"David Gemmell - Stones Of Power 5 - Shannow 3 - Bloodstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

'A great man,' said Evans. 'A legend. He knew the Jerusalem Man. Rode with him, some
say.'
'I heard he was the Jerusalem Man,' said Nestor.
Evans shook his head. тАШI heard that too. But it is not true. My father knew a man who
fought alongside Cade. He was a brigand, a killer. But God shone the great light upon
him.'
*
The Deacon stood on the wide balcony, his silver-white beard rippling in the morning
breeze. From this high vantage point he gazed affectionately out over the high walls and
down on the busy streets of Unity. Overhead a bi-plane lumbered across the blue sky,
heading east towards the mining settlements, carrying letters and possibly the new Barta
notes that were slowly replacing the large silver coins used to pay the miners.
The city was prospering. Crime was low and women could walk without risk, even at
night, along the well-lit thoroughfares.
'I've done the best I could,' whispered the old man.
'What's that, Deacon?' asked a slender, round-shouldered man, with wispy white hair.
'Talking to myself, Geoffrey. Not a good sign.' Turning from the balcony he re-entered
the study. 'Where were we?'
The thin man lifted a sheet of paper and peered at it. There is a petition here asking for
mercy for Cameron Sikes. You may recall he's the man who found his wife in bed with a
neighbour. He shot them both to death. He is due to hang tomorrow.'
The old man shook his head. 'I feel for him, Geoffrey, but you cannot make exceptions.
Those who murder must die. What else?'
'The Apostle Saul would like to see you before setting off for Pilgrim's Valley.'
'Am I free this afternoon?'
Geoffrey consulted a black, leather-bound diary. 'Four-thirty to five is clear. Shall I
arrange it?'
'Yes. I still don't know why he asked for that assignment. Perhaps he is tired of the city.
Or perhaps the city is tired of him. What else?'
For half an hour the two men worked through the details of the day, until finally the
Deacon called a halt and strolled through to the vast library beyond the study. There were
armed guards on the doors, and the Deacon remembered with sadness the young man
who had hidden here two years before. The shot had sounded like thunder within the
domed building, striking the Deacon just above the right hip and spinning him to the
floor. The assailant had screamed and charged across the huge room, firing as he ran.
Bullets ricocheted from the stone floor. The Deacon had rolled over and drawn the small,
two-shot pistol from his pocket. As the young man came closer the old man had fired, the
bullet striking the assassin just above the bridge of the nose. The youngster stood for a
moment, his own pistol dropping to the floor. Then he had fallen to his knees, and
toppled on to his face.
The Deacon sighed at the memory. The boy's father had been hanged the day before, after
shooting a man following an argument over a card game.
Now the library and the municipal buildings were patrolled by armed guards.
The Deacon sat at a long oak table and stared at the banks of shelves while he waited for
the woman. Sixty-eight thousand books, or fragments of books, cross-indexed; the last
remnants of the history of mankind, contained in novels, textbooks, philosophical tomes,
instruction manuals, diaries and volumes of poetry. And what have we come to, he
thought? A ruined world, bastardised by science and haunted by magic. His thoughts
were dark and sombre, his mind weary. No one is right all the time, he told himself; you
can only follow your heart. A guard ushered the woman in. Despite her great age she still