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

"It is just as well. I've grown very tired. Here, let me lean on your arm."
"Certainly, O Shaykh." He'd always been a bull of a man, but he was old, nearing his two-hundredth birthday. And
not many months before, someone had tried to mur-der him, and he'd required a lot of sophisticated neuro-surgery to
repair the damage. He'd not yet completely recovered from that experience, and he was still weak and rather unsteady.
Together we made our way up from the beautiful for-mal gardens and back along the cloistered walk to the softly
lighted ballroom. When he saw us approaching, the amir rose and came forward, extending his arms to em-brace
Friedlander Bey. "You have done my house great honor, O Excellent One!" he said.
I stood aside and let Papa take care of the formalities. I had the sense that the reception had been some kind of
meeting between those two powerful men, that the cele-bration of my marriage had been entirely irrelevant to whatever
subtle discussions they had conducted. "May your table last forever, O Prince!" said Papa.
"I thank you, O Wise One," said Shaykh Mahali. "Are you leaving us now?"
"It is after midnight, and I'm an old man. After I de-part, you young men may get on with the serious revelry."
The amir laughed. "You take our love with you, O Shaykh." He leaned forward and kissed Friedlander Bey on both
cheeks. "Go in safety."
"May Allah lengthen your life," said Papa.
Shaykh Mahali turned to me. "Kifoo basat!" he said. That means "Good spirits and cheer!" and it kind of sums up
the city's attitude toward life.
"We thank you for your hospitality," I said, "and for the honor you've done us."
The amir seemed pleased with me. "May the blessings of Allah be on you, young man," he said.
"Peace be with you, O Prince." And we backed away a few steps, then turned and walked out into the night:
I had been given a veritable hillock of gifts by the amir and by many of the other guests. These were still on
dis-play in the ballroom, and would be gathered up and deliv-ered to Friedlander Bey's house the next day. As Papa
and I emerged into the warm night air, I felt well fed and content. We passed through the gardens again, and I ad-mired
the carefully tended flowering trees and their shim-mering images in the reflecting pool. Faintly over the water came
the sound of laughter, and I heard the liquid trickle of fountains, but otherwise the night was still.
 Papa's limousine was sheltered in Shaykh Mahali's ga-rage. We'd begun to cross the grassy courtyard toward it,
when its headlights flashed on. The ancient carтАФone of the few internal combustion vehicles still operating in the
cityтАФrolled slowly toward us. The driver's window slid silently down, and I was surprised to see not Tariq but Hajjar,
the crooked police lieutenant who supervised the affairs of the Budayeen.
"Get in the car," he said. "Both of you."
I looked at Friedlander Bey, who only shrugged. We got in the car. Hajjar probably thought he was in control, but
Papa didn't seem the least bit worried, even though there was a big guy with a needle gun in his hand facing us on the
jump seat.
"The hell's this all about, Hajjar?" I said.
"I'm placing both of you under arrest," said the cop. He pressed a control, and the glass panel slid up between
him and the passenger compartment. Papa and I were alone with Hajjar's goon, and the goon didn't seem inter-ested in
making conversation.
"Just stay calm," said Papa.
"This is Abu Adil's doing, isn't it?" I said.
"Possibly." He shrugged. "It will all be made clear according to the will of Allah."
I couldn't help fretting. I hate being helpless. I watched Friedlander Bey, a prisoner in his own limou-sine, in the
hands of a cop who'd taken the pay of both Papa and his chief rival, Reda Abu Adil. For a few min-utes, my stomach
churned and I rehearsed several clever and heroic things I'd do when Haj jar let us out of the car again. Then, as we
drove through the twisting, narrow back streets of the city, my mind began searching for some clue as to what was
happening to us now.
Soon the pain in my belly really began to gripe me, and I wished I'd brought my pillcase with me. Papa had warned
me that it would be a serious breach of etiquette to carry my cache of pharmaceuticals into the amir's house. This was
what I got for turning into such a respect-ful guy. I got kidnapped, and I had to suffer through every little physical
discomfort that came my way.
I had a small selection of daddies on a rack in the pocket of my gallebeya. One of them did a great job of blocking