"01 - The Cutting Edge 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

the centurion was unlacing one of his own sandals, the man had removed it and
placed it in front of Ylo's bare foot. Ylo stepped into it. The big ox even
fastened it for him-no matter how muddy and bloody he might be, a signifer must
not go into a legate's presence barefoot if there was a spare shoe around.
Ylo said, "Thanks," again as the centurion rose.
Without as much as a nod, the tree shifted his roots and eased out of Ylo's way.
Ylo dragged himself as far as the tent and then into its scented dimness. The
walls were made of purple silk. He had not seen silk in two years. Carpets.
Furniture. A smell of soap.
There were at least a dozen men there, most in uniform, some not. As he entered,
the muttered greetings were ending, the condolences and congratulations. He
sensed the roiling dark mood-victory, but oh, the price! Triumph and loss.
Heartbreak and joy. Relief and sorrow. The legate's cousin was but one of many
not destined to share the victory.
Carpets. Iron-banded chests. There was one chair, and as Ylo arrived, the legate
sat down wearily, glanced in his direction, and raised a foot.
This time the reaction came faster, fortunately. Ylo limped forward and removed
the prince imperial's boots.
Then he stepped back, and the tent fell silent. He felt the eyes on him. The
stranger. The newcomer. The usurper.
His cousin!
These were the prince's battle companions. Some might have been with him since
Creslee, and most would have been with him at Highscarp and on the bloody field
of Fain. Now one of their number had fallen and here was the replacement.
Not a cousin. Not an aristocrat. A common legionary-or so they would assume.
And Ylo was staring at those hateful imperial features. The prince had removed
his helmet. His face was a motley of mud and clean patches, his hair a sweaty
tangle. Physically he was nothing special, but his eyes burned like black fire.
Twenty-six years old, and the man the army worshipped.
On his lap was a folded wolfskin. His cousin's cape. So? One cousin. This man
murdered my whole family. "Your name?"
"Ylo, sir. Third cohort, XXth Legion."
"You have done well. Imperial Star, Second Class."
"Thank you, sir. "
"And signifer, of course?" Pause. Would the upstart dare? "Thank you, sir. "
The onlookers rustled, like dry grass when something prowls. The prince nodded
sadly. His hand lay strangely still on the wolfskin. "By tradition, the honor is
yours." He glanced at the others. "The XIIth has a new signifer, gentlemen."
Revenge! Close. Dark night. Knife in the ribs ...
Then, those imperial eyes-imperious eyes-slashed back at Ylo. The legate seemed
vaguely puzzled, as if seeing or hearing something not quite right.
"Service? "
"Two years, sir." More hesitation.
"Mmm ... Can you ride?"
"Yes, sir. "
Surprise.
"Read and write?"
"Yes, sir." Astonishment. Puzzled glances.
Then a voice in the background said, "Ylo? Ylopingo ... ?" There had never been
much chance of keeping it secret. "Consul Ylopingo was my father, sir."