Lois McMaster Bujold / Лоис Макмастер Буджолд - Собрание сочинений
Годы выпуска: 1986-2015 г.
Автор: Bujold, Lois McMaster / Буджолд, Лоис Макмастер
Лоис Макмастер Буджолд (Lois McMaster Bujold) родилась в Коламбусе, штат Огайо в 1949 г.
Начала писать фантастику с 1982 г., первый рассказ опубликовала в журнале «Twilight Zone» в 1985 году. В 1986-м опубликовала три дебютных романа — «Осколки чести», «Ученик воина» и «Этан с планеты Эйтос», открывших серию книг о Майлзе Форкосигане и планете Барраяр. На данный момент в этом цикле насчитывается уже тринадцать романов.
В 1987 г. писательницу выдвинули на премию Джона Кэмпбелла. В 1988 г. ее роман «В свободном падении» удостоился премии «Небьюла». Романы «Игра форов», «Барраяр» и «Танец отражений» получили премию «Хьюго», роман «Паладин Душ» премии «Хьюго» и «Небьюла», а повесть «Горы скорби» (из книги «Границы бесконечности») в 1989 г. также удостоилась сразу обеих премий — «Небьюлы» и «Хьюго». В 1993 г. писательница попробовала свои силы и в жанре фэнтези, опубликовав роман «Кольца духов». Она продолжает писать — как отдельные романы, так и продолжения книг о Майлзе.
В этой подборке - почти все изданные на настоящий момент художественные произведения Буджолд. Нет только 4-х рассказов ...
02 Barrayar / Барраяр 1991, fb2; 1991, epub, ISBN: 978-1-62579-395-9, Baen
Cordelia's Honor 1999, epub, ISBN: 0-671-57828-6, Baen
02 The Vor Game / Игра форов 1990, fb2
03 Ethan of Athos / Этан с Афона 1986, fb2
04 Brothers in Arms / Братья по оружию 1989, fb2; 1989, epub, ISBN: 978-1-6257-997-3, Baen
05 Borders of Infinity / Границы бесконечности 1989, fb2; epub, ISBN: 978-1-62579-396-6, Baen
07 Cetaganda / Цетаганда 1996, fb2
08 Memory / Память 1996, fb2; epub, ISBN: 0-7434-7163-6, Baen
09 Komarr / Комарра 1998, fb2
10 A Civil Campaign / Гражданская кампания 1999, fb2
11 Diplomatic Immunity / Дипломатическая неприкосновенность 2002, fb2
12 Winterfair Gifts / Подарки к Зимнепразднику 2004, fb2
13 Cryoburn / Криоожог 2010, fb2; epub, ISBN: 978-1-4391-3394-1, Baen
14 Captain Vorpatril's Alliance / Союз капитана Форпатрила 2012, fb2; epub, ISBN: 978-1-4516-3845-5, Baen
Young Miles 2003, fb2, ISBN: 0-7434-3616-4, Baen
02 Paladin of Souls / Паладин душ 2003, fb2; epub, ISBN: 9780061748905, HarperCollins; pdf, ISBN: 0-06-057337-6, HarperCollins
03 The Hallowed Hunt / Священная охота 2005, fb2, ISBN: 0-06-057462-3; epub, ISBN: 9780061795978; pdf, ISBN: 0-06-079633-2, HarperCollins
Penric's Demon 2015, epub
The Complete Chalion 2005, epub, HarperCollins
01 Beguilement / Приманка 2006, fb2; epub, ISBN: 978-0-06-113758-7; pdf, ISBN: 978-0-06-120862-1, HarperCollins
02 Legacy / Наследие 2007, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-06-144851-5; epub, ISBN: 978-0-06-113905-5; pdf, ISBN: 978-0-06-144849-2, HarperCollins
03 Passage / В пути 2008, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-06-164541-9; epub, ISBN: 978-0-06-137533-0; pdf, ISBN: 978-0-06-164539-6, HarperCollins
04 Horizon 2009, fb2; epub, ISBN: 9780061984815; pdf, ISBN: 978-0-06-175987-1, HarperCollins
Романы:The Spirit Ring / Кольца духов 1992, fb2/epub
Повести и рассказы:The Adventure of the Lady on the Embankment / Приключение леди на набережной 1996, fb2
The Adventure of the Lady on the EmbankmentIt was late in an unseasonably cool morning of June, 1903, when I dropped in upon my friend Sherlock Holmes, in our old rooms in Baker Street. I had spent the night in a weary deathwatch at the bedside of a patient who was also an old friend of mine and my wife's. He had been riddled through with cancer. But even the knowledge that he had welcomed death as a release from the lingering agony that even the strongest doses of morphia I dared give him no longer had the power to mitigate, did nothing to decrease the intense depression I felt about his passing. It had been a helpless, hopeless case throughout, and the grey and miserable drizzle that fell that morning seemed to echo and amplify my mood. My meditations upon mortality had reached a particularly grotesque stage when my cab turned down Baker Street from Marylebone Road on its way to my own lodgings in Queen Anne Street, and it was partly to shake them off, and partly to put off a little longer the moment when I must pain Alicia with my unpleasant news, that I yielded to impulse as I passed the old familiar facade to stop up and see my friend.
Billy the page passed me through to find Holmes seated at the remains of a sparse breakfast, smoking his first pipe of the day (composed of the dottles of yesterday's) and studying one of several newspapers scattered about in the usual untidiness. He glanced up at me keenly.
"Fetch some fresh coffee, Billy," were the first words out of his mouth. "Sit down, old man. You look exhausted."
I nodded and sank gratefully into the comfort of the old chair. Holmes maintained an undemanding silence until I had finished my first cup of coffee. We spoke then for a while of old Hastings, whom Holmes had known slightly.
"Have you anything on hand?" I inquired at length, to turn the conversation to some more cheerful topic. I nodded at the paper folded open beside his plate.
"Possibly. Although at first glance it looks like it might be more in your line than mine." He tapped the paper with one long, nervous finger. "The state of your chin tells me you have not seen this morning's paper; have you seen yesterday's? No? You are just in time, if you would be interested; Lestrade rang up a short while ago-the man himself should be by soon. Center column," he handed the paper across. "They're all running much the same version; this one is typical."
The headline read, "Woman Found on Embankment. Possible Suicide Attempt? Police Seek Clues to Identity." The paper bore yesterday's date.
"About two AM this morning an unidentified woman was found by Constable John Harmon as he made his rounds by the Embankment not far from Northumberland Avenue. She was sitting upon the steps by the river, soaking wet, and wrapped in a bedsheet. She appeared to be in an unnatural state of mind, approximating deep shock, and would neither speak nor respond to questions. The constable took her to New Scotland Yard, from which she was later transferred to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She is described by the police as being 5 feet 8 inches tall, weighing about 9 stone, with long dark blonde hair and grey eyes. She appears to be between 30 and 35 years old. She has an old burn scar upon her left calf, another scar upon her left upper arm, and a fresh cut upon her right wrist. Anyone with a clue to the identity of the woman is asked to contact the police. The conduct of the investigation has been left in the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the case with his accustomed energy and sagacity."
"Most peculiar," I responded, handing back the paper. "But not very detailed."
"It was a late inclusion, I imagine," said Holmes. "But the paper of today has little more, although they have not quite come round to making remarks about the bafflement of the police yet. There is not quite enough here to tell if the case falls into the category of the exotic or the merely sordid. But if I do not mistake that regulation tread, here is the man himself to tell us all about it."
Inspector Lestrade was ushered in by the boy in buttons. He had a dirty white bundle under his arm and a slightly frustrated look upon his ferret-like features. He greeted us both with that subdued and polite manner he acquired when his cases were not going well.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I can scarcely recall any case I've ever had that presented less to go on," he remarked in aggrieved tones as he opened his bundle for Holmes's inspection. "Clothing can tell you something about a person; sometimes it can even be traced. I've seen you do some remarkable things with pocket-linings, I know; but this poor lady has neither pocket-linings nor pockets to line."
"This sheet, I take it, was the garment referred to in the papers," said Holmes, taking it up and beginning to examine it closely. "Well, negative evidence can sometimes be suggestive all the same." He carried it over to the window. "It is a rather common article, is it not? Of a size and grade suitable to a hospital cot. You have, I take it, checked out the most obvious possibility, that this unfortunate woman has escaped from some institution?"
"I've had men out since yesterday morning. I believe we've covered every public and private hospital and asylum in town-my Lord, and there are a number of 'em-but none of them seem to be missing a lady of this description."
"These bloodstains-what were the woman's injuries?"
"Not too much-a cut and a scrape or two. She hasn't been beaten, she hasn't been tied up, and the doctor at Bart's tells me she hasn't been assaulted, either."
"What a lot of negatives. What about drugs?"
"That was what sent me off to the hospitals. She has a number of needle marks; she's clearly been a patient somewhere, unless she's been feeding a private addiction, a theory I've been coming around to."
"On one arm or both?"
"Then she has been administered her shots by a second party, and your second theory loses some of its attractiveness. You've examined the woman yourself?"
"I've seen her. An uncommon-looking sort, if I do say so. But you may as well try talking with a statue, for all the conversation she's got. So we are left with the evidence; and there isn't any. So we must sit on our hands and wait until someone comes forward to identify her, if anyone does."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Holmes. "Perhaps the woman herself has more evidence to offer than you think. Although for once I'm forced to agree that your garment here offers very little scope for deduction."
. . .
Captain Vorpatril's AllianceChapter One
Ivan’s door buzzer sounded at close to Komarran midnight, just when he was unwinding enough from lingering jump lag, his screwed-up diurnal rhythm, and the day’s labors to consider sleep. He growled under his breath and trod unwillingly to answer it.
His instincts proved correct when he saw who waited in the aperture.
“Oh, God. Byerly Vorrutyer. Go away.”
“Hi, Ivan,” said Byerly smoothly, ignoring Ivan’s anti-greeting. “May I come in?”
Ivan took about a second to consider the, at best, complicated possibilities Byerly usually trailed in his wake, and said simply, “No.” But he’d hesitated too long. Byerly slipped inside. Ivan sighed, letting the door slide closed and seal. So far from home, it was good to see a familiar face—just not By’s. Next time, use the security screen, and pretend not to be here, eh?
Byerly padded swiftly across the small but choice living quarters of Ivan’s downtown Solstice luxury flat, rentals by the week. Ivan had picked it out for its potential proximity to Solstice nightlife, which, alas, he had so far not had a chance to sample. Pausing at the broad glass doors to the balcony, Byerly dimmed the polarization on the seductive view of the glittering lights of the capital city. Dome, Ivan corrected his thought to Komarran nomenclature, as the arcology existed under a hodgepodge of seals to keep the toxic planetary atmosphere out and the breathable one in. Byerly pulled the drapes as well, and turned back to the room.
Yielding to a curiosity he knew he would regret, Ivan asked, “What the hell are you doing on Komarr, By? Isn’t this off your usual beat?”
Byerly grimaced. “Working.”
Indeed, an experienced observer, which Ivan unfortunately was, could detect a distinct strain around By’s eyes, along with the redness from drink and perhaps recreational chemicals. Byerly cultivated the authentic look of a Barrayaran high Vor town clown given over to a life of dissolution and idle vice by actually living it, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent, and most of his hidden income, came from his work as an informer for Imperial Security. And ninety percent of that was just more dissolution and vice, except for having to turn in reports at the end. The residue, Ivan had to concede, could get dicey.
Ratting out your friends to ImpSec for money, Ivan had once heckled By, to which By had shrugged and replied, And the greater glory of the Imperium. Don’t forget that.
Ivan wondered which it was tonight.
In reflexive response to the manners drilled into him in his youth, Ivan offered, “Something to drink? Beer, wine? Something stronger?” He contemplated By’s boneless flop onto his living room couch. “Coffee?”
“Just water. Please. I need to clear my head, and then I need to sleep.”
Ivan went to his tidy kitchenette and filled a tumbler. As he handed it to his unwelcome guest, By said, “And what are you doing in Solstice, Ivan?”
By’s open hand invited him to expand.
Ivan sat across from him and said, “Trailing my boss, who is here for an Ops conference with his assorted counterparts and underlings. Efficiently combined with the annual Komarr Fleet inspections. All the excitement of a tax inventory, except in dress uniform.” Belatedly, Ivan realized By had to already know all this. He’d found Ivan, hadn’t he? Because By’s random social calls, weren’t.
“Still working for Admiral Desplains?”
“Yep. Aide-de-camp, secretary, personal assistant, general dogsbody, whatever he needs. I aim to make myself indispensable.”
“And still ducking promotion, are you, Captain Vorpatril?”
“Yes. And succeeding, no thanks to you.”
By smirked. “They say that at Imperial Service Headquarters, the captains bring the coffee.”
“That’s right. And I like it that way.” Ivan only wished it were true. It seemed barely months ago, though it was over a year, that the latest flare-up of tensions with Barrayar’s most traditional enemy, the Cetagandan Empire, had pinned Ivan to military headquarters 26.7 hours a Barrayaran day for weeks on end, sweating out all the most horrific possibilities. Designing death in detail. War had been averted through non-traditional diplomacy, mostly on the part of Barrayaran emperor Gregor’s weaseliest Imperial Auditor and, to give credit where it was due, his wife.
That time. There was always a next time.
. . .
The Drowntown day market was in full spate. Fawn’s nostrils flared at the strong smells: fish, clams, critters with twitching legs like giant crawdads packed in seaweed; frying funnel cakes, boiling crabs, dried fruit, cheeses; piles of used clothing not well laundered; chickens, goats, sheep, horses. Mixed with it all, the damp tang of the river Gray, stretching so wide its farther shore became a flat blur in the winter morning light.
The lead-colored water shimmered in silence beyond the bright busy blot of folks collected under the bluffs that divided Graymouth’s Uptown from its noisier-and, Fawn had to admit, more noisome- riverside. The muddy banks were lined with flatboats at the ends of their journeys, keelboats preparing new starts, and fishing and coastal vessels that came and went more in rhythm with the still-ten-milesdistant sea than with the river’s moods. The streets dodged crookedly around goods-sheds, rivermen’s taverns, and shacks-all built of dismantled flatboats, or, in some cases, not dismantled but drawn ashore intact on rollers by oxen and allowed to settle into the soil. The owners of the latter claimed to be all ready for the next flood that would try, and fail, to wash the smells and mess of Drowntown out to sea, while Uptown looked down dry-skirted. It seemed a strange way to live. How had she ever thought of the rocky creek at the foot of her family’s farm back north as a river?
Fawn shoved her basket up her arm, nudged her companion Remo, and pointed. “Look! There’s some new Lakewalkers here this morning!”
At the other end of the square, where all the bigger animals were displayed by their hopeful owners, two women and a man tended a string of half a dozen leggy horses. The three all wore Lakewalker dress: riding trousers, sturdy boots, shirts and leather vests and jackets, not so different in kind from the farmers around them, yet somehow distinctive. More distinctive was their hair, worn long in decorated braids, their height, and their air of discomfort to be surrounded by so many people who weren’t Lakewalkers. Upon reflection, Fawn wondered if anyone else here realized the standoffishness was discomfort, or if they only thought it high-nosed disdain. She would have seen it that way, once.
“Mm,” said Remo unenthusiastically. “I suppose you want to go talk to them?”
“Of course.” Fawn dragged him toward the far end of the market.
The man pulled a horse out of the string and held it for a farmer, who bent and ran his hands over its legs. The two young women looked toward Fawn and Remo as they approached; their eyes widened a bit at Remo, whose height, clothes, and long black braid also proclaimed him a Lakewalker patroller. Did their groundsenses reached out to touch the stranger-kinsman, or did they keep them closed against the painful ground noise of the surrounding farmers?
The southern Lakewalkers Fawn had seen so far tended to lighter skin and hair than their northern cousins, and these two were no exception. The taller woman-girl-she seemed not so very much older than Fawn, anyhow-had hair in a single thick plait as tawny as a bobcat pelt. Her silvery-blue eyes were bright in her fine-boned face.
The shorter woman had red-brown braids wreathing her head, and coppery eyes in a round face dusted with freckles. Fawn thought they might be patrol partners, like Remo and Barr; they seemed unlikely to be sisters.
. . .
UPD Релиз обновлен 16.09.2015
Добавлена новая повесть Penric's Demon (2015 г.), входящая в цикл Curse of ChalionНе жилим спасибо. Не забываем голосовать за трекер!!!
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