"Michael Moorcock - Castle Brass 2 - The Champion of Garathor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

yourself. How can you change the past? Forget. Forget, Duke Dorian.'
But the Duke of Koln would purse his lips as if Count Brass had made a particularly offensive
remark, and would turn his attention back to his toys. Count Brass would sigh, try to think of
something to add, then he would leave the room.
Hawkmoon's gloom coloured the atmosphere of the whole Castle Brass and there were some who had
begun to voice the opinion that, for all that he was a Hero of Londra, the duke should return to
Germany and his traditional lands, which he had not visited since his capture, at the Battle of
Koln, by the Dark Empire lords. A distant relative now reigned as Chief Citizen there, presiding
over a form of elected government which had replaced the monarchy of which Hawkmoon was the last
living direct descendant. But it had never entered Hawkmoon's mind that he had any home other than
his apartments in Castle Brass.
Even Count Brass would sometimes think, privately, that it would have been better for Hawkmoon if
he had been killed at the Battle of Londra. Killed at the same time that Yisselda had been killed.
And so the sad months passed, all heavy with sorrow and useless speculation, as Hawkmoon's mind
closed still more firmly around its single obsession until he hardly remembered to take sustenance
or to sleep.
Count Brass and his old companion, Captain Josef Vedla, debated the problem between themselves,
but could arrive at no solution.
For hours they would sit in comfortable chairs on either side of the great fireplace in the main
hall of Castle Brass, drinking the local wine and discussing Hawkmoon's melancholia. Both were
soldiers and Count Brass had been a statesman, but neither had the vocabulary to cope with such
matters as sickness of the soul.
'More exercise would help,' said Captain Josef Vedla one evening. 'The mind will rot in a body
which does nothing. It is well known.'
'Aye - a healthy mind knows as much. But how do you con-vince a sick mind of the virtues of such
action?' Count Brass replied. 'The longer he remains in his apartments, playing with those damned
models, the worse he gets. And the worse he gets, the harder it is for us to approach him on a
rational level. The seasons mean nothing to him. Night is no different to day for him. I shudder
when I think what must be happening in his head!'
Captain Vedla nodded. 'He was never one for overmuch in-trospection before. He was a man. A
soldier. Intelligent without being, as it were, too intelligent. He was practical. Sometimes it
seems to me that he is a different man entirely now. As if the old Hawkmoon's soul was driven from
its body by the terrors of the Black Jewel and a new soul entered to fill the place!'
Count Brass smiled at this. 'You're becoming fanciful, cap-tain, in your old age. You praise the
old Hawkmoon for being practical - and then make a suggestion like that!'
Captain Vedla was also forced to smile. 'Fair enough, Count Brass! Yet when one considers the
powers of the old Dark Em-pire lords and remembers the powers of those who helped us in our
struggle, perhaps the idea could have some foundation in terms of our own experience?'
'Perhaps. And if there were not more obvious answers to ex-plain Hawkmoon's condition, I might
agree with your theory.'
Captain Vedla became embarrassed, murmuring: 'It was merely a theory.' He raised his glass to
catch the firelight, study-ing the rich, red wine within. 'And this stuff is doubtless what
encourages me to voice such theories!'
They both laughed and then they drank some more.
'Speaking of Granbretan,' said Count Brass later, 'I wonder how Queen Flana is coping with the
problem of the unregenerates who still, from what she has said in her letters, inhabit some of the


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