"Russell, Sean - Moontide And Magic Rise 1 - World Without End" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Sean)

it could have been nothing more than two groups of players
preparing a performance—the duel that would bring down the
curtain on the first act.

“I’ve forgotten my field glass. Hawkins? Can you see what they’re
doing?”

The driver had been pacing, almost silently, back and forth
between his team and the door to the carriage, but he stopped now
and shielded his eyes with a callused hand. “It is not yet clear, sir.
They remain standing in their separate groups, and no one is
stepping forward.” The driver stayed in his place for a few seconds
and when it appeared that his employer would have no further
questions, at least for a moment, he returned to whispering to the
gray mare and gelding.

The man who watched shifted on the seat of his carriage and
realized he was gripping his cane so tightly that the joints in his
fingers had begun to ache. The gestural language of the theater
was well known to him, and what he saw transpiring on the field
bore the unmistakable signs of unfolding tragedy. Signs he had
seen often these past months. The emotions that a pending
tragedy engendered were also very familiar: the overwhelming
sense of helplessness; the firm knowledge that the small justice of
men was of little consequence on the larger stage; and then the
growing horror.

He gazed out over the field where the curious whispered among
themselves, as people did before the cur-

tain rose. Somewhere a physician stood by with his bag of
dressings and instruments.

The man who had come to witness this renewal of the art of the
duel was not one of the idly curious. Unlike most of those who
stood about the field, he had fought a duel, though it had been long
ago. That was one memory that did not fade. He knew what it felt
like to turn away from one’s second and come suddenly to a full
understanding that this was no longer the practice floor. These
could be the final moments of one’s life. He had hefted a blade to
test its balance and felt that second sharp stab of knowledge: what
he held in his hand was an implement to end life.

He had been fortunate and never killed a man. True gentlemen did
not demand another’s life to assuage their pride, for pride was
invariably at the center of these affairs—not honor. The man in the
carriage had long ago seen past that particular myth.

On the field, too far off for him to discern detail, a tall, angular man
had removed his frock coat—snow white linen against the green.