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

inlay. The horsehair crest on the helmet was scarlet. Legate Ugoatho had been
promoted.
"Congratulations. Was I responsible for that?"
The new marshal of the armies had a grim chuckle. "Partly. I was told to bring
you at once, but nobody said anything about passengers."
"Passengers?"
Ugoatho wrinkled his nose. "Wash him!" he snapped. He spun around and headed for
the door.
The court was still in mourning for Emshandar IV Statues and pictures were
draped in black crepe. The corridors and halls were almost deserted, and spooky
in scanty candlelight. Apart from that, the palace seemed eerily normal. There
were no dwarves in sight. Guards, secretaries, footmen ... mercifully few
spectators saw Lord Umpily being conducted to the imperial presence.
The clothes that had been found for him were absurdly tight. He could not fasten
the doublet, and he was certain things would rip if he tried to sit down. His
escort of Praetorian Guards could have no inkling that they served an imposter.
Umpily would be dismissed as a raving lunatic if he ever tried to explain that
the imperor he was being taken to see was not Shandie, but his cousin Prince
Emthoro, sorcerously disguised.
In silence the prisoner was conducted across the great expanse of the Throne
Room, deserted and huge. There was no sign of Marshal Ugoatho. The usual
challenges and responses were proclaimed, all very normal, and then the big door
swung open, and Umpily was ushered through into the Cabinet.
This part of the palace dated from the XVth Dynasty. The Throne Room was for
show, the Cabinet was the inner sanctum. A score of imperors had ruled the world
from this room. Emshandar had sat at that great desk for half a century, and his
grandson had ruled there for half a year as unofficial regent in the old man's
last decline. He had never had a chance to sit there in his own right as
Emshandar V.
Defiance! Umpily thought. I know he is a fraud, and he knows I know it. I will
be true to my loyalties. I will not concede.
The door closed. The big room was scented by the beeswax candles burning over
the desk. Heavy, soft shadows outside their oasis of golden light could not
conceal the opulence of the chamber-fine carved woods, fabrics of silk. Peat
smoldered in the hearth, adding its friendly odor to the candles'. The fake
imperor was alone, sitting at the desk, head resting on a hand, studying one of
the endless papers that flowed into this center of power. In a moment he marked
his place with a finger and looked up.
It was Shandie!
For a moment he seemed tired, and worried. Then a slow, familiar smile of
welcome spread over the nondescript features. He sprang to his feet.
"Umpy!"
Umpily's heart twisted in his chest. His eyelids prickled. Shandie-the real
Shandie, Umpily reminded himself-the real Shandie had not used that foolish
diminutive in ten years. Back when he had been an awkward, friendless
adolescent, yes. Never since then.
Umpily hinted a bow. "Your Maj-Highness."
The fake Shandie winced. "Lord Umpily, then. What in the Name of Evil have they
told you?" He strode over, with Shandie's urgent walk. He spread his arms, as if
to embrace his visitor, then peered anxiously at him. "You're all right? Believe