"Donald Moffitt - Mechanical Sky 1 - Crescent in the Sky" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moffitt Donald)

you won't miss anything."
"Ugh, who wants to see it anyway?" Ja'far said, making a face.
"Well, how about it?" Feisel demanded.
"I can't," Hamid-Jones said. "Go on without me. Have a good time. Insharih!" He saw Feisel's eyes
resting on the good djellaba and lied: "I promised to be at the feast here, and then I've got to go to the
mosques with the mullah who lives down-stairs."
"Oh, come on, Feisel," Ja'far snapped."Can't you see he's got something better planned?"
"Honestly," Hamid-Jones said. "Bisarafi."
"Sure," Feisel said with a wink. "Ya sitan. Don't get your-self in trouble."
Ja'far took Feisel by the arm and led him to the door. Hand on the latch, he turned and said to
Hamid-Jones, "If you change your mind, meet us at Sultana's Paradise on the fourth level later."
Feisel rolled his eyes, and the two of them left, giggling.
Hamid-Jones watched from the window as they crossed the courtyard, threading their way through the
folding tables that the landlord had set up there. Rice was boiling in a great caul-dron, and two bedraggled
sheep, bleating piteously, were tied up in a corner, waiting to be sacrificed. Two sheep didn't seem like
much for the size of the expected company indicated by the tables, but you could always trust the skinflint
of a landlord to extract the maximum profit from any situation, even a festive occasion like al-Id al-Rass.
He waited until he was sure that Ja'far and Feisel were safely gone, then put on the djellaba, chose his
best braided headrope to hold his keffia in place, and slipped out through the courtyard without encountering
anybody. His heart pounding with excite-ment, he pushed his way on foot through the thick crowds to-ward
the tube station that would take him to the Bab al-Dahub, the Golden Gate quarter, where he would find the
only thing that mattered in the universe.


The Street of the Peacock was one of the Bab al-Dahub's better neighborhoods, a coveted address for
medium-level offi-cials and aspiring individuals with private wealth, though there was still a lot of old money
there to give the place its cachet.
Hamid-Jones loitered against a wall, trying to be inconspic-uous. When he thought he saw a porter across
the way scruti-nizing him, he sauntered to the corner and came back to take up his post again a few feet
further on. The traffic flow was not as heavy here as in the Street of the Well, and the people were better
dressed. Once he saw some gaudily costumed street play-ers attempt to put on a skit, but a policeman
came along to break it up and send them on their way. The actor playing the Emir, looking headless in his
padded costume with its framework to build up the shoulders, attracted stares as he strode away with the
oversize papier-m├вch├й head tucked under his arm. No solic-iting allowed, evidently, though the police did
not molest a stilt-walker who moved along without stopping, collecting alms on the go by thrusting a tin cup
at the end of an extensible arm under the noses of startled passersby.
He raised his eyes for the hundredth time to the small upper window set high in the blank wall across the
street. This time he was rewarded by a glimpse of movement and color behind the carved wooden screen.
Then it was gone, and he was left to continue his fruitless vigil again.
This is madness, he thought miserably. It is unmitigated folly. If he were caught staring up at the women's
quarters, making a nuisance of himself like this, there was no way he could possibly explain himself.
Everything he had worked for could go down the drain in five minutes.
What made it all the more reprehensible was the fact that he had been inside as an invited guest a score
of times. For this was the house of the Clonemaster, his lord and patron, Hassan bin Fahd al-Hejjaj.
And within was the Clonemaster's treasure, his daughter Lalla bint Hassan al-Hejjaj, whose doting
fatherтАФso a careless ser-vant had once let slipтАФcalled her al-Baroohelwa, the Little Sug-arplum.
He gave a guilty start as a passerby accidentally jostled him. "Muta assif," the man apologized.
Hamid-Jones managed a lame smile and an "Afwan."
He was almost ready to give it up then, but he kept his eyes on the grille, hoping. The chief eunuch in the
Clonemaster's houseтАФas Hamid-Jones had reason to knowтАФwas lenient; he was not one to shoo away a