"Garry Kilworth - The Sculptor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kilworth Garry)

"Out to sea?"
"Yes. We shall be island-hopping for as long as necessary, staying one
jump ahead of da Vinci's people, I hope."
She nodded towards the giant at the tiller, with his knitted waistcoat and
benign expression. Romola became angry, clenching her hands, making them
into fists. NiccolЄ stepped away from her, warily.
"The two of you are together - conspirators?" she said.
"We came to help da Vinci destroy himself, and now we are making our
escape. Now, I realise you're an ex-soldier, and I still have the lumps to
prove it, but my friend Domo here . . ." he indicated the giant, "is not
an effete artist. He could snap you in two, like a twig, so no violence
please."
She stared at Domo, who smiled broadly. He did indeed appear to be a man
of enormous strength, and while all three of them knew Romola would put up
a spirited fight, the outcome could not be in doubt. Especially since Domo
had a wicked-looking baling hook in his free hand.
NiccolЄ said, "We don't want to kill you, Romola - at least, I don't,
though gathering from the looks Domo has been giving me, he thinks I am a
fool, and jeopardising our mission. I'm afraid you got under my skin, out
there in the desert, and I've fallen in love with you. However, if you try
anything, anything at all, Domo will kill you where you stand, and throw
you to the fish. Is that understood? I shall be unable to prevent him, or
help you."
She stood a long while, as if weighing up the situation, and then turned
her head.
The craft eventually reached the ocean, and Domo set a course for the
outer islands, behind which the sun was settling for the night. NiccolЄ
stood in the bows, watching the prow cut through the water as the wind
carried them westwards, into the red glow of the evening. When it was
almost dark, Romola came and stood beside him.
"How did you do it? The assassination?" she asked.
"Oh, he's not dead yet, but he will be."
"How? Did you poison the statuettes?"
NiccolЄ shook his head.
"No, I gave him a gift - an imperfect gift. Perfection is an obsession
with him. Now he is caught in a cycle of madness. He will not destroy the
gift, for the angels have his face and it would be like destroying
himself. Yet one of the figures mocks him - resembles him in a crude way,
but actually has the face of a monkey. Without this figure the ring of
angels is incomplete, an obscenity - three hundred and thirty-two
statuettes. The pattern on the marble is broken, the circle unfinished,
yet with it, the art is marred, twisted into a joke of which he is the
brunt.
"He will go mad, it will destroy him."
Her eyes were round.
"You're sure of that?"
"I'm certain of it. He loved my mother very much - my friend the sage
Cicaro was there at the time - but he had her executed after my birth,
because . . . because her beauty was marred."
"In what way?"