"Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

guard. He did not yet know where in the palace he was; he did know where the Council's chamber was,
assuming this audience was to be in the same place. Furthermore, he might gain useful information from
an interview, or even an interrogation; questions could be as revealing as answers. And finally, he had
hopes of finding his weapons; he did not like the idea of leaving them in the possession of the Teyzhan
wizards, who just might be capable of duplicating and mass-producing them.

Therefore he followed the guard meekly. Once out of the cell and in the passage beyond, they were
joined by two more guards carrying drawn swords and a young man in a black robe, presumably a
wizard; they were taking no chances with their dangerous prisoner. Rather, they thought they were taking
no chances; the part of Slant's mind concerned with personal combat tactics informed him that the right
sort of assault would make the blades an encumbrance rather than a help by removing the intended target
and substituting the swordsmen's allies, enabling him to concentrate on a quick killing of the wizard and a
speedy escape. It was quite possible, better than a fifty-fifty chance.

The time, however, was still not right He wanted to see the Council.

As he had suspected, his cell was underground; he and his escort ascended two short flights of torchlit
stairs and wound through a series of corridors before arriving in the white-domed chamber. The dome
was illuminated by daylight; he had been unconscious for hours. He wondered how, even when
distracted, he had been so careless as to allow himself to be knocked out

As before, the seven councillors were seated around their wooden table. He approached and nodded
politely, but did not kneel; it seemed inappropriate for a prisoner of war.

There was a moment of silence, and Slant felt his skin prickling and crawling. He saw nothing that
indicated where magic was being used, and guessed, since the sensation seemed more intense than on
previous occasions, that he was being studied as his submachine gun had been before.

The silence was broken by the white-bearded old councillor, who said, "Hello, Slant, as you call yourself.
You spoke to us before and lied; will you speak the truth this time?"

"That depends on many things."

"Foremost, it depends upon the metal demon in your head, I think. Would you like to be rid of it?"

Slant considered this. He knew that the Council expected him to say yes; he knew also that the computer
would not be happy with any answer that smacked of disloyalty or cooperation with the enemy. It would
have a record of his words when it came back into contact He was unsure whether the computer would
be able to figure out that it was the demon in question, but it had already made plain it didn't want enemy
personnel messing around in Slant's skull. He might be able to convince it that he was playing along,
awaiting an opportunity for escape.

Whatever he answered, the councillors claimed to be able to tell when he lied, so if he lied, they would
know it and know his true answer.

Or would they? The truth, he realized, was that he wasn't sure what he wanted. He hated the computer's
interference with his actions and the constant threat of execution—but he had come to depend on the
machine. It was his only contact with his lost home and had been his only companion for fourteen years.
Its removal would cut him off from his past