"West,.Michelle.-.Memory.of.Stone.(txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Michelle)

THE MEMORY OF STONE
Michelle West

THE Guildmaster Gilafas ADelios, commonly acknowledged by The Ten houses to be the most powerful man in Aver-alaan, stood in front of the long window by which he might survey the eastern half of Averalaan Aramarelas. He had no throne, no place in the Hall of Wise Counsel, no direct route to the ears of the Kings, the two men who ruled the breadth of the Empire of Essalieyan. But money counted for much in the Empire; what The Ten owned in the political realm, he rivaled by the simple expedient of wealth.
He was not a young man, nor a particularly tall one, and his hair, on those days when he had no onerous public duties, fell in a white plume down the back of his head.
On this particular day, it was a solid braid.
He glanced out of the window, his eyes skimming the surface of the ocean beyond the seawall. Light sparkled there, in a pattern the makers of the east tower were doubtless attempting to capture. It reached his eyes but no more; he looked away.
The ocean's voice was strong. The strongest of the voices that he heard.
"Master Gilafas."
Certainly the most welcome voice. Gilafas was an Artisan. But in truth, he was only barely that; the weakest, the most insignificant of the Artisans the guild had produced in centuries. It galled him when he thought on it, and he was a maker; he could dwell upon any fact, without pause to eat or drinkЧor sleep, for that matterЧfor a full three days.
Duvari, the man who had spoken, knew it.
He was called the Lord of the Compact, the leader of the Astari, the men who served in the shadows the Kings cast. Although the
Lord of the Compact understood Artisans as well as any not maker-born could, he was not by nature a patient man. Nor was he a man that anyone angered without reason, and that, only a good one.
Gilafas ADelios turned. He did not bow; Duvari's rank did not demand such a gesture of respect. Indeed, his presence today almost demanded otherwise.
"Master Duvari."
"Duvari."
"Duvari, then. How may I help you?"
The insincerity of the question was not lost upon the Astari, but it brought a cold smile to his lips, his austere face.
"You may help me by tendering to the Kings their due."
"You've become a tax collector, have you?" Testy, testy words. The door opened. Sanfred, Gilafas's assistant, and a Master in his own right, froze beneath the steepled wooden frame, his robes swirling at his feet. Clearly he had run the length of the hall.
He had the brains to bow instantly. "Guildmaster."
"I am afraid, Sanfred, that we will begin the testing late today. Tell the adjudicators to stand ready."
Sanfred was not a subtle man. He hesitated. But he was not an Artisan either; the only madness that possessed him possessed him when he made, and none of the makers worked without the leave of the Guildmaster during the testing. "There areЧ"
"Not now, Sanfred."
"Yes, Guildmaster."
The doors swung shut. Gilafas turned to face the man who ruled the Astari. "The applicants are waiting in the city streets."
"Indeed."
"The adjudicators will not begin without me."
"Then I will be brief."
"Good."
Again, the winter of Duvari's smile crept up his face. Gilafas wondered idly if Duvari had a smile that did not make his expression colder and grimmer. The Guildmaster was not, however, a simple noble, to be intimidated by a mere expression. "The Astari had heard that you were to personally oversee these applicants. A highly unusual step for a man of your rank, is it not?"
"Your business, Duvari. Please."
"It is my business."
"You overstep yourself. It is guild business; an entirely internal matter."
"May I remind you, Guildmaster Gilafas ADelios, that in the history of the Guild of the Makers annals, the Guildmaster has only presided over the testing when he has had reason to suspect that among the applicants, he will find someone . . . unusual?"
Gilafas shrugged, and considered, briefly, the folly of giving himself over to the ocean's song. As Artisan, he could almost do so without giving offense. Frowning, he lifted his hands; they were shaking. He had not expected that. "A moment," he said, more curtly than he had intended. He reached out and gripped the edge of curtains heavy with the fall of chain links. They snapped shut audibly at the force of his pull.
"Guildmaster, is there any chance that you seek your successor among the applicants?"
Gilafas chuckled. "No chance whatsoever, Duvari. Is that all?"
Duvari did not move.
They stood a moment, two men assured by their successes in life of their rank, their power.
To Gilafas' surprise, it was Duvari who spoke first.
"I was sent to tell you," he said stiffly, "that the Orb in the Rod is now white."
Ah. Gilafas closed his eyes. Were he any other man, he might pretend that the words had no significance; he might ask, in a pleasant, modulated tone, What rod, what orb? But that game was not a game he could play. Not against Duvari; Duvari served the Kings.
Behind the shell of closed lids, he could see not the Kings, but the hands of Kings, and in them, the items gifted their line by an Artisan centuries ago: the Rod and the Sword. Wisdom. Justice. Weapons for the oldest of the Empire's many wars, and the most important: the war that was its founding. Magic lay within them and upon them, bound to the blood of the god-born.
He had never touched either Rod or Sword. Had prayed that he never would. He could not say what force they summoned, what spell they contained, but he knew them for more than simple ornament. They were weapons against old magic, old darkness, old wars.
And they had slept for centuries.
When he opened his eyes again, Duvari was closer; had closed the distance between them without making a sound. "You expected this," he said softly. It was the first accusation he had made.
"Aye, we expected it," Gilafas replied, weary. Why now? Why today? He brushed nonexistent hair from his eyes. Yes, his hands were shaking; the pull of the ocean was stronger than it had been in weeks, and he would have to take care.
"What of the Sword, Duvari?"
"The Sword?"