Cloven Hooves. Megan Lindholm
Читать онлайн.| Название | Cloven Hooves |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Megan Lindholm |
| Жанр | Зарубежное фэнтези |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Зарубежное фэнтези |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008363956 |
CLOVEN HOOVES
Megan Lindholm
Who also writes as
Robin Hobb
HarperVoyager
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1993
Copyright © Megan Lindholm Ogden 1991
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover illustration © Jackie Morris
Robin Hobb writing as Megan Lindholm asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008287399
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008363956
Version: 2019-06-07
‘Hobb is one of the great modern fantasy writers … As addictive as morphine’
The Times
‘A little slice of heaven’
The Guardian
‘The feelings of anguish, ambiguity, fear and failure [in her novels] are as familiar as those in a novel by Jonathan Franzen’
Independent on Sunday
‘Hobb is always readable. But the elegant translucence of her prose is deceptive … That is the ambition of high art. The novelists in any genre are rare who achieve it with Hobb’s combination of accessibility and moral authority’
Sunday Telegraph
‘A series that recalls HBO’s Game of Thrones, and The Lord of the Rings’
The Telegraph
‘In today’s crowded fantasy market Robin Hobb’s books are like diamonds in a sea of zircons’
George R.R. Martin
‘Hobb is superb, spinning wonderful characters and plots from pure imagination’
Conn Iggulden
‘Magic is the word. Absolutely riveting’
Barbara Erskine
‘Hobb seamlessly blends intrigue, action and characters who feel so real that they become more than words on a page’
SFX
‘Glorious and beautiful storytelling from Robin Hobb’
SciFi Now
Contents
Copyright
Praise
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
About the Author
By Robin Hobb
About the Publisher
In Flight
11 March 1976
I turn away from staring out the window, lean over to check my child in the seat beside me. There’s nothing to see out there, anyway. Outside the oval airplane window, a night sky jets soundlessly by. Overcast covers all but a few stars. Nothing to keep my mind from chewing on itself. Inside is the sound of the engines, of the tiny seat fans whirring as they stir the stale air. Rows of red upholstered seat backs, backs of heads. Most of the overhead seat lights are off. Tiny airline blankets are tucked around the shoulders of some dozing passengers. Others read newspapers and magazines, smoke, or talk softly to seatmates. A few drink industriously. Nothing in here to keep my mind busy, either.
Teddy is asleep. He had asked for the window seat, and of course we had given it to him, even though we knew there would be little to see on this night flight from Fairbanks, Alaska, to the Sea-Tac Airport in Washington. Still, he got to watch the tower and runway lights vanish away beneath us, caught a brief glimpse of the lights of some little town down there a while later. Then he used the airplane’s bathroom twice, giggled over finding the barf bag in the seat pocket, got a coloring book and crayons and plastic pilot wings from a stewardess, colored for a while, and got bored and wiggled for a while. And now, finally, he is asleep. I carefully move his copy of Sendak’s Where