"Michael Swanwick - The Raggle Taggle Gypsy - O" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

"Lady Anne," he said.

"Lord Eric."

"I have come to restore you to your home and station: to your lands, estates,
gracious powers and wide holdings. As well as to the bed of your devoted
husband." His chariot rested in the snow behind him; he'd waited until all the dirty
work was done before showing up.
"You are no longer my husband. I have cast my fortune with a better man than
thou."

"That gypsy?" He afforded Crow the briefest and most dismissive of glances. "'Tis
no more than a common thief, scarce worth the hemp to hang him, the wood to burn
him, the water to drown him, nor the earth to bury him. Yet he has made free with a
someat trifle that is mine and mine alone to deposeтАФI speak of your honour. So he
must die. He must die, and thou be brought to heel, as obedient to my hand as my
hawk, my hound, or my horse."

She spat at his feet. "Eat shit, asshole."

Lord Eric's elegant face went white. He drew back his fist to strike her.

Crow's hands were cuffed behind his back, and he couldn't free them. So he lurched
suddenly forward, catching his captors and Eric by surprise, and took the blow on
his own face. That sucker hurt, but he didn't let it show. With the biggest, meanest
grin he could manage, he said, "See, there's the difference between you and me. You
couldn't stop yourself from hurting her. I could."

"Think you so?" Lord Eric gestured and one of his men handed him a pair of grey
kid gloves of finest Spanish leather. "I raised a mortal above her state. Four hundred
years was she my consort. No more."

Fear entered Annie's eyes for the first time, though nobody who knew her less well
than Crow could have told.

"I will strangle her myself," Eric said, pulling on the gloves. "She deserves no less
honour, for she was once my wife."

****

The tiger cage was set up on a low dais; one focus of the large, oval room. Crow
knew from tiger cages, but he'd never thought he'd wind up in one. Especially not in
the middle of somebody's party.

Especially not at Annie's wake.

The living room was filled with demiurges and light laughter, cocaine and gin. Old
Tezcatlipoca, who had been as good as a father to Crow in his time, seeing him,
grimaced and shook his head. Now Crow regretted ever getting involved with
Spaniards, however sensible an idea it had seemed at the time.