's help in de-claring
independence from Anatolia and setting up a peo-ple's republic. Most people thought that Papa and Abu Adil made
their fortunes by peddling vice, but that was not entirely true. It was a fact that they were responsible for almost all the
illicit activities in the city, but that ex-isted primarily as employment for their countless rela-tives, friends, and
associates.
The true source of Papa's wealth was in keeping track of the ever-shifting national lineup in our part of the world.
In a time when the average lifespan of a new coun-try was shorter than a single generation of its citizens, someone had
to preserve order amid the political chaos. That was the expensive service that Friedlander Bey and Shaykh Reda
provided. From one regime to the next, they remembered where the boundaries were, who the taxpay-ers were, and
where the bodies were buried, literally and figuratively. Whenever one government gave way to its successor, Papa or
Shaykh Reda stepped in to smooth the transitionтАФand to cut themselves a larger chunk of the action with each
change.
I found all of this fascinating, and I was glad that Papa had put me to work in this area, rather than overseeing the
lucrative but basically boring criminal enterprises. My great-grandfather tutored me with endless patience, and he'd
directed Tariq and Youssef to give me whatever help I needed. When I'd first come to Friedlander Bey's house, I'd
thought they were only Papa's valet and butler; but now I realized they knew more about the high-level goings-on
throughout the Islamic world than anyone else, except Friedlander Bey himself.
When at last the Cappadocians excused themselves, I saw that I had little more than an hour before Papa and I
were expected at the amir's palace. Kmuzu helped me select an appropriate outfit. It had been some time since I'd
last put on my old jeans and boots and work shirt, and I was getting used to wearing a more traditional Arab
costume. Some of the men in the city still wore Euram-style business suits, but I'd never felt comfortable in one.
_I'd taken to wearing the gallebeya around Papa's house, because I knew he preferred it. Besides, it was easier to
 hide my static pistol under a loose robe, and a keffiya, the Arab headdress, hid my implants, which offended some
conservative Muslims.
So when I'd finished dressing, I was wearing a spotless white gallebeya suitable for a bridegroom, beneath a royal