"S. M. Stirling and Holly Lisle - The Rose Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

of Derkin in the far south, on the shores of the Shoban Yentror, the Imperial Sea.

Well, not quite the whole of it, he thought sourly. Lord Colonel Feliz Gonstad, Overlord of Maldard and commander-in-chief of the
XIXth, was not along for the trip. He'd gone ahead in a well-sprung carriage, with his hangers-on and aides, leaving Bren to do the
work.

Nothing new in that.

Lights were coming up ahead, as the canal curved southward through the great riverine plain of the Olmya. Villagers with lanterns,
moving like fireflies amid the apricot trees of an orchard, getting in the early harvest and not stopping for sundown. For a few
minutes the strong sweet smell of fruit filled the air, and then they were through into an endless rustling of barley, stretching white
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beneath the moons and table-flat to the horizon. Nearly ready for the reapers.

Nothing but corpses to be harvested where we're going, he thought, his head nodding back against the saddle he was using as a
pillow.

A woman came screaming at him out of darkness and dank heat, running toward him. Running toward him with a sword in her
hand, plastered with mud and sweat and blood, looking over her shoulder down a pathway through jungle deep and rank and alien.
Closer and he could see details, that she was young and dark and probably pretty when she wasn't gasping with effort and terrified.
She had Tylassian markings like his on her face, the tattoos on each cheek and between the brows, despite her southron looks. His
heart knew her, and his heart leapt in recognition—she shouted for him to beware—and he roared an answer.

His shout woke him.

Waking, the knowledge faded, slipped through the fingers of his mind as he reached for it. So did the warning she shouted; only
the desperate urgency in her voice remained.

"Not asleep, sor?" Sergeant Ddrad asked quietly.

"Dreaming," Bren said shortly, wrapping his cloak about him. After a moment "Dreaming about women."

The noncom grinned and sketched a half-salute. "Good luck then, sor," he said, before moving back to his own bedroll.

Bren Morkaarin's eyes stayed open, long after his sergeant went from quiet repose to deep, resounding snores. He lay on the deck
absently rubbing the medallion at his neck—old habit; the medallion was the only remembrance he had of his long-dead father. It
was a soothing token and a soothing gesture, after that less-than-sweet dream.

Bren did not believe that all dreams were omens. Most were the mind scratching itself, or the result of a bit of bad sausage or too
much wine the night before.

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He wasn't sure about this one. The stink of hot jungle air hung in his nose even waking. And the girl…

He touched his markings, thumbs to the cheeks, index fingers pressed together between his brows, sending a wordless prayer to the