"Wil McCarthy - To Crush the Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCarty Sarah)

Bruno first mistakes the pile for a construction project, and then a termite mound of the sort that had
once been common on the savannahs of Africa. But on closer inspection there is something almost
crystalline about it: straight lines and flat surfaces. And the "termites" themselves are large and of curious
design, with angular body parts of clear and superabsorber black and translucent, glassine blue.

"What are these?" he asks, pointing.

"Termites," Lyman answers, with no detectable irony.

"They're a bit . . . modified, yes?"
"No more than anything else around here. It ain't a natural world."

As the city draws near, Bruno can see that the walls surrounding it are at least as recent as the termite
mounds out on the plains. They're flawless--not in the manner of wellstone or diamond but in the manner
of freshly poured concrete which hasn't had a chance to weather. For all he can tell, they might have been
poured yesterday.

"Those damned walls," Radmer is saying. "My goodness. They may indeed protect the city for a time,
though not in the intended manner. The iron over which the cement was poured will be . . . tempting. The
enemy may find it easier to dismantle the wall than to breach it and sally through. Every gram of it makes
them stronger, while the people inside grow hungry. Not exactly the delay the City Mothers might wish
for, but they're hardly in a position to choose."

Radmer's manner of speech does not much resemble Conrad Mursk's. Nor, really, does his face. A lot
of time has passed here.

"Bloody valets," one of the soldiers says, making a heartfelt curse of it. "Bloody glints."

And Bruno doesn't know whether to laugh or weep at this, for the armies of doom are quite ridiculous,
and the swelling of their ranks can probably, if indirectly, be blamed on himself. Who set this stage, if not
the king of all that preceded it?

Damn and blast. If dying were easy he'd've done it long ago. He had tried. But there had been nothing on
the planette Varna capable of extinguishing this robust carriage of his, and to die of hunger or thirst
required more concentration than he'd been able to muster. Every time his attention wandered, he would
find his belly full of turnips and spring water. And in the aching solitude there, his attention did nothing but
wander.

Finally, they arrive at the gates of the city, and Bruno sees the gate and wall are much smaller than they'd
looked from a distance. Not more than four meters high, possibly as little as three. The men upon the
walls, with their burnished iron helmets, their rifles and bayonets, are quite a bit shorter than the grizzled
old men who've escorted him here.

"Ho there," Radmer calls up to them. "We require an audience with the Furies."

"Oh wonder! It's a band 'f Olders," one of the guards calls down contemptuously. "We'n't seen y'r like
here since th' troubles begun."

"There ha'e al'ys been troubles," Radmer calls back, with a rising contempt of his own. "My name is
Radmer, and you will open this gate."