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

"Drovers, then. I've seen you at work, you change drovers into dogs then sell them to other drovers!"
Diactoros squatted before a large terrier with one floppy ear. "Hullo Ben, how are you finding life as a
dog?"
The dog hung his head. Proteus cursed.
"You're living in the past, Hermes the Messenger. The prospects are good here, and there's belief for
the taking. Strong, nourishing res publica."
"Only if you're a pig. The res publica here is corrupting you."
"Well you live in Oxford!" retorted the Shapemaster. "Is the res publica there the same as it was in
ancient Greece?"
"The believers of Britain mean well! We can retain an idealised form there, and fact many of us teach
the classics and so influence the local res publica. Here the belief is tainted with rebellion, reform and
irreverent ideas. We are not just sustained by the people, we are turned into them! These people have no
respect for authority."
There was a long, poisonous silence. The Shapemaster's dogs looked anxiously at the two beings in
the shape of men that glared at each other, but the passing stockmen, drovers and merchants paid them
no attention. A fly landed on Diactoros' cheek. There was a soft snap like a match breaking and the
insect's burned-out body fell to the dust.
"I presume all these dogs were once human," Diactoros asked, now with a surprisingly reasonable
tone.
"Aye, I choose with great care," the Shapemaster assured him. "Fine folk they were, men and women
alike-- those as were down on their luck. Some like Tag here are bright as a button, although she's all
dog now. Too squeamish to eat the flesh of humans, so she lost the mind within. Pacer's kept it, though.
He rummages in the bins at the hospitals, they yield enough scraps of skin and bloody bandages to keep
him human. Five years it's been, 'eh fella?"
The large, surly looking dog wagged its tail mechanically as the Shapemaster reached down to pat its
head.
"I have a message from the OverMaster," Diactoros said coldly. "A message for you in particular."
"Hie, is he to come here? He won't be welcome, these colonial folk take badly to kings, even though
they give loyal toasts. Strange, irreverent folk, they are."
"The OverMaster wouldn't even fart at this place. Shapemaster, there is a raptor living in Melbourne,
her name is Julia Branchester."
"Aye, I know her. The one who feeds upon vampyres. There's not been any undead here for quite a
while, though, so she's starting to age. Raptors aren't real immortals, they use the stored vitality of
vampyres to stay young."
"You, Shapemaster, have had dealings with her."
The Shapemaster fiddled nervously with a button on his coat.
"Can't recall her ever having bought a dog," he mumbled, scratching the side of his head. "Why pick on
me? I follow the way of the gods."
"Shapeshifting drovers and whores into dogs? Selling them to shepherds for a guinea or so? That's
hardly the way of gods. I was told that Branchester trapped you the day you arrived, that she bound you
at noon as you lay asleep. You taught her the practice of shapeshifting as the price of obligation."
"Bah, she was a poor pupil, she can barely hold a form for more than half an hour," whined the
Shapemaster. "The only reason she can shapeshift at all is that she's fed on the vitality of the undead for
hundreds of years. She don't go through Earth, Fire, Water and Air, she just moulds her form like clay.
'Tis shapeshifting in name only."
"How did she do it?" demanded Diactoros. "Did she seduce you?"
"Me? Don't jest."
"Then what?"
He removed his battered top hat and scratched his head.
"I'd just arrived here, I was off my guard. Old Melbourne Town was brimming with classic belief but