"Mark S. Geston - Lords Of The Starship" - читать интересную книгу автора (Geston Mark S)

I


Sir Henry Limpkin's head servant had brought him word of the proposed
meeting at a little past midnight; he had been fully awake when the man
entered and thus did not fly into his customary rage. An Office of
Reconstruction officer treasures his sleep as some do pearls, but tonight it
was not to be had.
When he was told that General Toriman's batman had brought a summons to
his residence, he had slipped out of his smoking jacket and into a warm sports
coat even before the servant had returned with his greatcoat and boots.
A hansom cab was called, and Limpkin left as soon as it arrived at his
doorstep, leaving word that Lady Limpkin was not to be disturbed and that she
should not worry if he did not return by morning.
Normally it is about a twenty-minute drive to General Toriman's castle
on the slopes of Mount Royal, but the icy slush slowed the cab's horse
considerably. In the half hour that it took to reach his destination, Limpkin
had a chance to think, his concentration broken only by an occasional curse
from the freeziflg driver above and the hard thump of the iron-shod wheels
hitting a pothole.
After some ten minutes of driving they came to the city walls, were
identified, and passed through, leaving the North Gate behind. They took the
seldom-used River Road that curves off to the northwest just past the northern
extremity of the walls; after a bit of fast trotting, Limpkin could spot the
lights of Caltroon against the hulking immensity of Mount Royal.
Limpkin dismissed the cab at the castle's main gate (being careful to
generously tip the frozen driver) and rang for admittance. "Your business,
sir?" called a voice from the high battlements. Limpkin looked up but all he
could discern were three flagpoles: to the right, Toriman's personal flag with
the family coat of arms; to the left, the regimental banner of the 42nd
Imperial Hussars, Toriman's unit before he retired, with a tangle of battle
streamers flying above it; and in the center, the black and silver of the
Caroline Republic. "Sir Henry Limpkin to see General Toriman, as requested,"
he shouted at the bodiless voice.
A small door opened on Limpkin's left; a man appeared with a lantern and
a polite, "Follow me, if you please, sir?"
Limpkin was led across the icy courtyard through Caltroon's second wall,
past the now lifeless formal gardens, and finally into the Great Keep.
Caltroon's history could be traced back almost seven hundred years to
the time when it had been but a small, fortified outpost of a forgotten
empire. Since then at least thirty nations and a hundred great men had added
walls, fortifications, towers, and, five hundred years after Caltroon's birth,
the Great Keep.
It was a place of great antiquity, where the inherited relics of a
thousand defeated nations lay, where crossbowmen of Toriman's personal guard
patrolled over stone-filled shafts, housing the rusting shells of ballistic
missiles six centuries old. The Toriman coat of arms, brought from distant
Mourne with its mailed fist and winged horse, hung beside those of the
greatest men that ever strode the World in those pathetic days. Everywhere one
looked, his eye would alight upon the beautiful or the awesome, never anything