"James Alan Gardner - League of Peoples 02 - Commitment Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner James Alan)

As I neared the duck flats, it occurred to me I was close to violating the rules of my vigil. I wasn't
supposed to set eyes upon another human being till sunrise... and a Southerner probably counted as
human, even if the laws of the Patriarch sometimes hedged on the issue.

What was the penalty for breaking vigil? I couldn't remember, but the Elders were forever looking for
excuses to grab a bigger share of my music income. Earlier that very day, the Patriarch's Man had
imposed a "monetary penance" on me for suggesting our village should build a roofed dance pavilion like
the one in Wiretown—as if I were the only Tober who thought it wouldn't hurt to borrow ideas from
down peninsula. Iwas the only Tober who got fined for saying so... which meant I had to observe every
little rule carefully, including the one about not setting my eyes on anyone else during vigil. Instead of
facing the stranger directly, I pulled up with only a stand of bulrushes between me and the duck flats, then
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shouted, "Hey!"

The music stopped.

"This is Tober land," I said. The Patriarch had used the same words to repel the Pagans during the Harsh
Purification—saying the words made me feel like I wasn't just carrying the spear for show. "Take
yourself and your ways," I recited, "and slink back to the pits of iniquity. You are damned, and your smell
offends me."

"The gracious welcome I expected," a voice sneered back. "Thank you." I couldn't tell whether the
speaker was male or female, and there was none of the nasalness of a Southern accent.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The only answer was a loud thrashing of reeds. I covered my eyes quickly, expecting the stranger to
burst through the wall of rushes; but the noise plunged off in the opposite direction. I held my breath as I
listened to it recede.

The stillness of the night seeped back in: no sound but crickets chirping, frogs chugging, and hundreds of
dragonflies buzzing around the flats. Cautiously, I parted the bulrushes, ready to avert my eyes if the
stranger returned.

In the middle of the flats, a fire sputtered on the muddy ground. By its light, I could see footprints
everywhere: boots with leather soles that left sharp outlines—city boots, unlike the moccasins worn by
everybody local. Judging from the quantity of tracks, I guessed the unknown violinist had been here for
hours, but I saw no sign that he or she had intended to stay the night. There was no tent, no gear, nothing
but the fire... as if the stranger had been ready to pick up and run as soon as someone came to
investigate the music.

"I'm not going to play hide and seek!" I shouted into the darkness. Immediately, I regretted the
noise—Cappie might hear me. If she was close enough, she'd know I was on the flats, and technically
speaking, my presence here was another violation of vigil. Once we set our traps we were supposed to
stay clear until...