"Jonathan Stroud - Bartimaeus 2 - The Golem's Eye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stroud Jonathan)

and ungainly on the rich feasts of empire.

The city sprawled for several miles on either side of the Thames, a smoke-bound crust of
housing, dotted with palaces, towers, churches, and bazaars. At all times and in all places, it
thrummed with activity. The streets were clogged and crowded with tourists, workers, and other
human traffic, while the air buzzed invisibly with the passage of imps busy about their masters' errands.

On the crowded quays extending into the gray waters of the Thames, battalions of soldiers and
bureaucrats waited to set sail on journeys across the globe. In the shadows of their ironclad sailing
ships, colorful merchant vessels of every size and shape negotiated the cluttered river. Bustling
carracks from Europe; sharp-sailed Arab dhows, laden with spices; snub-nosed junks from China;
elegant, slim-masted clippers from AmericaтАФall were surrounded and impeded by the tiny riverboats
of the Thames watermen, who competed loudly for the custom of guiding them into dock.

Two hearts powered the metropolis. To the east was the City district, where traders from distant
lands gathered to exchange their wares; to the west, hugging a sharp bend in the river, lay the political
mile of Westminster, where the magicians worked ceaselessly to extend and protect their territories
abroad.

The boy had been in central London on business; now he was returning to Westminster on foot.
He walked at an easy pace, for though it was still early morning, it was already warm, and he could
feel the sweat beading beneath his collar. A slight breeze caught the edges of his long black coat and
whipped it up behind him as he went. He was aware of the effect, which pleased him. Darkly
impressive, it was; he could sense heads turning as he passed. On really windy days, with his coat
flapping out horizontally, he had the feeling he didn't look quite so stylish.

He cut across Regent Street and down between the whitewashed Regency buildings to
Haymarket, where the street sweepers were busy with broom and brush outside the theater fronts
and young fruit sellers were already beginning to parade their wares. One woman supported a tray
piled high with fine, ripe, colonial oranges, which had been scarce in London since the southern
European wars began. The boy approached; as he passed, he flipped a coin dexterously into the
small pewter bowl hanging from her neck and, with an extension of the same movement, plucked an
orange from the top of the tray. Ignoring her thanks, he went his way. He did not break stride. His
coat trailed impressively behind him.

At Trafalgar Square, a series of tall poles, each striped with a dozen spiraling colors, had
recently been erected; gangs of workmen were at that moment winching ropes into place between
them. Each rope was heavily laden with jaunty red, white, and blue flags. The boy stopped to peel his
orange and consider the work.

A laborer passed, sweating under the weight of a mass of bunting.

The boy hailed him. "You, fellow. What's all this in aid of?"

The man glanced sideways, noticed the boy's long black coat, and immediately attempted a
clumsy salute. Half the bunting slipped out of his hands onto the pavement. "It's for tomorrow, sir," he
said. "Founder's Day. National holiday, sir."

"Ah yes. Of course. Gladstone's birthday. I forgot." The boy tossed a coil of peel into the gutter
and departed, leaving the workman grappling with the bunting and swearing under his breath.