"David Drake - The General 7 - The Reformer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

from him, his mantle falling back, exposing the hard muscle of his chest and
arm, tanned to the color of old beechwood. It made the corn-gold of his hair
more vivid as it spilled down his back; a rare color for an Emerald, and the
only thing besides blue eyes he and his brother had in common physically.
I'm weedy, in fact, Adrian thought. Short, at least, and only middling competent
in the athletic part of the two-year course of Cadet training every well-born
Solingian youth had to take when he turned eighteen. Once it had been
preparation for military service, but that had ceased to be important long ago,
in his great-grandfather's time, when the Confederacy's armies had conquered the
Emerald lands.
The servants brought in another two jugs of wine, yard-high things with double
looping handles and pointed bottoms. They splashed into the great bulbous mixer;
light from the oil lamps flickered on the cheerful feasting scene painted across
its ruddy pottery. Not much like tonight's memorial dinner; no flute-girls or
dancers or acrobats here, since it wouldn't be seemly. His father hadn't hired
such for most of his parties. These things are for men with no conversation. He
smiled slightly, remembering the deep gravel voice and the face weathered by
twenty years of sea weather and spray.
"Excuse me," he murmured. Three parts wine to one of water now, and the talk
grew louder.
The garden was warm and still, starlight and two of the moons showing the brick
pathways between beds of herbs and flowers. Not very large, only fifty paces on
a side, but tall cypress trees stood around the perimeter wall, throwing pools
of stygian blackness. The pool and fountain shone silver; he could see the
mouths and tentacles of the ornamental swimmers breaking the surface, hoping for
a few crumbs of bread as he passed. Down towards the end of the garden was a
little pergola, an archway of withes covered in a flowering vine, with a stone
seat beneath and a mask of the Goddess in Her aspect as patron of wisdom set in
the wall behind.
The most private place in the house. Outside the womens' rooms, and from the
noise coming from those, the female side of the party was getting more lively
than the mens'. He'd often come to this bench to read, meditate and think.
"If you wish to speakЧif you are more than the imaginings of my mindЧthen
speak," he murmured.
it is not necessary to vocalize your thoughts, the cold, relentless voice in his
head replied. It felt . . . heavy, as if it were packing more meaning into the
forms than the words could properly carry. merely articulate them internally.
He did so, not an easy task . . . but then, he'd trained himself to read without
speaking, or even moving his lips, an uncommon skill even among scholars.
Who are you?
We, the other voice replied, the voice of the strange dark man. I am Raj
Whitehall, and my . . . companion is Center. I'm . . . I was a man, on another
world. Center is a computer.
Despite the utter strangeness, Adrian's dark brows drew together at the last
word. Computer. It wasn't one he was familiar with, but in the Scrolls of the
Lady's Prophet there was a remote cognate . . .
A daemonic spirit? he thought. Interesting. I thought those superstition. And
you are a ghost, you say?
A mental sigh. Not exactly. Let me start at the beginning. Human beings are not
native to this world . . .