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

She seemed impressed, though she was obviously no judge of art, nor could
she know the work that went into just one of the three hundred and
thirty-three statuettes. There was admiration in her tone.
"They're very beautiful," she repeated.
"They're flawless," he remarked as casually as he could. "It took many
years to carve them all, and I have only just completed them. They are a
gift, for da Vinci. He can no longer carve minutely, the way one needs to
be able to carve if one is to produce a piece just six inches tall -
objects that need a younger steadier hand - especially since he developed
arthritis."
She was silent after this.
The Tower grew in size and height, as they drew nearer to its base, until
it filled the horizon. Its immensity and resplendence overawed NiccolЄ so
much that he almost turned around, forgot his mission, and went back to
the mountains. It would now take him a day to ride, not to the end, but to
the edge of the Tower's shadow. The Tower was like a carved mountain, a
white pinnacle of rock that soared upwards to pierce the light blues of
the upper skies. Its peak was rarely visible, being wrapped about with
clouds for much of the time. The high night winds blew through its holes
and hollows, so that it was like a giant flute playing eerie melodies to
the moon.
By this time they had begun to eat one of the camels, and two others had
been set free, their fodder having been consumed and their usefulness
over. The water was almost gone.
Romola showed him how to produce water, by using the stretched membrane of
the dead camel's stomach. She dug a conical pit in the sand, placed a tin
cup at its bottom, and shaped the membrane so that it sagged in the
centre. Water condensed on its underside and dripped into the cup.
"I'm an artist," he stated, piqued by her superior survival knowledge, "I
don't know about these things."
"So, an artist, but not a survivor?"
"I make out."

They reached the Tower, footsore, weary, but alive. The Holy Guardians
immediately took them into custody. Romola protested, saying she was a
former soldier, but she could not get them to understand what she was
saying. All around the tower was a babble of voices, men and women talking
to each other in a dozen different tongues. Romola's pleas were ignored
and she was thrown into the dungeons.
NiccolЄ found a Holy Guardian who spoke one of the three languages he knew
and explained to them that he had brought some gifts for the High Priest
and that da Vinci would be greatly angered if NiccolЄ were not permitted
an audience with the one on high.
"I am the High Priest's son," said NiccolЄ, "and I wish to pay homage to
my father."
Messages were sent, answers received, and eventually NiccolЄ found himself
being hoisted in silver cages up the various stages of the Tower: pulled
rapidly aloft by winches through which ran golden chains with
counterweights. An invention of his father. With him went his bundles of
statuettes.