"Glenda Larke - Heart of the Mirage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Larke Glenda)

T wouldn't dream of it,' I replied, schooling my tone to a careful neutrality.
There was no point in upsetting the Temple High Priestess if it were
avoidable. 'Nor would I mock the Oracle. It has given me, er, food for
thought.' In truth, it had been worryingly accurate, but I wasn't going to
tell her that. 'I trust that what you and Esme learned today remains unsaid to
others.'
'We are servants of the Goddess. We keep many secrets.'
Not quite the promise I hoped for, but obviously all I was going to get. I
nodded to her and left the temple.
Outside, I had to narrow my eyes against the glare of midday light. My mind
seethed with all I had seen as I descended the stairs to the Forum Publicum.
The crowd there was thinning now that the heat was so intense. Most of the
well-to-do had headed home, leaving the streets to the slaves and the poor,
but I had something I needed to do.
Noting the fineness of my clothing, litter carriers hurried up to offer their
services, but I waved them away and started to walk. I wanted to be alone
while I digested all that had happened. I slipped into the labyrinth of
streets and alleys leading to the poorer sections of the central city, the
area called the Snarls. The change from wide, well-kept public spaces to the
closed-in squalor of poverty was rapid; the stink of open drains and rotting
rubbish cloyed as the crowds disappeared. Beneath my feet, the smoothness of
well-swept pavements gave way to the hard-packed earth of potholed lanes. No
marble facades here, no creeper-shaded courtyards. The buildings were of
crumbling rough-hewn stone, the rooms cramped, the windows and doorways narrow
and mean, the occupants lean and tough. This was the other, more regrettable
face of Tyr; but then, I supposed any centre as great as this city had to
attract the scavengers as well as the cultured. Most who eked out an
inadequate living in the Snarls were not citizens, but a mix of nationalities
attracted to the capital of the Exaltarchy, thinking they
would make their fortunes. Some of them were even right.
I halted for a moment, my head aching and the taste in my mouth foul. I
couldn't even think straight. The Oracle had spoken to me, Ligea Gayed, and
prophesied my future. Not many were so privileged. Why, then, did I feel so
... besmirched?
I pushed the feeling away and directed my thoughts instead to assimilating the
reality of my coming departure from Tyr. No more desert-season evenings spent
at the open-air theatre to hear a new comedy i
from Crispin; no more sitting around a fire on a snow-season night with the
Academy scholars, drinking punch and discussing Asculi's latest treatise or
arguing about why the seasons change; no more pleasant hours spent at one of
Nereus's musical evenings.
Kardiastan. Desert hell. Uncultured land of assassins and evil numina, of
windstorms and rainless skies. May the wind of Acheron's Vortex take that
bastard Rathrox!
I had no time, though, to dwell on the pleasant fantasy of an unpleasant end
for my Brotherhood mentor, because my thoughts were jerked back to the
present. Away from the safety of frequented streets, my senses had
subconsciously roamed outwards to become aware of what was happening around
me. It seemed my foolishness in crossing the Snarls while so richly dressed
was going to bring me trouble: I was being followed. It served me right; I