"Zelazny, Roger - Lord Demon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

"I'd forgotten," I said, "and I was hoping they had, too."
"You know it's not something easily forgotten," Tuvoon told me. "Everybody wants to be part of a legend or two."
"That guy would have taken me apart if I hadn't been damn lucky," I told him.
"I was there, too," he replied, "and it wasn't all luck."
"Shit!" I said. "He was a demigod, and I was a brash young demon who probably surprised him more than anything."
"Nevertheless, your victory was a turning point in the battle, and the battle proved a crucial one. It's certainly not bad being known as the only demon in memory to have single-handedly killed a god."
I shrugged. "These kids don't know what it was like."
"So let them have their hero."
I growled, and we made our way to our quarters.
There were numerous messages awaiting meЧmostly invitations to dine and a few to appear on panels dealing with obscure thaumaturgical concepts the organizers must have thought my generation enjoyed more than theirs. They were wrong.
That day I had drinks with Stormmiller, Pigeon Eyes, Icecap, and Spider QueenЧlunch with Dragon Gore and He of the Towers of Light; dinner with Seven Fingers and Spilling Moonbeams. I had hopes of finding the Walker and speaking with him, but he was nowhere to be found. Neither was DevorЧin fact, his entire group was conspicuously absent.
Cocktails are a European and American import, one of those things that became popular when some of the more trendsetting demons emigrated along with various waves of Chinese expatriates. Perpetual exiles that we are, a change of physical anchor point doesn't trouble us overly much. Cultural shifts, though, those touch us more deeply. Even after my own emigration, I have always entertained second thoughts about American cultural values.
Seven Fingers knew this. If anything, he is more conservative than I am. When I met him and Spilling Moonbeams for an early dinner immediately following the one panel in which I deigned participate, I found the restaurant's decor purely and elegantly Chinese. The dominant motif was the Tang Dynasty, but there were just enough touches from later days to keep it from seeming static. The maitre d' escorted me to a private chamber, separated from the main dining area by a teak screen beautifully carved with the phoenix and the dragon.
In keeping with the spirit of the Conventicle neither of my hosts wore human shape. Seven Fingers rose to his full seven and a half feet in height to greet me. For the occasion, he had polished his green scales a handsome emerald and highlighted the deep red of his three large eyes (the odd one set neatly in the center of his forehead) with an expensive rouge made from crushed rubies mixed with minute diamonds. He wore a floor-length robe in black silk embroidered with chrysanthemums.
His daughter (though some say she is his niece and others that she is neither of these things) resembled the moonbeams of her name. Unlike Seven Fingers, who is a solid figure of a demon, her natural form is partially ethereal. Imagine an ink stroke across a page that suggests a woman, a curve, an undulation, a hint of fine-boned features. Shade it in with silvery hair falling to the floor in massy abundance that is only partially on any one plane, bring out the features in hints of moonlight and Stardust and you have Spilling Moonbeams.
She is lovely and unapproachable. No wonder the jealous suggest that her father is also her lover.
She is also comparatively young, born at the close of the Demon Wars even as her mother, the fearsome Krys of the Unknowable Rage, expired from wounds inflicted by the curve-bladed axe of the god Rr'grr. The midwife who brought forth Spilling Moonbeams was Viss of the Terrible Tongue, sister to Raging Krys. Some say that Viss wished to keep the baby and raise her in company with her cousin, Tuvoon the Smoke Ghost. Seven Fingers, grieving for his mate, would have nothing of that. He reared Spilling Moonbeams himself, nursing her on intrigue and enigma, permitting no one else near.
All of this and more awoke in my memory as I greeted my hosts. When I saw that the properly and formally reared Spilling Moonbeams was prepared to greet me with the three obeisances and the nine kowtows, I reached out and raised her. My hands partially passed through her, but I had almost expected this and schooled myself to show no surprise.
"Do not bow to me, child," I said firmly. "I am here as a guest, not as anything else,"
She lowered dark lashes over two bright eyes that glittered with an emotion I could not quite place.
"You are the Godslayer," she said in a whispery voice. "Without you, I would not live. I seek only to honor you as my father has taught."
It's true enough that if I hadn't gotten in my lucky shot at Chaholdrudan when I did, Spilling Moonbeams wouldn't have made it. Krys of the Unknowable Rage had gone down a few minutes before and her need had distracted both Viss and Seven Fingers from the battlefield.
We weren't doing very well that day. Many of our best were wounded; morale wasn't just low, it was nonexistent. Only the right crisis was needed to create a general rout. When Chaholdrudan crashed in death, his ichor baptized demonkind with new hope.
Lying is not in me, but I could not accept this lovely child offering me respect that should be reserved for an emperor. I continued to raise her until she stood.
"My victory was only one of many that day," I said firmly. "Rise. If I'm not mistaken, I scent thousand-year eggs with ginger."
Seven Fingers was watching his daughter with unmistakable pride. At his subtle signal, she obeyed my request. When we were all seated, Seven Fingers removed the cover from the serving dish on the table. There within were indeed thousand-year eggs, nestled attractively in a bed of thin sliced ginger and pickled scallions. He helped me to a choice portion with the host's long ivory chopsticks.
Course followed course, each elegantly prepared. At first the conversation was general: discussion of the Conventicle, comparison of the current Organization Committee with those past, anecdotes about old friends present and absent. When we reached the fourth course, Seven Fingers commented:
"So, Kai Wren, you have been brought from your solitude by Viss and Tuvoon."
Although the words were neutral enough, there was an undertone of acid to them. Remembering old rivalries, I decided to ignore the undertone and speak only to the words.
"Yes, that is so. Recent events have carried me once again into my old teacher's orbit. We spoke of the isolation within which many of demonkind dwell. She and the Smoke Ghost reminded me that a Conventicle was coming up. I thought to come and see some old friends."
Seven Fingers smiled. "And we are glad that you did. It is too long since we visited in this easy fashion."
Spilling Moonbeams murmured words that seemed to echo her father's sentiments. I said something courtly in return, but it seemed that an exchange of mutual admiration was not going to be sufficient to finish this subject.
"Viss often has motivations so obscure that perhaps not even she understands their full implications," Seven Fingers said.
Remembering an aunt who desired to adopt a motherless niece against her father's wishes, I reminded myself that these were hardly the words of a neutral party. Long lives mean longer grudges. Therefore, I merely made a small encouraging noise within my throat and plucked a delicate black mushroom from the dish before me.
"When Viss is interested in some course," Seven Fingers persisted stubbornly, "it is unlikely that her desire is disinterested."
I nodded, sipped my tea, patted my fangs with a fine linen napkin, and considered my next words.
"Viss was not the one who renewed our acquaintance," I said, wondering how many present at this Conventicle knew of the abortive duel between Tuvoon and me. Ba Wa, the scrub demon, must have advertised it to some extent to have sold tickets at such short notice. "It was renewed by accident. I initially continued it out of a desire to emphasize that I held no malice toward Viss or her house. Later, I found I enjoyed the opportunity to visit with her and Tuvoon."
Spilling Moonbeams went and fetched forth dishes for the next course: duck and abalone, beautifully arranged. Without speaking, Seven Fingers helped me to choice portions while carefully framing his next statement.
"There was a duel," he said, "between you and Tuvoon."
"A misunderstanding," I answered, "since corrected."
"But if it had not been, you might have killed the Smoke Ghost."
I had little doubt that I would have been the victor, but deciding that humility would be the best course, I merely nodded.
"And then Viss would have been forced to avenge her son," Seven Fingers continued.
"She as much as said that she would," I answered.
"She has your spirit sword, you know," Seven Fingers said. His tone was gentle, but his gaze was as sharp as one of his own blades.
I hadn't known, and the knowledge was an icy wind across my heart. Then the chill went away. Viss had not given it to Tuvoon when we dueled, even though I had brought his spirit sword with me. Surely there was nothing to this.
"I believed my spirit sword was broken beyond repair in the Demon War," I said.
"It was broken," Seven Fingers answered, "but not beyond repair. I repaired it."
I bit back the "Why?" that was my first response. None of us like the spirit swords, but all of us agree that they promote good manners. They remind each of us that there is at least one weapon that can do us mortal harm and against which we have no perfect armor. Seven Fingers forged many of them in the First Interlude of Exile, during which all demons needed to be allies. Then they were stored in the great Armory of Truce.
Over the years, some spirit swords have been broken, but others have come to various custodians. I obtained Tuvoon's, for example, in a deal with Pigeon Eyes for a certain vase. Until Ollie's death, I had no thought of ever using it. If anything, I viewed it as a favor to Viss that the sword was in my possession rather than in anyone else's.