"Keith Laumer - Retief !" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

night.
***
With his master breathing heavily in a profound sleep, the squire went down to the common
room and found a table at the back, ordered a mug of strong ale, and sat alone, thinking.
This was a strange one he had met this year. He had seen at once that he was no idler from
some high-pressure world, trying to lose himself in a fantasy of the old days. And no more was
he a Northroyalan; there was a grim force in him, a time-engraved stamp of power that was alien
to the neat well-ordered little world. And yet there was no doubt that there was more in him of
the true Cavalier than in a Fragonard-born courtier. He was like some ancient warrior noble from
the days of the greatness of the Empire. By the two heads, the old man was strange, and terrible
in anger!
Fitzraven listened to the talk around him.
"I was just above," a blacksmith at the next table was saying. "He gutted the fellow with the
lash! It was monstrous! I'm glad I'm not one of the fools who want to play at warrior. Imagine
having your insides drawn out by a rope of dirty leather!"
"The games have to be tougher now," said another. "We've lain dormant here for two
centuries, waiting for something to comeтАФsome thing to set us on our way again to power and
wealth. . . ."
"Thanks, I'd rather go on living quietly as a smith and enjoying a few of the simple
pleasuresтАФthere was no glory in that fellow lying in the dirt with his belly torn open, you can be
sure of that."
"There'll be more than torn bellies to think about, when we mount a battle fleet for Grimwold
and Tania," said another.
"The Emperor has returned," snapped the warlike one. "Shall we hang back where he leads?"
The smith muttered. "His is a tortured genealogy, by my judgment. I myself trace my ancestry
by three lines into the old Palace at Lily."
"So do we all. All the more reason we should support our Emperor."
"We live well here; we have no quarrel with other worlds. Why not leave the past to itself?"
"Our Emperor leads; we will follow. If you disapprove, enter the Lily Tournament next year
and win a high place; then your advice will be respected."
"No thanks. I like my insides to stay on the inside."
Fitzraven thought of Retief. The old man had said that he held his rank in his own right, citing
no genealogy. That was strange indeed. The Emperor had turned up only a year ago, presenting
the Robe, the Ring, the Seal, the crown jewels, and the Imperial Book which traced his descent
through five generations from the last reigning Emperor of the Old Empire.
How could it be that Retief held a commission in his own right, dated no more than thirty
years ago? And the rank of Battle Commander. That was a special rank, Fitzraven remembered, a
detached rank for a distinguished noble and officer of proven greatness, assigned to no one unit,
but dictating his own activities.
Either Retief was a fraud . . . but Fitzraven pictured the old man, his chiseled features that
time had not disguised, his soldier's bearing, his fantastic strength, his undoubtedly authentic
equipage. Whatever the explanation, he was a true knight. That was enough.
***
Retief awoke refreshed, and ravenous. A great rare steak and a giant tankard of autumn ale
were ready on the table. He ate, ordered more and ate again. Then he stretched, shook himself, no
trace of yesterday's fatigue remaining. His temper was better, too, he realized. He was getting too
old to exhaust himself.
"It's getting late, Fitzraven," he said. "Let's be going."
They arrived at the arena and took their places in the official box in time to watch the first
event, a cautious engagement with swords.