"Esther M. Friesner - Homework" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

Homework
Esther M. Friesner
Esther M. Friesner is no stranger to the world of fantasy, having created, edited, and written
for the Chicks in Chainmail series. Her son, daughter, husband, two cats, and warrior-princess
hamster treat her with accordingly appropriate awe which has nothing to do with the thirty novels
she has had published, the two Nebulas she has won, or the over one hundred short works she has
written.

PRINCE Gallantine slowly came out of his drug-induced slumbers, his head feeling as though a
thousand suntoos had just staged their annual mating dance on the floor of his cerebellum. The last thing
he recalled was his most recent interview with Morbidius, Lord of the Ebon Empire. It had been less than
fully satisfactory. Although he had been able to maintain his justly high reputation for possessing a wit as
sparkling as his teeth and as smooth as his bright golden hair, Prince Gallantine had not been able to draw
out Lord Morbidius as much as he'd hoped. Thus, while the Dread One had terminated their little
tete-a-tete by stalking out of the dungeon in a huff as anticipated (brought on by Prince Gallantine's
oblique reference to the sexual preferences of the Dread One's mother), he had left before revealing
anything of his incipient plans for the overthrow and conquest of Prince Gallantine's own realm, Placidia
Felix, to say nothing of the Lands Yonder.
Bold Prince Gallantine knew better than most that it was imperative for Lord Morbidius to 'fess up
to some small scrap of preconquest information. How else might it be turned about and put to use against
the Dread One after the prince's inevitable escape? An evil secret plan shared was an evil secret plan as
good as thwarted, but an evil secret plan that remained a secret was thwartproof. Good hero that he
was, thwarting evil was Prince Gallantine's life. He was still brooding over this thwartless turn of events
(and the unsettling possibility that perhaps the Dread One was beginning to catch wise) when one of Lord
Morbidius' corps of debauched eunuchs brought him his supper. It was the usual: stale bread and slimy
water with a side of rat poop.
Well, that and a cookie.
"Poison?" Prince Gallantine murmured as he picked up the anomalous object. Chocolate chips
glistened like maiden's tears. "No, no, it can't be. Morbidius would never kill me outright; not so soon.
He's barely had the chance to taunt me, let alone subject me to a series of tortures that would break a
lesser man in body and spirit. What the hell, it's food." So saying, he gobbled down the cookie (after
ascertaining that those really were chocolate chips) and was just setting his teeth to the hunk of rock-hard
bread when the dungeon began to swirl and tilt around him before finally plummeting into darkness.
He awoke to find himself shackled to the wall, which was to be expected, and to sunlight and fresh
air, which was not. Lord Morbidius prided himself on ruling over keeps and castles without number, each
possessed of dungeons famed for their airless, lightless, hopeless atmosphere. The only source of
illumination permitted was the fitful glare of smoky torches or, in the cells of the dissident poets, the lone
flame of a badly guttering candle. It was even rumored that Lord Morbidius' purchasing
agents-in-the-field had commissioned artisans to manufacture candles guaranteed to burn with an
especially pathetic and possibly suicide-inducing flame. Prince Gallantine would not put it past him.
But this placeтАФ! Shackles or no shackles, Prince Gallant had to admit he'd been in elfin palaces
that were drearier. Pale buttercup-yellow walls decorated with splodges of botanical murals surrounded
him, the relentlessly cheerful vista broken only by ample windows that opened onto a view of extensive
rose gardens. Double doors gave onto a golden-pillared balcony where a family of chubby squirrels was
enjoying a picnic lunch of acorns.
The acorns were pink. They were set out on a teensy-weensy red-checked tablecloth. There were
matching napkins. It was the last straw.
 "Gods of all heroic goodness, where in hell am I?" Prince Gallantine cried.
" 'Lo," said a voice.
The prince turned his head this way and that, but could not find the source of the greeting. "Who are