sk.thetalisman-第18部分

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　be　settled。　After　so　many　years…when　he　came　back　from　Arcadia　Beach；　he　should　have　all　of　Sawyer　&　Sloat　in　his　pocket。　And　in　the　Territories；　all　was　placed　just　so：　poised　on　the　brink；　ready　to　fall　into　Morgan's　hands。　As　soon　as　the　Queen　died；　her　consort's　former　deputy　would　rule　the　country；　introducing　all　the　interesting　little　changes　both　he　and　Sloat　desired。　And　then　watch　the　money　roll　in。　Sloat　thought；　turning　off　the　freeway　into　Marina　del　Rey。　Then　watch　everything　roll　in！
　　His　client；　Asher　Dondorf；　lived　in　the　bottom　half　of　a　new　condo　in　one　of　the　Marina's　narrow；　alleylike　streets　just　off　the　beach。　Dondorf　was　an　old　character　actor　who　had　achieved　a　surprising　level　of　prominence　and　visibility　in　the　late　seventies　through　a　role　on　a　television　series；　he'd　played　the　landlord　of　the　young　couple…private　detectives；　and　both　cute　as　baby　pandas…who　were　the　series'　stars。　Dondorf　got　so　much　mail　from　his　few　appearances　in　the　early　episodes　that　the　writers　increased　his　part；　making　him　an　unofficial　father　to　the　young　detectives；　letting　him　solve　a　murder　or　two；　putting　him　in　danger；　etc。；　etc。　His　salary　doubled；　tripled；　quadrupled；　and　when　the　series　was　cancelled　after　six　years；　he　went　back　into　film　work。　Which　was　the　problem。　Dondorf　thought　he　was　a　star；　but　the　studios　and　producers　still　considered　him　a　character　actor…popular；　but　not　a　serious　asset　to　any　project。　Dondorf　wanted　flowers　in　his　dressing　room；　he　wanted　his　own　hairdresser　and　dialogue　coach；　he　wanted　more　money；　more　respect；　more　love；　more　everything。　Dondorf；　in　fact；　was　a　putz。
　　When　he　pulled　his　car　tight　into　the　parking　bay　and　eased　himself　out；　being　careful　not　to　scratch　the　edge　of　his　door　on　the　brick；　Sloat　came　to　a　realization：　if　he　learned；　or　even　suspected；　sometime　in　the　next　few　days；　that　Jack　Sawyer　had　discovered　the　existence　of　the　Territories；　he　would　kill　him。　There　was　such　a　thing　as　an　unacceptable　risk。
　　Sloat　smiled　to　himself；　popping　another　Di…Gel　into　his　mouth；　and　rapped　on　the　condo's　door。　He　knew　it　already：　Asher　Dondorf　was　going　to　kill　himself。　He'd　do　it　in　the　living　room　in　order　to　create　as　much　mess　as　possible。　A　temperamental　jerk　like　his　soon…to…be…ex…client　would　think　a　really　sloppy　suicide　was　revenge　on　the　bank　that　held　his　mortgage。　When　a　pale；　trembling　Dondorf　opened　the　door；　the　warmth　of　Sloat's　greeting　was　quite　genuine。
　　
　　　
　　　PART　II
　　　THE　ROAD　OF　TRIALS
　　　
　　CHAPTER　6
　　　The　Queen's　Pavillion
　　　
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　　The　saw…toothed　blades　of　grass　directly　before　Jack's　eyes　seemed　as　tall　and　stiff　as　sabres。　They　would　cut　the　wind；　not　bend　to　it。　Jack　groaned　as　he　lifted　his　head。　He　did　not　possess　such　dignity。　His　stomach　still　felt　threateningly　liquid；　his　forehead　and　eyes　burned。　Jack　pushed　himself　up　on　his　knees　and　then　forced　himself　to　stand。　A　long　horse…drawn　cart　rumbled　toward　him　down　the　dusty　track；　and　its　driver；　a　bearded　red…faced　man　roughly　the　same　shape　and　size　as　the　wooden　barrels　rattling　behind　him；　was　staring　at　him。　Jack　nodded　and　tried　to　take　in　as　much　as　he　could　about　the　man　while　giving　the　appearance　of　a　loafing　boy　who　had　perhaps　run　off　for　an　illicit　snooze。　Upright；　he　no　longer　felt　ill；　he　felt；　in　fact；　better　than　at　any　time　since　leaving　Los　Angeles；　not　merely　healthy　but　somehow　harmonious；　mysteriously　in　tune　with　his　body。　The　warm；　drifting　air　of　the　Territories　patted　his　face　with　the　gentlest；　most　fragrant　of　touches…its　own　delicate　and　flowery　scent　quite　distinct　beneath　the　stronger　odor　of　raw　meat　it　carried。　Jack　ran　his　hands　over　his　face　and　peeked　at　the　driver　of　the　cart；　his　first　sample　of　Territories　Man。
　　If　the　driver　addressed　him；　how　should　he　answer？　Did　they　even　speak　English　here？　His　kind　of　English？　For　a　moment　Jack　imagined　himself　trying　to　pass　unnoticed　in　a　world　where　people　said　'Prithee'　and　'Dost　thou　go　cross…gartered；　yonder　varlet？'　and　decided　that　if　that　was　how　things　went；　he'd　pretend　to　be　a　mute。
　　The　driver　finally　took　his　eyes　off　Jack　and　clucked　something　decidedly　not　1980's　American　English　to　his　horses。　But　perhaps　that　was　just　the　way　you　spoke　to　horses。　Slusha；　slusha！　Jack　edged　backward　into　the　sea…grass；　wishing　that　he　had　managed　to　get　on　his　feet　a　couple　of　seconds　earlier。　The　man　glanced　at　him　again；　and　surprised　Jack　by　nodding…a　gesture　neither　friendly　nor　unfriendly；　merely　a　munication　between　equals。　I'll　be　glad　when　this　day's　work　is　done；　brother。　Jack　returned　the　nod；　tried　to　put　his　hands　in　his　pockets；　and　for　a　moment　must　have　looked　half…witted　with　astonishment。　The　driver　laughed；　not　unpleasantly。
　　Jack's　clothes　had　changed…he　wore　coarse；　voluminous　woolen　trousers　instead　of　the　corduroy　jeans。　Above　the　waist　a　close…fitting　jacket　of　soft　blue　fabric　covered　him。　Instead　of　buttons；　the　jacket…a　jerkin？　he　speculated…had　a　row　of　cloth　hooks　and　eyes。　Like　the　trousers；　it　was　clearly　hand…made。　The　Nikes；　too；　were　gone；　replaced　by　flat　leather　sandals。　The　knapsack　had　been　transmogrified　into　a　leather　sack　held　by　a　thin　strap　over　his　shoulder。　The　cart…driver　wore　clothing　almost　exactly　similar…his　jerkin　was　of　leather　stained　so　deeply　and　continuously　that　it　showed　rings　within　rings；　like　an　old　tree's　heart。
　　All　rattle　and　dust；　the　cart　pulled　past　Jack。　The　barrels　radiated　a　yeasty　musk　of　beer。　Behind　the　barrels　stood　a　triple　pile　of　what　Jack　unthinkingly　took　to　be　truck　tires。　He　smelled　the　'tires'　and　noticed　that　they　were　perfectly；　flawlessly　bald　in　the　same　moment…it　was　a　creamy　odor；　full　of　secret　depths　and　subtle　pleasures；　that　instantly　made　him　hungry。　Cheese；　but　no　cheese　that　he　had　ever　tasted。　Behind　the　wheels　of　cheese；　near　the　back　of　the　cart；　an　irregular　mound　of　raw　meat…long；　peeled…looking　sides　of　beef；　big　slablike　steaks；　a　heap　of　ropy　internal　organs　he　could　not　identify…slithered　beneath　a　glistening　mat　of　flies。　The　powerful　smell　of　the　raw　meat　assailed　Jack；　killing　the　hunger　evoked　by　the　cheese。　He　moved　into　the　middle　of　the　track　after　the　cart　had　passed　him　and　watched　it　jounce　toward　the　crest　of　a　little　rise。　A　second　later　he　began　to　follow　after；　walking　north。
　　He　had　gone　only　halfway　up　the　rise　when　he　once　again　saw　the　peak　of　the　great　tent；　rigid　in　the　midst　of　a　rank　of　narrow　fluttering　flags。　That；　he　assumed；　was　his　destination。　Another　few　steps　past　the　blackberry　bushes　where　he'd　paused　the　last　time　（remembering　how　good　they'd　been；　Jack　popped　two　of　the　enormous　berries　in　his　mouth）　and　he　could　see　the　whole　of　the　tent。　It　was　actually　a　big　rambling　pavillion；　long　wings　on　each　side；　with　gates　and　a　courtyard。　Like　the　Alhambra；　this　eccentric　structure…a　summer　palace；　Jack's　instincts　told　him…stood　just　above　the　ocean。　Little　bands　of　people　moved　through　and　around　the　great　pavillion；　driven　by　forces　as　powerful　and　invisible　as　the　effect　on　iron　filings　of　a　magnet。　The　little　groups　met；　divided；　poured　on　again。
　　Some　of　the　men　wore　bright；　rich…looking　clothes；　though　many　seemed　to　be　dressed　much　as　Jack　was。　A　few　women　in　long　shining　white　gowns　or　robes　marched　through　the　courtyard；　as　purposeful　as　generals。　Outside　the　gates　stood　a　collection　of　smaller　tents　and　impromptu…looking　wooden　huts；　here；　too；　people　moved；　eating　or　buying　or　talking；　though　more　easily　and　randomly。　Somewhere　down　in　that　busy　crowd　he　would　have　to　find　the　man　with　a　scar。
　　But　first　he　looked　behind　him；　down　the　length　of　the　rutted　track；　to　see　what　had　happened　to　Funworld。
　　When　he　saw　two　small　dark　horses　pulling　plows；　perhaps　fifty　yards　off；　he　thought　that　the　amusement　park　had　bee　a　farm；　but　then　he　noticed　the　crowd　watching　the　plowing　from　the　top　of　the　field　and　understood　that　this　was　a　contest。　Next　his　eye　was　taken　by　the　spectacle　of　a　huge　red…haired　man；　stripped　to　the　waist；　whirling　about　like　a　top。　His　outstretched　hands　held　some　long　heavy　object。　The　man　abruptly　stopped　whirling　and　released　the　object；　which　flew　a　long　way　before　it　thudded　and　bounced　on　the　grass　and　revealed　itself　to　be　a　hammer。　Funworld　was　a　fair；　not　a　farm…Jack　now　saw　tables　heaped　with　food；　children　on　their　fathers'　shoulders。
　　In　the　midst　of　the　fair；　making　sure　that　every　strap　and　harness　was　sound；　every　oven　stoked　with　wood；　was　there　a　Speedy　Parker？　Jack　hoped　so。
　　And　was　his　mother　still　sitting　by　herself　in　the　Tea　and　Jam　Shoppe；　wondering　why　she　had　let　him　go？
　　Jack　turned　back　and　watched　the　long　cart　rattle　through　the　gates　of　the　summer　palace　and　swing　off　to　the　left；　separating　the　people　who　moved　there　as　a　car　making　a　turn　off　Fifth　Avenue　separates　pedestrians　on　a　cross…town　street。　A　moment　later　he　set　off　after　it。
　　　
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　　He　had　feared　that　all　the　people　on　the　pavillion　grounds　would　turn　toward　him　staring；　instantly　sensing　his　difference　from　them。　Jack　carefully　kept　his　eyes　lowered　whenever　he　could　and　imitated　a　boy　on　a　plicated　errand…he　had　been　sent　out　to　assemble　a　list　of　things；　his　face　showed　how　he　was　concentrating　to　remember　them。　A　shovel；　two　picks；　a　ball　of　twine；　a　bottle　of　goose　grease　。　。　。　But　gradually　he　became　aware　that　none　of　the　adults　before　the　summer　palace　paid　him　any　attention　at　all。　They　rushed　or　dawdled；　inspected　the　merchandise…rugs；　iron　pots；　bracelets…displayed　in　the　little　tents；　drank　from　wooden　mugs；　plucked　at　another's　sleeve　to　make　a　ment　or　start　a　conversation；　argued　with　the　guards　at　the　gate；　each　wholly　taken　up　by　his　own　business。　Jack's　impersonation　was　so　unnecessary　as　to　be　ridiculous。　He　straightened　up　and　began　to　work　his　way；　moving　generally　in　an　irregular　half…circle；　toward　the　gate。
　　He　had　seen　almost　immediately　that　he　would　not　be　able　just　to　stroll　through　it…the　two　guards　on　either　side　stopped　and　questioned　nearly　everyone　who　tried　to　reach　the　interior　of　the　summer　palace。　Men　had　to　show　their　papers；　or　display　badges　or　seals　which　gave　them　access。　Jack　had　only　Speedy　Parker's　fingerpick；　and　he　didn't　thin