"Melanie Rawn - Exiles 1 - The Ruins of Ambrai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rawn Melanie)

 Chapter 3


During his fourth summer as Scraller's page, the old man came for him.

Col was dawdling on his way up the privy stair, hoping Scraller was in a mood for a few
songs tonight. Anything but another Humble Whomever.

"Well? Hurry up, boy!" Flornat ordered from the upper landing. "You can't mean to keep
him waiting!"

Sighing, Col trudged up the steps and down the hall to the bedchambers. There were three, in
use as Scraller's temper of the evening dictated. One was painted as an evocation of the
tangled swamps of Rokemarsh, all wild green shapes and fantastical flowers, with nudes of all
descriptions cavorting in the mud. Another room mimicked the stark landscape of Caitiri's
Hearth, glittering black mountains topped by silvery snow; Collan always felt rather sorry for
the nudes on these walls, coupling on sharp obsidian and hard white ice. He hadn't been
inside the third bedchamber in quite some time, for it had been redecorated. It was to this
room that Flornat led him now.

Col's jaw dropped open. He'd seen woodcuts of Firrensein some of Taguare's books, and the
new decor was obviously intended to recreate the most famous walls of the Painted City. All
the Saints were here, all right, just as in the picture that ran all the way down the walis of one
of Firrense's streets. But as casual as Collan was about religion, he saw this room as
blasphemy. The sight of hundreds of Saints disporting themselves in giggling ecstacy was
designed to shock, and succeeded.

Scraller lounged on a massive pile of silk and velvet cushions, his head moving slowly on his
skinny neck like a lizard's as he regarded his latest triumph. Every so often he brought a
tankard of wine to his lips, drank, and let his arm sink languidly back to the pillows. Flornat
whispered an announcement of Col's arrival from the door, then beat a retreat.

There was a wooden lectern over in the corner, where St. Venkelos the Judge was wrapping
himself in St. Lirance Cloudchaser's long, wild black hair. Col turned away before he could
discern what else the pair were doing, and fixed his gaze on the open book of erotic poems.

He read in his usual style, detaching himself from the words while giving each one salacious
emphasis. So remote was his mind from the text that it took him twenty minutes to realize
that each poem was an obscene parody of a hymn to a specific Saint. Quick glances at
Scraller showed him that the man turned to the appropriate portrait with each title. Col read
on, and stopped looking, stopped thinking, stopped hearing the sound of his own voice.

All at once he heard a drawn-out moan. His tongue tripped over a rhyme as his eyes shifted
involuntarily to where Scraller sprawled on the cushions. His robes were parted, his naked
body exposed to the lamplight, and his hands were very, very busy.
"ComeтАФhereтАФ"

Collan sidled away from the lectern, his foot catching on its legs. It and he and the book
toppled to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he made for the door. Locked.