fs.thethirdbookofswords-第2章
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； a difficult object even for the faculties of another deity to prehend。
Hades in his formless voice said that yes； Hermes was certainly dead。 No； he； Hades； hadn't actually seen the Messenger fall； or die。 But he had been with Hermes shortly before what must have been the moment of that death； when Hermes was engaged in taking some Swords away from some humans。 It was Hades' opinion that Hermes had been acting in good faith in his attempt to collect the Blades； though unfortunately they had been lost again。
Now another side discussion was developing。 What about that offending human； the one that had apparently thrown Farslayer at Hermes and brought him down？ The awful hubris that could strike a god； any god； to earth cried out to heaven for vengeance。 What punishment had been dealt to the culprit？ Surely someone had already seen to it that some special and eternal retaliation had been inflicted？
The same thought had already occurred； long ago； to certain other members of the group。 Alas； they had to report now that when they first heard of the offending human he was already beyond the reach of even divine revenge。
〃Then we must exact some sort of retribution from humanity in general。〃
〃Aha； now we e to it！ Just which part of humanity do you propose to strike at？ Those who are your pawns in the Game； or those I claim as mine？〃
Apollo's disgust at this argument was beyond all measure。 〃How can you fools still talk of pawns； and games？ Do you not see。。？〃 But words failed him for the moment。
Hades spoke up again； this time with his own suggestion for the permanent disposal of the Swords。 If all those god…forged weapons could somehow be collected； and delivered to him； he would see to their burial。 All the other deities present could permanently cease to worry。
〃We might cease doing a lot of things permanently； once you had all the Swords！ Of course you'd be willing to accept twelve for yourself … and incidentally to win the Game by doing so！ Where would that leave us？ What kind of fools do you take us for？〃
Hades was； or at least pretended to be； affronted by this attitude。 〃What do I care now about a game？ Now； when our very existence is at stake。 Haven't you been listening to Apollo？〃
〃Our very existence； bah！ Tell that stuff to someone who'll believe it。 Gods are immortal。 We all know that。 Hermes is playing dead； hiding out somewhere。 It's part of a ploy to win the Game。 Well； I don't intend to lose； whatever happens。 Not to Hermes； and not to Apollo； and particularly not to you！〃
Aphrodite； murmuring softly； announced to all who would listen that she could think up her own ideas for getting back the Swords。 Those who had the Swords； or most of them anyway； were only mere men； were they not？
Apollo spoke again。 This time he prefaced his remarks by waving his bow； a gesture that gained him notably greater attention。 He said that if the Swords could be regathered； they should then be turned over to him； as the most logical and trustworthy of gods。 He would then put an end to the threat the weapons posed； by the simple expedient of shooting them； like so many arrows； clean off the Earth。
Before Apollo had finished his short speech most of his audience were ignoring him； bow and all； even as they had ignored Zeus。 Meanwhile in the background Mars was rumbling threats against unspecified enemies。 Others were laughing； secretly or openly； at Mars。
Vulcan was quietly passing the word around the circle that if others were to gather up the Blades and bring them back to him； and if a majority of his peers were to assure him that that was what they really wanted； he'd do his best to melt all of the Twelve back into harmless iron again。
No one was paying the least attention to Zeus mighty sulking； and he reverted to speech in a last effort to establish some authority。 〃It seems to me that the Smith here incorporated far too much of humanity into the Swords。 Why was it necessary to quench the Blades； when they came from the fire and anvil； in living human blood？ And why were so much human sweat and human tears introduced into the process？〃
Vulcan bristled defensively at this。 〃Are you trying to tell me my trade？ What do you know about it； anyway？〃
Here Mars； gloating to see his rival stung； jumped into the argument。 〃And then there was that last little trick you played at the forging。 Taking off the right arm of the human smith who helped you … what was that all about？〃
The Smith's answer … if indeed he gave one … was lost in a new burst of noise。 A dozen voices flared up； arguing on several different subjects。 The meeting was giving every sign of breaking up； despite Apollo's best thundering efforts to hold it together a little longer。 As usual there had been no general agreement on what their mon problems were； much less on any course of action。 Already the circle of the gods was thinning as the figures that posed it began to vanish into the air。 The wind hummed with their departing powers。 Hades； eschewing aerial flight as usual； vanished again straight down into the Earth beneath his feet。
But one voice in the council was still roaring on； bellowing with monotonous urgency。 Against all odds； its owner was at last able to achieve something like an attentive silence among the handful of deities who remained。
〃Look！ Look！〃 was all that voice was saying。 And with one mighty arm the roaring god was pointing steadily downslope； indicating a single； simple line of markings in the snow； tracks that the mundane wind was rapidly effacing。
There could be no doubt about those markings。 They were a line of departing footprints； heading straight down the mountainside； disappearing behind snow…buried rocks before they had gone more than a few meters。 Though they marked strides too long and impressions too broad and deep to have been made by any human being； there was no doubt that they had been left by mortal feet。
Chapter 2
The one…armed man came stumbling along through midnight rain； following a twisted cobblestone alley into the lightless heart of the great city of Tashigang。 He was suffering with fresh wounds now … one knife…gash bleeding in his side and another one in his knee … besides the old maiming loss of his right arm。 Still he was better off than the man who had just attacked him。 That blunderer was some meters back along the twisted alley； face down in a puddle。
Now； just when the one…armed man was about on the point of going down himself； he steered toward a wall and leaned against it。 Standing with his broad back in its homespun shirt pressed to the stone wall of somebody's house； he squeezed himself in as far as possible under the thin overhang of roof； until the eaves blocked at least some of the steady rain from hitting him in the face。 The man felt frightened by what had happened to his knee。 From the way the injured leg felt now when he tried to put his weight on it； he wasn't going to be able to walk much farther。
He hadn't had a chance yet to start worrying about what might have happened when the knife went into his side。
The one…armed man was tall； and strongly built。 Still； by definition； he was a cripple； and therefore the robber … if that was all he had been … might have taken it for granted that he'd be easy game。 Even had the attacker guessed that his intended victim carried a good oaken cudgel tucked into his belt under his loose shirt； he could hardly have predicted how quickly his quarry would be able to draw that club and with what authority he'd use it。
Now； leaning against the building for support； he had tucked his cudgel away in his belt again； and was pressing his fingers to his side under his shirt。 He could feel the blood ing out； a frighteningly fast trickle。
Except for the rain； the city around him was silent。 And all the windows he could see through the rain were dark； and most of them were shuttered。 No one else in the huge city appeared to have taken the least notice of the brief clash he had just survived。
Or had he survived it； air all？ Real walking； he had to admit； was no longer possible on his damaged knee。 For the present； at least； he could still stand upright。 He thought he must be near his destination now； and it was essential that he reach it。 Pushing himself along the wall that he was leaning on； and then the next wall； one stone surface after another； he stumbled on； hobbled on。
He remembered the directions he had been given； and he made progress of a sort。 Every time his weight came on the knee at all he had to bite back an outcry of pain。 And now dizziness； lightheadedness； came welling up inside his skull。 He clenched his will like a fist； gripping the treasure of consciousness； knowing that if that slipped from him now； life itself was likely to drain quickly after it。
His memorized directions told him that at this point he had to cross the alley。 Momentarily forsaking the support of walls； divorcing his mind from pain； he somehow managed it。
Leaning on another wall； he rested； and rebuilt his courage。 He'd crawl the rest of the way to get there if he had to； or do what crawling he could on one hand and one knee。 But once he went down to try crawling he didn't know he'd ever get back up on his feet again。
At last the building that had been described to him as his goal； the House of Courtenay； came into sight； limned by distant lightning。 The description had been accurate： four stories tall； flat…roofed； half…timbered construction on the upper levels； stone below。 The house occupied its own small block； with streets or alleys on every side。 The seeker's first view was of the front of the building； but the back was where he was supposed to go in order to get in。 Gritting his teeth； not letting his imagination try to count up how many steps there might be yet to take； he made the necessary detour。 He splashed through puddles； out of one alley and into an even narrower one。 From that he passed to one so narrow it was a mere paved path； running beside the softly gurgling； stone…channeled Corgo。 The surface of the river； innocent now of boats； hissed in the heavier bursts of rain。
The man had almost reached the building he wanted when his hurt knee gave way pletely。 He broke his fall as best he could with his one arm。 Then； painfully； dizzily； he dragged himself along on his one arm and his one functioning leg。 He could imagine the trail of blood he must be leaving。 No matter； the rain would wash it all away。
Presently his slow progress brought him in out of the rain； under the roof of a short； narrow passage that connected directly with the door he wanted。 He crawled on and reached the narrow door。 It was of course locked shut。 He propped himself up in a sitting position against it； and began to pound on the door with the flat of his large hand。 The pounding of his calloused hand seemed to the man to be making no noise at all。 At first it felt like he was beating uselessly； noiselessly； on some thick solid treetrunk。。。 and then it felt like nothing at all。 There was no longer any feeling in his hand。
Maybe no one would hear him。 Because he was no longer able to hear anything himself。 Not even the rain beating on the flat passage roof。 Nor could he see anything through the gathering grayness。 Not even his hand
