"Joel Rosenberg - Hour of the Octopus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenberg Joel C)

Despite the obscenely early hour, the donjon's chief ser-vitor was completely ready for the day, the
creases in his gray silk tunic and the pleats in the matching pantaloons fully pressed, the twin points of his
goatee combed and oiled, and the rest of his lined face freshly shaved, his hair pulled back and bound
with a bone clip. Despite his age, his step was brisk, and his glare was sharp and alert.
Despite it all, I enjoyed the moment. I've always liked matching wits with Crosta Natthan, no matter
what the risk.
"Good morning, Lord Crosta Natthan," I said, coming to an abrupt halt.
Bek De Bran probably would have chivied me along if I'd stopped for my own reasons, but not when
I was hav-ing words with the chief servitor.
"And a good morning to you, too, Kami Dan'Shir," he said, with equal lack of sincerity. "I trust you
didn't prick yourself too badly?"
"No, although I thank you for the concern," I said, tak-ing the rose from my belt and tucking it
through a button loop on my tunic.
When in doubt, brazen it out.
He thought about it for a moment. There is only one
punishment for theft in D'Shai; we may be hypocritical folks, but we are simple and direct in some
things. The only question in his mind was whether or not my taking the rose constituted theft, in which
case it was his duty to report it to Lord Toshtai. On the other hand, if I had a right to take the rose, then
his reporting the matter would simply serve to annoy the lord of Den Oroshtai, and he wouldn't want to
do that. Annoying Lord Toshtai was nei-ther part of his job nor likely to lengthen his life.
I bent my head to sniff at the rose. "Part of the Way of the Dan'Shir," I said. "We appreciate beauty."
Well, the use of the plural was my right; as the only known Dan'Shir it was proper for me to speak for all
of us, er, for all of me.
His sniff had nothing to do with smelling a rose. "I wonder how far you will get with this Way of the
Dan'Shir," he said, as he turned to rearrange the flowers, hiding the absence of the rose.
 So do /, old man, I didn't say.
He had a point, of course. I didn't know how far I shouldтАФor couldтАФpush things. There are
fifty-three known kazuhin, including that of the Dan'Shir. The origins of many of themтАФWarrior, Peasant,
Deilist, othersтАФ vanish off into prehistory, when the Powers walked openly across the face of D'Shai.
Quite possibly, some of the an-cient kazuhin were originated by the Powers, although who can say?
But each of the historical professions traces its origin to a historical master, a historical originator,
from the kazuh of the Ruler, created by the ancient Scion of the Sky Him-self, to that of the Cook.
If you accept that the Way of the Dan'Shir, the Way of the Discoverer-of-Truths, is truly a Way, truly
a kazuh, then that makes me the historical master of the Way, with all rights and privileges of a historical
master.
Which, as we'll all recall, included the right or privilege of Veren Del Gergen, the first Painter, to lose
his head from a single sword stroke when ancient Lord Egware was offended by the classic if not entirely
complimentary study
"Kindly Lord Egware at His Leisure." Which only goes to show, I guess, that being a historical master
doesn't neces-sarily give someone sense enough to stay away from mem-bers of our beloved ruling class.
I nodded as I walked on. "And a good day to you, Lord Crosta Natthan."
His breakfast had barely arrived, but Arefai hadn't waited for me before beginning. It wasn't that he
was being im-polite, but it wouldn't have occurred to him to wait, any more than he would have offered
me a taste from his plate.
The breakfast cook had prepared for him a classic ar-rangement of the seven flavors. To the right of
Arefai's plate, a steaming ceramic mug of elderbark tea provided both the hot and the bitter, while a flask
of crushed fundleberries in its bowl of shaved ice to the left of the plate stood in cold, sweet contrast. An
arc of melon slices had been artfully spread across the top rim of the plate, each slice separated from the
next in salty opposition by a paper-thin medallion of highly spiced Patricien ham.
An even dozen oysters on sausage circled the plate, in-terspersed with crispy morsels of