"Walter Jon Williams - City on Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

The burning scent is here as well, like embers smouldering in the back of the
throat, and it won't go away.
Outside, a peregrine dives past the windows, a swift dark streak against the
opalescence of the Shield. Aiah steps to one of the windows and looks out,
hoping to find the falcon against the backdrop of the city. She doesn't see
itтАФperhaps it's already sitting on a ledge somewhere, eating the pigeon it's
just caught.
The room projects out from the Palace and gives Aiah an exemplary view of
the world-city, the buildings and towers and water-lanes that go on forever,
unbroken to the flat ocean horizon. One of the green aerial tramcars floats
in midair between two distant towers. I am on the water, she thinks, having
to remind herself of the fact....
The sky blossoms with a giant plasm-image, the stern face of the actor
Kherzaki hovering over the Caraqui, his expression commanding. An
advertisement for the chromoplay Lords of the New City, based on Constantine's
early life and career. Fire-petals unfold beside the image, become words
burning in air.
See it now.. ., the sky commands.
An advert, Aiah wonders, or a command from the ruling triumvirate? Should it
be See it now... or else?The door opens behind her, and she gives a start and
spins, a brief giddy disorientation eddying through her inner ear . . . and
as the whirling stops the false, burning mage in the sky is replaced with the
real Constantine, a far more dangerous commodity. He looks almost respectable
in modest white lace, black pipestem pants, and a black velvet jacket, and
Aiah knows right away that her having come here is a mistake. Her heart
sinks.
He doesn't love her. They had been lovers, yes, but that was an accident, the
chance result of a combination of unre-producible circumstances, a particular
time, a particular place, a particular urgency. ... If he gives her anything
it will be because of some horrid sense of obligation, not because he wants
her here, or has any real use for her.
"Miss Aiah," he says, and approaches. The voice is baritone, a rumble that
vibrates to her toes. Aiah remembersтАФ remembers in her nerves, remembers deep
in her bonesтАФthe way he moves, the sense of power held barely but firmly,
consciously, in check, strength mixed oddly with delicacy.
"We find ourselves in the Owl Wing," Constantine says. Irony glints in his
voice as he steps around the big table. "Those windows"тАФgesturingтАФ"are
supposed to be the eyes of an owl.тАЭ
Aiah is tall, but Constantine is taller, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms
and a barrel chest. His skin is blue- black, and his hair is oiled and
braided and worn over the left shoulder, tipped with the silver ornament of
the School of Radritha. He is over sixty years of age, but plasm rejuvenation
treatments have kept his body young and at the peak of health. His face is a
bit fleshy, a suggestion of indulgence that serves to make him more
interesting than otherwise, and his booted feet glide over the thick carpet
without a sound.
The deep voice rolls on, imitating the clipped delivery of a tour guide. "We
also have the Raptor Wing," he says, "the Swan Wing, with its luxury
apartments, and the Crane Wing. . . ." His eyes never leave hers, his
intent mind almost visible behind them, clearly considering subjects more