"Nancy Kress - The Flowers of Aulit Prison" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

most intense scrutiny, I find nothing that I can imagine being a listening device. Nothing that
looks alien, nothing unreal.
But I no longer know what is real.


Only Bata is up; the other moons have not risen. The sky is clear and starry, the air cool. I
wheel my bicycle inside and try to remember everything I need.
 Whatever kind of glass Ano's coffin is made of, it is very tough. I have to swing my garden
shovel three times, each time with all my strength, before I can break it. On the third blow
the glass cracks, then falls leisurely apart into large pieces that bounce slightly when they hit
the floor. Chemicals cascade off the bed, a waterfall of clear liquid that smells only slightly
acrid.
In my high boots I wade close to the bed and throw containers of water over Ano to wash
off chemical residue. The containers are waiting in a neat row by the wall, everything from my
largest wash basin to the kitchen bowls. Ano smiles sweetly.
I reach onto the soggy bed and lift her clear.
In the kitchen, I lay her body -- limp, soft-limbed -- on the floor and strip off her
chemical-soaked clothing. I dry her, move her to the waiting blanket, take a last look, and
wrap her tightly. The bundle of her and the shovel balances across the handles of my bicycle.
I pull off my boots and open the door.
The night smells of my neighbor's foreign flowers. Ano seems weightless. I feel as if I can
ride for hours. And I do.
I bury her, weighted with stones, in marshy ground well off a deserted road. The wet dirt
will speed the decay, and it is easy to cover the grave with reeds and toglif branches. When
I've finished, I bury my clothes and dress in clean ones in my pack. Another few hours of
riding and I can find an inn to sleep in. Or a field, if need be.
The morning dawns pearly, with three moons in the sky. Everywhere I ride are flowers, first
wild and then cultivated. Although exhausted, I sing softly to the curving blooms, to the sky,
to the pale moonlit road. Ano is real, and free.
Go sweetly, sweet sister, to our waiting ancestors.
Two days later I reach Rafkit Haddon.


It is an old city, sloping down the side of a mountain to the sea. The homes of the rich
either stand on the shore or perch on the mountain, looking in both cases like rounded great
white birds. In between lie a jumble of houses, market squares, government buildings, inns, pel
shops, slums and parks, the latter with magnificent old trees and shabby old shrines. The
manufacturing shops and warehouses lie to the north, with the docks.
I have experience in finding people. I start with Rituals & Processions. The clerk behind the
counter, a pre-initiate of the priesthood, is young and eager to help. "Yes?"
"I am Ajma Pek Goranalit, attached to the household of Menanlin. I have been sent to
inquire about the ritual activity of a citizen, Maldon Pek Brifjis. Can you help me?"
"Of course," she beams. An inquiry about ritual activity is never written; discretion is
necessary when a great house is considering honoring a citizen by allowing him to honor their
ancestors. A person so chosen gains great prestige -- and considerable material wealth. I
picked the name "Menanlin" after an hour's judicious listening in a crowded pel shop. The
family is old, numerous, and discreet.
"Let me see," she says, browsing among her public records. "Brifjis ... Brifjis ... it's a
common name, of course ... which citizen, Pek?"
"Maldon."