"David Drake - General 01 - The Forge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

was as much a badge of nobleman's rank as was the saber he carried slung over one shoulder. Both
were as familiar as his clothes; Whitehall had been born in Descott County, hard country two weeks'
journey north of the capital, where men went armed from puberty. The platinum stars and hunting scenes
inlaid in the steel of the revolver were a badge as well, of membership in the Governor's Guard.

"Spirit of Man of the Stars," Raj said, and touched the silver wafer etched in holy circuits that
hung around his neck. "This place makes my skin crawl." Everyone knew the catacombs under New
Residence were ancient and huge . . . but those were just words until you saw it. This complex could
house the whole population of the capital, with room to spare—and New Residence was the largest city
on Earth.
"Not a spot for a picnic," Poplanich agreed.
The abandoned elevator shaft he had found below his apartments ended in this floor of rubble;
from the hollow sounds and the way it shifted, there must have been levels below. Rust-streaks marked
the lines of ancient machinery. Now there was only the cool gray surface of fused stone, and one
half-open door . . . no, wait.

"Look at this," Poplanich said. He walked quickly over the broken rock and flicked his lantern's
beam downward, moving with a studied grace. "That hasn't been here since the Fall."

It was a tallow candle stub, resting in a congealed puddle of its own grease. There was a
smokemark above it, but dust lay thick over all.

"But it's been there long enough," Raj commented, trying the door. It was frozen in its half-open
position, but there was just room for his barrel chest. "Hand me the paintstick, will you, Thom?"
They would need to be very careful not to lose their way, down here in the catacombs. He
touched his wafer again. Everything around them was a product of men who had lived before the Fall,
when the Spirit of Man of the Stars had infused their souls. You could see it in the way the rock was
carved, seamless and even, in the strange bits and pieces of shattered machinery, the very materials
unfamiliar. There might even be . . .
 "If we come across any computers, we'll have to tell the priests," he said.
Thom laughed. "They don't need genuine relics any more," he said with easy cynicism. "Haven't
you heard what the last synod ruled about the Miraculous Multiplication?"
Raj flushed; they were both just turned twenty-five, but there were times when Thom Poplanich
made him feel very much the raw youth, a rustic squire in from the provinces. Even in tweed and leather
hunting clothes, the other man had a slim self-assured elegance that spoke often generations of urban
aristocracy. Raj touched his amulet again. It was comforting to know that this was the genuine article,
recovered two centuries ago and blessed by Saint Wu herself. Even if the Church had ruled that belief
made the relic holy, rather than the reverse.
He forced himself into the door and pushed with knees and hands, back braced against the wall.
For a long moment nothing moved, until he took a deep breath and threw the strength of shoulders and
back into it, timing the contraction to the exhalation of his breath the way the family armsman had taught.
A seam parted along the side of his tight uniform jacket, and the thick slab slid open with a protesting
screech of tearing metal. Raj dropped to the floor in a crouch, panting slightly.

"Showoff," Thom said as he sidled past. There was surprise and slight envy in his tone; his friend
grinned.
"A strong back comes in useful for other things than pulling a plow," he said, raising his own
lantern. "Let's keep turning to the right."

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