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

blue robe trimmed in gold. I had comfortable sandals on my feet, a ceremonial dagger belted around my waist, and a
plain white keffiya held by a black rope akal.
"You look very handsome, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.
"I hope so," I said. "I've never gone to meet a prince before."
"You've proven your worth, and your reputation must already be known to the amir. You have no reason to be
intimidated by him."
That was easy for Kmuzu to say. I took a final glance at my reflection and wasn't particularly impressed by what I
saw. "Marid Audran, Defender of the Downtrodden," I said dubiously. "Yeah, you right." Then we went down-stairs
to meet Friedlander Bey.
Tariq drove Papa's limousine, and we arrived at the amir's palace on time. We were shown into the ballroom, and I
was invited to recline on some cushions at the place of honor, at Shaykh Mahali's right hand. Friedlander Bey and the
other guests made themselves comfortable, and I was introduced to many of the city's wealthy and influen-tial men.
"Please, refresh yourself," said the amir. A servant of-fered a tray laden with small cups of thick coffee spiced with
cardamom and cinnamon, and tall glasses of chilled fruit juices. There were no alcoholic beverages because Shaykh
Mahali was a deeply religious man.
"May your table last forever," I said. "Your hospitality is famous in the city, O Shaykh."
"Rejoicings and celebrations!" he replied, pleased by my flattery. We conversed for about half an hour before the
servants began bringing in platters of vegetables and roasted meats. The amir had ordered enough food to stuff a
company five times our size. He used an elegant, jew-eled knife to offer me the choicest morsels. I've had a lifelong
distrust of the rich and powerful, but despite that, I rather liked the prince.
He poured a cup of coffee for himself and offered me another. "We live in a mongrel city," he told me, "and there
are so many factions and parties that my judgment is always being tested. I study the methods of the great Muslim
rulers of the past. Just today I read a wonderful story about Ibn Saud, who governed a united Arabia that for a time
bore his family's name. He, too, had to devise swift and clever solutions, to difficult problems.
"One day when Ibn Saud was visiting the camp of a tribe of nomads, a shrieking woman ran to him and clasped his
feet. She demanded that the murderer of her husband be put to death.
" 'How was your husband killed?' asked the king.
"The woman said, 'The murderer climbed high up on a date palm to pick the fruit. My husband was minding his
own business, sitting beneath the tree in the shade. The murderer lost his grip in the tree and fell on him, break-ing my
husband's neck. Now he is dead and I am a poor widow with no way to support my orphaned children!'
"Ibn Saud rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Do you think the man fell on your husband intentionally?' he asked.
" What difference does it make? My husband is dead all the same!'
" Well, will you take an honest compensation, or do you truly demand the death of this man?'
" 'According to the Straight Path, the murderer's life belongs to me.'
"Ibn Saud shrugged. There was very little he could do with such an obstinate woman, but he said this to her: Then
he will die, and the manner of his death must be the same as the way he took your husband's life. I com--mand that this
man be tied firmly to the trunk of the date palm. You must climb forty feet to the top of the tree, and from there you
shall fall down upon the neck of the man and kill him.' The king paused to look at the woman's family and neighbors
gathered around. 'Or will you accept the honest compensation, after all?'
"The woman hesitated a moment, accepted the money, and went away."
I laughed out loud, and the other guests applauded Shaykh Mahali's anecdote. In a short time I'd completely
forgotten that he was the amir of the city and I was, well, only who I am.
The pleasant edge was taken off the evening by the grand entrance of Reda Abu Adil. He came in noisily, and he
greeted the other guests as if he and not the amir were the host of the party. He was dressed very much as I was,
including a keffiya, which I knew was hiding his own corymbic implant. Behind Abu Adil trailed a young man,
probably his new administrative assistant and lover. The young man had short blond hair, wire-rimmed spectacles,
and thin, bloodless lips. He was wearing an ankle-length white cotton shift with an expensively tailored silk sport coat
over it, and blue felt slippers on his feet. He glanced around the room and turned a look of distaste on every-one in
turn.
Abu Adil's expression turned to joy when he saw Friedlander Bey and me. "My old friends!" he cried, crossing the