Resistance

Начало книги

The messenger quivered with indignation, drawing himself up on his hind legs—in indignation, yes, but also to bring his own eyes level with Steetsin’s, where he reclined on the couch from which so many of his ancestors had delivered judgment.

Around them, the Great Chamber of Wedge Hold stirred to the mutter of Steetsin’s warriors. Above their heads hung the tattered banners captured in hundreds of years of fighting. The walls boasted their trophies, too—ancient weapons from celebrated battles.

There were a few more recent weapons—sidearms and slugthrowers once carried by officers and men of the Fleet.

“Chief of the Wedge Sept,” the messenger insisted, “this missive was penned by the Clan Chieftain’s own hand!”

“It cannot have been!” Steetsin snarled. “Never would a Khalian chieftain stoop to such cowardice!”

“How can it be cowardice, if the Clan Chieftain does it?” the messenger demanded.

The Syndicate envoy leaned close to Steetsin’s back and murmured, “How can the Clan Chieftain have done it, if it is cowardly?”

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