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

safety. Sald leaned back, clutching his bouncing bundle, sweat still running
down his ribs. He looked at the commander, who had boarded beside him.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
He knew the commander also. An elderly man, close to retirement, he
lectured
on pathfinding in Training School; Sald had flown with him a few times. He
was
studying Sald now with a quizzical expression. "How many hops?" he demanded.
"About twelve, sir," Sald said uneasily.
"And who chose the thermals--you or your mount?"
"I did, sir."
The commander hung on tight as the landau went around a corner. He looked
thoroughly disbelieving. "Six hours from Rakarr?"
Sald hoped that his face was already red enough that a blush would not
show.
"Er...I did let him give me a few hints, sir."
The commander shook his head angrily. "I warned you about that a dozen
times, Harl! And just because he didn't kill you this time, don't think he
won't
try in future!" He scowled. Then he smiled admiringly. "Six hours, huh?"
"More or less, sir," Sald said.
It had been much closer to five.
He made it with minutes to spare, reeling into the robing room with his
bundle, heart thundering and the inside of his head hammering like a smithy.
The room was packed with nobility being groomed and preened in front of
mirrors by teams of valets. The only space he could find was next to an
elderly
and obese duke, whose cloak was being arranged by his attendant as though it
were a priceless and timeless masterpiece of sculpture. Sald started to
strip,
ignoring both amusement and disapproval among the onlookers. Full court dress
was not designed to be put on without assistance; tight hose would not pull
over
sweaty legs. He grabbed a passing page, a spotty youth a full head taller
than
himself, and ordered him to fasten the buttons on the back of his coat.
Then he crumpled his flying suit into a bundle and stuffed it behind the
mirror and looked at himself.
 It was even worse than he had imagined, from antique boots and wrinkled
hose
all the way up to tousled curls and a hat which fortunately he need only
carry,
as it fell over his ears if he tried to wear it. And the coat of arms--not
all
the red in his face was from hurry. The workmanship would probably pass, but
the
heraldry it displayed was ludicrous in this company: He had only two
quarterings. The fat duke next to him had at least thirty, his coat a
kaleidoscope of minute armorial symbols, an ancestry stretching from the Holy
Ark itself.