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

"Fitzraven, sir."
"Do you know the Code?"
"I know the Code, sir."
Retief stared at him, studying his face, his neatly cut uniform of traditional Imperial green,
the old but well-oiled leather of his belt and boots.
"Lower your shield, Fitzraven," he said. "You're engaged." He swung down from his horse.
"The first thing I want is care for my mount. His name is Danger-by-Night. And then I want an
inn for myself."
"I'll care for the horse myself, Commander," Fitzraven said. "And the Commander will find
good lodging at the sign of the Phoenix-in-Dexter-Chief; quarters are held ready for my client."
The squire took the bridle, pointing toward the inn a few doors away.
 ***
Two hours later, Retief came back to the stall, a thirty-two-ounce steak and a bottle of
Nouveau Beaujolais having satisfied a monumental appetite induced by the long ride down from
the spaceport north of Fragonard. The plain banner he had carried in his saddlebag fluttered now
from the staff above the stall. He moved through the narrow room to a courtyard behind, and
stood in the doorway watching as Fitzraven curried the dusty hide of the lean black horse. The
saddle and fittings were laid out on a heavy table, ready for cleaning. There was clean straw in
the stall where the horse stood, and an empty grain bin and water bucked indicated the animal
had been well fed and watered.
Retief nodded to the squire, and strolled around the courtyard staring up at the deep blue sky
of early evening above the irregular line of roofs and chimneys, noting the other squires, the
variegated mounts stabled here, listening to the hubbub of talk, the clatter of crockery from the
kitchen of the inn. Fitzraven finished his work and came over to his new employer.
"Would the Commander like to sample the night life in the Grand Corrida?"
"Not tonight," Retief said. "Let's go up to my quarters; I want to learn a little more about what
to expect."
Retief's room, close under the rafters on the fourth floor of the inn, was small but adequate,
with a roomy wardrobe and a wide bed. The contents of his saddlebags were already in place in
the room.
Retief looked around. "Who gave you permission to open my saddlebags?"
Fitzraven flushed slightly. "I thought the Commander would wish to have them unpacked," he
said stiffly.
"I looked at the job the other squires were doing on their horses," Retief said. "You were the
only one who was doing a proper job of tending the animal. Why the special service?"
"I was trained by my father," Fitzraven said. "I serve only true knights, and I perform my
duties honorably. If the Commander is dissatisfied . . ."
"How do you know I'm a true knight?"
"The Commander wears the uniform and weapons of one of the oldest Imperial Guards Battle
Units, the Iron Dragon," Fitzraven said. "And the Commander rides a battle horse, true-bred."
"How do you know I didn't steal them?"
Fitzraven grinned suddenly. "They fit the Commander too well."
Retief smiled. "All right, son, you'll do," he said. "Now brief me on the First Day. I don't want
to miss anything. And you may employ the personal pronoun."
For an hour Fitzraven discussed the order of events for the elimination contests of the First
Day of the Tournament of the Lily, the strategies that a clever contender could employ to
husband his strength, the pitfalls into which the unwary might fall.
The tournament was the culmination of a year of smaller contests held throughout the
equatorial chain of populated islands. The Northroyalans had substituted various forms of armed
combat for the sports practiced on most worlds; a compensation for the lost empire, doubtless, a