"Dave Duncan - Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

the plains, riding the giant thermals of the desert, risking immense changes
in
altitude, which could bring on sky sickness, crippling or even killing. The
desert was very much against Guard regulations. The desert was death.
"Six hours?" the commander muttered. The surrounding troopers were
pursing
lips and exchanging looks.
"Well?" Pontly barked. "Why did you delay so long after you received the
writ?"
"Court dress, my lord," Sald said desperately. He tried to explain
quickly
that he did not own court dress. Only the nobility ever needed it. Boots,
hose,
breeches, doublet, cloak, plumed hat--some of those he had scrounged from
neighbors in a hasty flight around the local manors and castles, and the rest
his father had rummaged out of the attics. But the coat of arms--his mother
and
sisters had worked all through third watch, while the rest of the world was
abed, sewing, embroidering, cutting, and stitching.
"Why would His Majesty summon a--a mere ensign in the Guard to an
Investiture?" the commander asked softly.
That was a very good question, and Sald would dearly have loved to know
the
answer. He could not expect an honor or a title or an award, certainly;
therefore he must have been called for an appointment of some sort. The
courier
had told Sald all he knew. The Investiture had been a surprise to the whole
court, but Prince Shadow was dead, killed by a wild in the line of duty. His
most probable replacement was Count Moarien. That would leave a vacancy in
the
king's bodyguard...and so on. Obviously the required shuffle had turned out
to
be large enough to justify a General Investiture, and when everyone had
rolled
one place up the bed, there was going to be a gap at the bottom, some very
humble slot into which Ensign Sald Harl would apparently fit. Assistant
Bearer
of the Royal Chamber Pot, perhaps?
Pontly looked at the commander. The commander looked at Pontly.
"I think he might just make it, my lord, on wheels."
His lordship's mustache curled in anger. Reluctantly he nodded: His prey
was
going to escape him. The couriers were evidently not at fault, and if there
was
a court-martial, then he might be asked why he had delayed the accused.
"Get him there!" he barked.
The next passing landau was halted, and its protesting occupant summarily
evicted. Sald Harl went roaring off along the avenue, wheels drumming on the
paving, hooves clattering, coachman's whip snapping, and pedestrians bounding
to