"Naomi Novik - Temeraire 1 - His Majesty's Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Novik Naomi)

duty, the prospect of entering their ranks could not be appealing to any gentleman raised up in
respectable society.

Yet they sprang from good families, gentlemen’s sons handed over at the age of seven to be raised to the
life, and it would be an impossible insult to the Corps to have anyone other than one of his own officers
attempt the harnessing. And if one had to be asked to take the risk, then all; though if Fanshawe had not
spoken in so unbecoming a way, Laurence would have liked to keep Carver out of it, as he knew the boy
had a poor head for heights, which struck him as a grave impediment for an aviator. But in the
atmosphere created by the pitiful request, it would seem like favoritism, and that would not do.

He took a deep breath, still simmering with anger, and spoke again. “No man here has any training for
the task, and the only fair means of assigning the duty is by lot. Naturally, those gentlemen with family
are excused. Mr. Pollitt,” he said, turning to the surgeon, who had a wife and four children in
Derbyshire, “I hope that you will draw the name for us. Gentlemen, you will each write your name upon
a sheet here, and cast it into this bag.” He suited word to deed, tore off the part of the sheet with his own
name, folded it, and put it into the small sack.

Riley stepped forward at once, and the others followed suit obediently; under Laurence’s cold eye,
Fanshawe flushed and wrote his name with a shaking hand. Carver, on the other hand, wrote bravely,
though with a pale cheek; and at the last Battersea, unlike virtually all the others, was incautious in
tearing the sheet, so that his piece was unusually large; he could be heard murmuring quietly to Carver,
“Would it not be famous to ride a dragon?”

Laurence shook his head a little at the thoughtlessness of youth; yet it might indeed be better were one of
the younger men chosen, for the adjustment would be easier. Still, it would be hard to see one of the
boys sacrificed to the task, and to face the outrage of his family. But the same would be true of any man


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here, including himself.

Though he had done his best not to consider the consequences from a selfish perspective, now that the
fatal moment was at hand he could not entirely suppress his own private fears. One small bit of paper
might mean the wreck of his career, the upheaval of his life, disgrace in his father’s eyes. And, too, there
was Edith Galman to think of; but if he were to begin excusing his men for some half-formed
attachment, not binding, none of them would be left. In any case, he could not imagine excusing himself
from this selection for any reason: this was not something he could ask his men to face, and avoid
himself.

He handed the bag to Mr. Pollitt and made an effort to stand at his ease and appear unconcerned,
clasping his hands loosely behind his back. The surgeon shook the sack in his hand twice, thrust his
hand in without looking, and drew out a small folded sheet. Laurence was ashamed to feel a sensation of
profound relief even before the name was read: the sheet was folded over once more than his own entry
had been.

The emotion lasted only a moment. “Jonathan Carver,” Pollitt said. Fanshawe could be heard letting out
an explosive breath, Battersea sighing, and Laurence bowed his head, silently cursing Fanshawe yet
again; so promising a young officer, and so likely to be useless in the Corps.