"Steve Perry - Matador 7 - Brother Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

It didn't look particularly impressive, though some of the more sensitive among the Very Few had said
they could feel the Glyph's power from across the room. It looked something like a human foot sheared
off cleanly below where an ankle would join with it, the toes fused into a smooth plane. True, the ball
and arch were somewhat more pronounced than real ones would be; there were indentations along the
sides, the butt was thicker than a heel would be in proper proportion; the top was smooth, a flat plane
with a slight incline from the back to the front. The Glyph was half a centimeter longer, perhaps, than
Kifo's thumb, and as big around at the widest as his large toe. Hardly an impressive relic, as these things
went. It would be virtually invisible if viewed against the Burning Bishop's pectoral jewelry; would
hardly turn anyone's gaze away from the Trimenagist's Gold Triangle; would certainly get lost in the
least of the glittering detritus from Tut's Tomb.

Ah, but even so, the Sacred Glyph was unlike any of these ornaments, unlike any talisman or focus for
any other religion in all the galaxy. Because the Sacred Glyph worked. Kifo himself had discovered after
years of meditations the final key.

Kifo reached forth, took the Glyph into his hand, felt it slide into proper position as if on its own. It had

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been designed for the hands of the Gods, of course, but a human's grasp found it grippable enough. His
index finger curled under the plane of the toes, his middle finger in the arch, his ring finger wrapped
itself around the indented heel. His thumb naturally lay upon the smoothness of the top.

It was like holding a carved chunk of ice. It sucked energy from his fingers. No matter what the
temperature in the roomand the Very Few over the years had tested it through a range a hardy man could
barely survive-the Sacred Glyph was always this way. It felt cold at twenty below, it felt cold at forty
above. Always.

Now that he held it, he was ready.

"Brother Mkono," he said. He did not raise his voice, but the student outside was listening, waiting.
Before the word finished echoing in the corridor, the student would already be running to fetch Mkono,
appointed Third among the Nine.

The door opened a moment later and Mkono entered.

He was big, Brother Mkono, two meters tall, a hundred and fifty kilos, spawned by parents created for
heavy-gravity worlds. He wore the loose, draped robe of the order, but under it he was a physically
perfect specimen and even the voluminous folds could not hide the power when he moved. He was a
mountain of a mue, and perhaps he should have been named something that reflected it, but his holy-
nom spoke to his function and not his form. Mkono meant "hand."

Among the Few it was the Hand who went forth to deal justice. Among the Few-and among the enemies
of the Few.

"I have a mission for you," Kifo said.

Brother Mkono closed his eyes and nodded, once.