"Jack Vance - Tschai 3 - The DirDir" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

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THE DIRDIR

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CHAPTER ONE

THE SUN CARINA 4269 had passed into the constellation Tartusz, to mark the onset of Balul Zac
Ag, the "unnatural dream time," when slaughter, slave-taking, pillage and arson came to a halt
across the Lokhar Highlands. Balul Zac Ag was the occasion for the Great Fair at Smargash, or
perhaps the Great Fair had come first, eventually to generate Balul Zac Ag after unknown hundreds
of years. From across the Lokhar Highlands and the regions surrounding Xar, Zhurveg, Seraf, Niss
and others came to Smargash to mingle and trade, to resolve stale feuds, to gather intelligence.
Hatred hung in the air like a stench; covert glances and whispered curses, in-drawn hisses of
detestation accented the color and confusion of the bazaar. Only the Lokhars (the men black-
skinned and white-haired, the women whiteskinned and black-haired) maintained faces of placid
unconcern.

On the second day of Balul Zac Ag, as Adam Reith wandered through the bazaar, he became aware
that he was being watched. The knowledge came as a dismal shock; on Tschai, surveillance always
led to a grim conclusion.

Perhaps he was mistaken, Reith told himself. He had dozens of enemies; to many others he
represented ideological disaster; but how could any of these have traced him to Smargash? Reith
continued along the crowded lanes of the bazaar, pausing at the booths to look back the way he had
come. But his follower, if in fact he existed, was lost in the confusion. There were Niss in black
robes, seven feet tall, striding like rapacious birds: Xars; Serafs; Dugbo nomads squatting over
their fires; Human Things expressionless behind pottery faceplates; Zhurvegs in coffee-brown
caftans; the black and white Lokhars of Smargash themselves. There was odd staccato noise: the
clank of iron, squeak of leather, harsh voices, shrill calls, the whine, rasp and jangle of Dugbo
music. There were odors: fern-spice, gland-oil, submusk, dust rising and settling, the reek of
pickled nuts, smoke from grilled meats, the perfume of the Serafs. There were colors: black, dull
brown, orange, old scarlet, dark blue, dark gold. Leaving the bazaar Reith crossed the dancing
field. He stopped short, and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a figure sliding behind a tent.

Thoughtfully Reith returned to the inn. Traz and the Dirdirman, Ankhe at afram Anacho, sat in
the refectory making a meal of bread and meat. They ate in silence; disparate beings, each found
the other incomprehensible. Anacho, tall, thin and pallid like all Dirdirmen, was completely
hairless, a quality he now tended to minimize under a soft tasseled cap after the style of the
Yao. His personality was unpredictable; he inclined toward garrulity, freakish jokes, sudden
petulances. Traz, square, somber and sturdy, was in most respects Anacho's obverse. Traz
considered Anacho vain, over-subtle, over-civilized; Anacho thought Traz tactless, severe and over-
literal. How the two managed to travel in comparative amity was a mystery to Reith.

Reith seated himself at the table. "I think I'm being watched," he announced.

Anacho leaned back in dismay. "Then we must prepare for disaster-or flight."

"I prefer flight," said Reith. He poured himself ale from a stone jug.