"David Drake - General 03 - The Anvil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

marching Raj away, while the leveled rifles of more kept Suzette
Whitehall and Raj's men stock-still --
-- and Raj stood in a prisoner's breechclout and chains before a
tribunal of three judges in ceremonial jumpsuits and bubble helmets --
-- and he sat bound to an iron chair, as the glowing rods came closer
and closer to his eyes --

***
Raj sighed. "That might have happened, yes. According to Center, and I
don't doubt it myself. I was a little . . . apprehensive . . . about
something like that. I'm not any more; the Army grapevine has been
pretty conclusive. In fact, when the Levee is held this afternoon, I'm
confident of getting another major command."
"The Western Territories?'
"How did you guess?"
"Even Barholm isn't crazy enough to try conquering the Colony. Yet."
"Yes." Raj nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "The problem is,
he's probably too suspicious to give me enough men to actually do it."
Thom blinked again. Raj has changed, he thought. The young man he had
known had been ambitious -- dreaming of beating back a major raid
from the Colony, say, out on the eastern frontier. This weathered
young-old commander was casually confident of overrunning the second
most powerful realm on the Middle Sea, given adequate backing. The
Brigade had held the Western Territories for nearly six hundred years.
They were almost civilized . . . for barbarians. Odd to think that they
were descendants of Federation troops stranded in the Base Area after
the Fall.
"Barholm," Raj went on with clinical detachment -- sounding almost
like Center, for a moment -- "thinks that either I'll fail -- "
observe, Center said.

***
Dead men gaped around a smashed cannon. The Starburst banner of the
Civil Government of Holy Federation draped over some of the bodies,
mercifully. Raj crawled forward, the stump of his left arm tattered and
red, still dribbling blood despite the improvised tourniquet. His right
just touched the grip of his revolver as the Brigade warrior reined in
his riding dog and stood in the stirrups to jam the lance downward into
his back. Again, and again . . .

***
" -- or I'll succeed, and he can deal with me then." observe, Center
said.

***
Raj Whitehall stood by the punchbowl at a reception; Thom Poplanich
recognized the Upper Promenade of the palace by the tall windows and
the checkerboard pavement of the terrace beyond. Brilliant gaslight
shone on couples swirling below the chandeliers in the formal patters
of court dance; on bright uniforms and decorations, on the ladies'