"03 - The Stricken Field 1.0." - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

twice a week. He had passed the time mostly in thinking of some of the great
banquets he had attended in his time, mulling them over in his mind, dish by
dish. When he had exhausted even that fund of entertainment, he began reviewing
all his favorite recipes, planning the perfect meal, the one he would arrange in
celebration were he ever to be restored to court and a normal existence again.
The mental torment was much worse than the physical. He was no stranger to
hardship. As advisor to the prince imperial, he had journeyed with Shandie to
almost every corner of the Impire, living in the saddle for weeks on end,
bedding in army camp or hedgerow hostel. He had survived forests and deserts,
blizzards and breakers-he had never tasted anything worse than this prison
gruel, though. At least on those expeditions he had understood why he was there
and what he was doing. Life had made sense then, and even if warfare itself
sometimes seemed nonsensical, there had always been the consolation that he was
helping a future imperor learn his trade.
He wondered how Shandie was managing now, deposed and dispossessed within
minutes of his accession, a hunted outlaw battling omnipotent sorcery.
Ironically, when Legate Ugoatho arrested Umpily, he had not ordered him
searched, and the magic scroll still nestled safely in the inside pocket of his
doublet. Writing in the dark was trickier than he had expected, but he had
scrawled a warning that his spying days were ended. Disregard future
communications! He could not tell if Shandie had received the message or had
replied.
Always Umpily's thoughts would return to the dread vision he had seen in the
preflecting pool. That prophecy had been fulfilled. A dwarf now sat on the Opal
Throne. After more than three thousand years the Impire had fallen, and almost
no one knew it. With its immense occult power, the Covin had overthrown the
Protocol, deposed the wardens, replaced the imperor, and yet had managed to hide
the truth from the world. The sorcerous would know the secret, of course, or
most of it-practically all of them had been conscripted into the Covin
anyway-but no mundanes did, except for a tiny handful. Zinixo undoubtedly
intended to keep his triumph secret indefinitely. What would he do to those who
knew it?
Umpily was about to find out. Light flickered outside the spy hole, chains
rattled, the lock squeaked.
Blinded by the lanterns, he was dragged along a corridor and up a flight of
stairs. When the cruel hands were removed, he toppled limply to a bare plank
floor.
"Oh, you needn't be so formal," said an odious, familiar voice.
Umpily forced himself to his hands and knees. Squinting, he made out a pair of
smart military sandals in front of him, and shiny greaves above them. "How
long?" he croaked. "How long have I been in there?"
"A little more than a day."
Aghast, Umpily registered the reflection on the polished bronze before him.
Thinned down by the curvature until it seemed narrow and bony, his own face
stared back at him. It wore no beard. He felt his chin and found only stubble.
One day?
"The imperor wants to see you," Ugoatho said. "Can you stand?"
Grimly, grunting with the. effort, Umpily heaved his bulk upright. His eyes were
adjusting, even if his mind would not. Swaying, he stared at the hard, hateful
face of Legate . . . no, not Legate. His cuirass was set with gems and gold