"George R. R. Martin - WC 4 - Aces Abroad" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

been so afraid in her life, not even when, as a girl barely out of her teens,
she had broken into her father's safe to finance her escape from the prison that
was her home.
She swallowed hard. Zombi or not, he had to be going somewhere. Somewhere where
there might be other ... real ... people.
Timorously, because there was nothing else she could do, she began to follow
him.
They didn't have far to go. He soon turned off onto a smaller, less-traveled
side trail that wound down and around a steep hill. As they passed a sharp curve
in the trail, Chrysalis noticed a light burning ahead.
He headed toward the light, and she followed him. It was a kerosene lantern,
stuck on a pole in front of what looked like a small, ramshackle but clinging to
the lower slopes of the precipitous hillside. A tiny garden was in front of the
hut, and in front of the garden a woman was peering into the night.
She was the most prosperous looking Haitian that Chrysalis had yet seen outside


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of the Palais National. She was actually plump, her calico dress was fresh and
new-looking, and she wore a bright orange madras bandanna wrapped around her
head. The woman smiled as Chrysalis and the apparition she was following
approached.
"Ah, Marcel, who has followed you home?" She chuckled. "Madame Brigitte herself,
if I'm not mistaken." She sketched a curtsy that, despite her plumpness, was
quite graceful. "Welcome to my home."
Marcel kept walking right on past her, ignoring her and heading for the rear of
the hut. Chrysalis stopped before the woman, who was regarding her with an open,
welcoming expression that contained a fair amount df good-natured curiosity in
it.
"Thank you," Chrysalis said hesitantly. There were a thousand things she could
have said, but the question burning in the forefront of her mind had to be
answered. "I have to ask you ... that is ... about Marcel."
"Yes?"
"He's not actually a zombi, is he?"
"Of course he is, my child, of course he is. Come, come." She made gathering
motions with her hands. "I must go inside and tell my man to call off the
search."
Chrysalis hung back. "Search?"
"For you, my child, for you." The woman shook her head and made tsking sounds.
"You shouldn't have run off like that. It caused quite a bit of trouble and
worry for us. We thought that the zobop column might capture you again."
"Zobop? What's a zobop?" It sounded to Chrysalis like a term for some kind of
jazz afficionado. It was all she could do to keep from laughing hysterically at
the thought.
"Zobop are"--the woman gestured vaguely with her hands as if she were trying to
describe an enormously complicated subject in simple words-"the assistants of a
bokor-an evil sorcerer-who have sold themselves to the bokor for material
riches. They follow his bidding in all things, often kidnaping victims chosen by