"Colin Wilson - Spiderworld 05 - The Magician" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

the snow, there was a triangular fragment of the spider's skull, with brain fragments still
adhering to its underside. But the original blow had shattered the legs, not the skull. This
could mean only one thing: that while the spider was stunned, someone had deliberately
smashed the top of his skull, with the intention of penetrating the brain and destroying his
capacity to send out a distress signal.
Niall shivered. He had no liking for Skorbo, but the sheer savagery of the attack
horrified him; he felt as if he had been there to witness it.
His shiver reminded him of how cold he was; his facial muscles had lost all
feeling and his eyelids felt as if they were frozen. He retraced his steps back through the
empty building. The front door had been wedged shut with a balk of timber. He heaved it
loose and went out into the square.
As he plodded back through the snow, walking in the deep footprints he had left
earlier, he recalled his excitement on first seeing the snow from his bedroom window. It
had made the world look like fairyland. Now it was merely cold and uncomfortable, and
somehow too real.

Someone had lit a fire in the great fireplace that faced the main door; the sight of
flames leaping up the chimney brought a glow of delight, and made him realize why the
men of old had regarded fire as a god. But as he stood before the blazing logs, watching
the snow melt from his garments, he was surprised by the pain in his limbs as the blood
began to circulate again.
In the chamber adjoining his bedroom, his personal servant Jarita had lit the stove
and laid out his breakfast on a low table: cold meats, preserved fruits, honey, sweetened
milk, and newly baked bread. Before he ate, he changed into dry clothes: a baggy woolen
suit, in which he felt comfortable, and slippers lined with down. Then he sat cross-legged
on the silken cushions, tore a crust from the hot loaf, and spread it with butter and honey.
This was usually the time of day that he enjoyed most, the hour before work began, when
he could eat good food, and reflect on the incredible twists of fortune that had brought
him from a cave in the desert, and made him the ruler of fifty thousand human beings. It
was an important hour of the day, for he was still stunned by the swiftness of the change,
and his unconscious mind needed time to absorb it; he still woke up in the middle of the
night and imagined that he was in the underground den surrounded by his family.
But this morning he was unable to relax or to enjoy the food. He could only brood
on the problem of why Skorbo had been killed, and who had carried it out. Both
questions left him baffled. It was true that the city was full of human beings who loathed
the captain of the guard and would be delighted with the news of his death. But none of
them possessed the kind of courage or determination to lure him into a trap. They had
been the slaves of the spiders for so long that they no longer had any will of their own;
they were conditioned into total obedience. And there would have been no point in
harboring thoughts of hatred or revenge, for the spiders could read their minds more
easily than Niall could read a book.
The men who had been captured from Kazak's underground city were a different
matter. Their minds were still unviolated, and they had a long tradition of hostility to
spiders. But now that they were no longer slaves, they had no motive for killing a spider.
Most of them were now overseers and supervisors, and contented with their lot. They
were delighted to be living in the open air, instead of in an underground fortress. Besides,
even they lacked the kind of cunning and ruthlessness necessary to have set the trap. . .
There was a light tap on the door, and a tall, dark-haired girl looked in. This was
Nephtys, the commander of Niall's personal guard; because she knew he hated to be
disturbed at breakfast, she spoke with her eyes averted.