"Stanley G. Weinbaum - Dawn of Flame" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinbaum Stanley G)

"No doubt; but what if powder flames, and guns fire themselves before he's even across the horizon?
They say he has a spell for that, he or Black Margot."

"Black Margot?"

"The Princess, his half-sister. The dark witch who rides beside him, the Princess Margaret."

"OhтАФbut why Black Margot?"

The farmer shrugged. "Who knows? It's what her enemies call her."

"Then so I call her," said Hull.
"Well, I don't know," said the other. "It makes small difference to me whether I pay taxes to N'Orleans
or to gruff old Marcus Ormiston, who's eldarch of Ormiston village there." He flicked his whip toward
the distance ahead, where Hull now descried houses and the flash of a little river. "I've sold produce in
towns within the Empire, and the people of them seemed as happy as ourselves, no more, no less."

"There is a difference, though. It's freedom."

"Merely a word, my friend. They plow, they sow, they reap, just as we do. They hunt, they fish, they
fight. And as for freedom, are they less free with a warlock to rule them than I with a wizened fool?"

"The mountainies pay taxes to no one."

"And no one builds them roads, nor digs them public wells. Where you pay little you get less, and I will
say that the roads within the Empire are better than ours."

"Better than this?" asked Hull, staring at the dusty width of the highway.

"Far better. Near Memphis town is a road of solid rock, which they spread soft through some magic, and
let harden, so there is neither mud nor dust."

Hull mused over this. "The Master," he burst out suddenly, "is he really immortal?"

The other shrugged. "How can I say? There are great sorcerers in the southlands, and the greatest of
them is Martin Sair. But I do know this, that I have seen sixty-two years, and as far back as memory
goes here was always Joaquin Smith in the south, and always an Empire gobbling cities as a hare gobbles
carrots. When I was young it was far away, now it reaches close at hand; that is all the difference. Men
talked of the beauty of Black Margot then as they do now, and of the wizardry of Martin Sair."

Hull made no answer, for Ormiston was at hand. The village was much like Norse save that it huddled
among low hills, on the crest of some of which loomed ancient ruins. At the near side his companion
halted, and Hull thanked him as he leaped to the ground.

"Where to?" asked the farmer.

Hull thought a moment. "Selui," he said.

"Well, it's a hundred miles, but there'll be many to ride you."