"Sean McMullen - Rule of the People" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

"No."
 "But, but the mortals say-- "
"The mortals think I come from California. I've let it be known I don't care much for either side in the
Yankees' Civil War."
"Miss Julia, if you were to call out in your Yankee accent, why Captain Waddell might invite us all
aboard the raider," the Ferryman said hopefully.
She watched the northern bank draw near, and the punt finally bumped against the low pier.
Julia shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Ferryman," she concluded, although favouring him with a smile.
"Like you, I have a business to run, and I've already taken off my half-day for the week."
***


Diactoros did not seek out the Shapemaster again until the morning of the 27th. The hunchback was
not at his house in the lane off Stephen Street, so he asked a passing costermonger if he knew Pete
Foreman. The man directed him to the cattle market. His quarry was instantly recognisable, a hunchback
man in early middle age wearing a battered top hat. He was sitting on a small pushcart and surrounded by
two or three dozen dogs. There was a clear heirarchy among the dogs, with some keeping order, others
standing guard, and the rest sleeping in the morning sun, barking at passing carts or idly scratching.
"Dogs for sale, fine, bright dogs for sale," cried the Shapemaster as Diactoros approached. "Dogs for
sheep, dogs for cattle, dogs for the track. Loyal, hale dogs."
Diactoros stopped and glared at the man on the cart. Some of the dogs began to sense that all was not
well and closed around their master. At last the man on the cart turned his head.
"Buy a loyal and clever dog, sir?" he asked.
"I am a shepherd, and I have a need for a good dog," said Diactoros.
The Shapemaster gasped and twisted around so abruptly that he almost overturned his cart. The dogs
were instantly alert and formed a half-circle in front of him, baring their teeth and growling at Diactoros.
"You're the Messenger, aren't you?" muttered the Shapemaster.
"Traveller, Messenger, Shepherd, I am all. At this moment I am Herman Diactoros, Messenger from
the OverMaster."
The Shapemaster cringed against his cart. "Go away, I'm not bothering you or the OverMaster."
"You may not be bothering us, Shapemaster, but a pupil of yours is causing a great deal of bother,"
Diactoros replied, coming straight to the point.
"I never did harm, all I do is trade in doggies. There's a dearth of good dogs in the colony, Messenger.
It's a seller's market and there's no dogs as like mine. Why yesterday I made two pounds fifteen shillings
in eight hours. This is a fine, prosperous little city."
"I have never, never seen such squalor as is in this fleapit," began Diactoros.
"Maybe you should travel more," the Shapemaster replied before he could stop himself.
Diactoros stepped past the dogs and slammed his London cane against the side of the cart in a fury.
Some of the dogs whined and backed away, others growled, but none dared to attack him.
"This place has a notoriety that is spreading. The res publica here changes us into caricatures of what
we were in ancient Greece and Rome. That is why I dare not stay more than a month. Many are alarmed
by what is going on in Australia, Shapemaster, its res publica is strong and nourishing, but it deforms and
twists us."
"In my case it was too late when I arrived," the Shapemaster replied.
"You know what I mean!" shouted Diactoros. "Look at you all! Charon operates a horse punt on the
Yarra, Thetis is mistress of a cake shop in Bourke Street, and Vulcan is worst of all! Instead of
thunderbolts he builds steam engines in his smithy, he even has a portrait of some dead mortal named
Brunel on his wall who he venerates as if he were the mortal and Brunel were the god. Who would have
thought it? The mighty Proteus, shapeshifter and master of the sea's flocks: selling dogs to shepherds!"
"Drovers."