"Richard Paul Russo - The Dread And Fear of Kings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russo Richard Paul)

me.
"I won't need you anymore tonight," he said. "I'll do my drinking alone." With that, he
entered the tent and pulled the flap closed behind him.
I walked up onto a small rise away from the fires and lights of the camp, tilted my head
back, and looked up at the night sky, a tapestry of stars that shone with a bright and icy
light. Some centuries past, it has been told, our ancestors came to this world on starships,
stayed for a time, then departed, leaving behind some of their descendants along with the
eggs and seeds of animals and plants from their home world, but taking with them the
knowledge and technology of interstellar travel; we have not seen any sign of them since.
I imagine their other descendants are out there still, plying their way among the stars,
traveling from world to world. I often wonder if they will ever return.
If they do, someday, what will they think of the world they left behind? Will they be
proud of the magnificent cities that have blossomed on every continent? Or will they be
appalled at the old king's devastation of those cities? Perhaps they will simply be
mystified, as I am, by what their descendants have done with this world.



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We entered the city like a grand parade, twenty thousand strong, accompanied by rousing
music and the bright flowing colors of banners unfurled atop long pikes. Most of us on
foot, we approached from the south, crossed the River Thule, then spread out among
some twenty avenues, and passed unimpeded through the open gates as if Kazakh-Ir was
welcoming us. Yet there were no people out on the streets, no smiles, no cheers—the
residents watched silently from open windows, from balconies, from turrets and
doorways. As if they knew it was no parade, as if they knew what was to come.
I walked beside the First Minister, who rode straight-backed atop Tarkus, his warhorse.
Behind us rode the other ministers, and then came the king's howdah on its massive,
powered wheeled platform, the ride cushioned by pneumatics. I could see the shimmer of
the king's Metzen Field enveloping the howdah, so strong that we had to keep our own
personal fields deactivated. There was little danger, however, for there were no signs of
resistance, and we were protected by several rings of heavily armed security forces.
We entered a large, grassy commons and set up a central command post. All twenty
divisions were holding, preparing to disperse throughout the city, but waiting for the
king's command. An enormous pavilion tent was quickly erected, and the king's howdah
rolled into it. We waited for more than an hour in the frigid morning air, waited for the
king to be unloaded and for his sustainment apparatus to be assembled. Eventually, a
herald emerged from the pavilion.
"The king reiterates to all—preserve the city's prized glass!"
With that, twenty runners ran off toward the division commanders, and twenty more
stepped to the ready. Several minutes passed, then a second herald appeared.
"The king orders—take Kazakh-Ir!"
The second twenty runners dashed away. Within minutes, two crimson-tailed signal
rockets streaked across the sky above us, and seconds later three more. Horns blared and
I could feel the marching resume, the ground vibrating beneath my feet. Twenty thousand
soldiers began to spread through the city.
By sunset, Kazakh-Ir was taken.