"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - A Baroque Fable" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

do you? Do you?" He finds the man's audacity quite invigorating if completely ridiculous.
The messenger sighs. "ButтАФ"
"Gracious, it's sounds dreadful there. Why would I deliberately go someplace where all those mishaps
are occurring? I wouldn't dream of it." He gives an indignant snap to his fan.
"But Your Maleficence, think!" He clasps his hands together and extends them toward Humgudgeon,
who slaps them away with his closed fan.
"I have thought. I know that it would be a great mistake to go anyplace where the vandals are wrecking
castles. This is where I prefer to be." He reaches out for another goblet and takes a deep drink. Of
course he would not consider offering a taste of anything to the prostrate messenger.
"Then a spell or two, Your Maleficence. You must do something, You cannot let them perish without
lifting a finger."
Humgudgeon's lower lip thrusts out farther than it had been. "That's all you can think of isn't it? I spend all
my time being Protector Extraordinary, and then when the going gets difficult, you want me to take care
of you, of everyone in Addlepate. You none of you think of me, do you?" He takes another sip from the
goblet, looking away from the figure lying at his feet. "It isn't the least bit fair of you."
"But we're your subjects, Your Maleficence," the wretched messenger protests.
"And precious little good you've done me," Humgudgeon reminds him. "Getting killed and burnt and
sacked like that."
"Save them, I implore you, I beg you," the messenger cries out, once again reaching to touch
Humgudgeon's foot.
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Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
"Don'l do that," Humgudgeon orders, getting out of range again. He looks toward the raven. "Well, my
dear, what do you think? The problem is that if I do this once, make an exception for you, they will all
expect it later, and then I will be stuck with having to save them all the time. You see that, don't you?"
Slowly he reaches out his hand and makes an arcane gesture. There is a small manifestation like a little
whirlwind that fades quickly. Humgudgeon sighs. "There. One spell, as you wished. But that's all I'm
going to do. Don't ask me for another thing." Humgudgeon is often sulky and this is one of those oftens.
With a relieved whimper, the messenger loses consciousness, but not before he chokes out his thanks to
the Protector Extraordinary.
Now that the messenger is out cold, Humgudgeon takes a chance and nudges him with his toe.
"Goodness me," he says to himself when the messenger does little more than twitch. He slides sideways
and leans toward a concealed door not far from his mound of cushions that has been serving for a throne.
"Chumley," he beckons.
The concealed door bulges, then swings open, and Chum-ley shambles into the room. He is large and
lumpish and may be distantly related to the Trolls: He is a creature of simple pleasures and simpler mind.
He makes a sound that is a grunting kind of laugh that no word exists for, but for the sake of having an
indication of it, will be called "hurm." As he lumbers toward Humgudgeon, he goes "Hurm. Hurm. Hurm."
in a kind of anticipation. "Master want Chumley? Master call Chumley. Chumley play now? Chumley
want play." This is a fairly complex conversation for Chumley and he tires of it quickly.
"Of course, dear boy. You must be allowed to play. Growing boys need plenty of recreation." He drinks
from yet another goblet before indicating the messenger in the tattered uniform. "See this? You may have
this to play with."
"Hurm. Hurm. Chumley want play with him. Hurm. Him play toy." He lurches toward the unconscious
man, then bends over to prod him with one spade-like hand. "Hurm. Want more play." He pokes harder,
then leans down, and grabbing the unfortunate messenger by an arm and a leg, proceeds to half-carry,
half-drag him toward the door he came from.
"You may do just as you wish, dear boy. But take him
A BAROQUE FABLE
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