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

The law-speaker smiled politely, and raised his glass just off the table in recognition of her gesture, but he didn't drink. So maybe,
she thought, his business hasn't been as successful as mine.

Well, Pa was always on at her to talk about something besides horses and County gossip. If it wasn't business, maybe it could be
books.

"Consolidated Analects of Mero Rimsin?" she read from the spine of his book. He studied her with increased interest—this time his
expression showed both surprise and respect. The book was printed in Tarinese, the classical tongue of the Old Empire. Few could
read the old tongue anymore.

"Relevant to a case," he replied, with a smile that was slightly shy. "You've read Rimsin?"

"Some of the poetry." She winced a bit, remembering; the poetry was bad enough. Three spare her the legal philosophy. Actually
the tutor had to whale Rimsin into her with a willow switch, she recalled. She picked up pitcher and plate and joined the law-
speaker on his bench. "I can't drink this pitcher alone with a lodge-brother here," she said.
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Bren Morkaarin drew his sword and whirled it in a complicated figure eight as he marched, before thrusting it straight up in salute.

"Eyes… right!" he snapped. Drums and trumpets relayed the order.

Behind him eight hundred booted feet struck the earth together as the XIXth gave a wordless shout of hail to the high officers on
the reviewing stand. Pikemen and halberdiers in breastplate and tassets and helmet, musketeers in floppy hats and broad bandoliers
with dangling wooden charge-tubes clicking as they marched, each screw-topped cylinder holding one shot worth of powder.

"Regiment—" The underofficers and noncoms echoed it to their units.

"Company—"

"Platoon—"

"Left…face."

Snap-stamp as every soldier took a half-stride and turned ninety degrees to the left, marching on without breaking stride. What had
been a column was now a broad line, eight files deep.

"Pikepoints… down."

There was another deep shout as the sixteen-foot shafts swung down and bristled forward; first rank held low, next four at
staggered heights, last three high but slanted forward Out on the flanks of the formation the halberdiers brought the broad chopping
blades of their six-foot weapons forward as well, the bright morning sun glinting on the honed edges, the dagger points, and the
curved spikes on the reverse sides.

"Sound prepare to receive cavalry."