"Robin Hobb - Soldier Son 01 - Shaman's Crossing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hobb Robin)

that I was left unchaperoned on the street.
A barracks town can be a rough place. Even at eight I knew that,
and so I approached the older boys cautiously. They were, as Vev
had said, playing a knife toss game in the alley between the smithy
and a warehouse. They were betting half-coppers and pewter hits as
each boy took a turn at dropping the knife, point first, into the street.
The bets wagered were on whether or not the knife would stick and
how close each boy could come to his own foot on the drop without
cutting himself. As they were barefoot, the wagers were quite
interesting apart from the small coins involved, and a circle of five
or so boys had gathered to watch. The youngest of them was still a
year or two older than me, and the eldest was in his teens. They
were sons of common soldiers, dressed in their father’s cast-offs
and as unkempt as stray dogs. In a few more years, they’d sign their
papers and whatever regiment took them in would dust them off and
shape them into foot soldiers. They knew their own fortunes as well
as I knew mine, and seemed very content to spend the last days of
their boyhoods playing foolish games in the dusty street.
I had no coins to bet and I was dressed too well to keep company
with them, so they made a space in their huddle to let me watch but
didn’t speak to me. I learned a few of their names only by listening
to them talk to each other. For a time, I was content to watch there
odd game, and listen intently to their rough curses and the crude

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Shaman's Crossing - Robin Hobb - Soldier Son 01


name-calling that accompanied bets lost or won. This was certainly
a long way from my sisters’ tea parties, and I recall that I wondered
if this were the sort of manly company that of late my father had
been insisting I needed.
The sun was warm and the game endless as the bits of coin and
other random treasure changed hands over and over. A boy named
Carky cut his foot, and hopped and howled for a bit, but soon was
back in the game. Raven, Vev’s son, laughed at him and happily
pocketed the two pennies and three marbles Carky had bet. I was
watching them intently and would scarcely have noticed the arrival
of the scout, save that all the other boys suddenly suspended the
game and fell silent as he rode past.
I knew he was a scout, for his dress was half-soldier and half-
plainsman. He wore dark-green cavalla trousers like a proper
trooper, but his shirt was the loose linen of a plainsman,
immaculately clean. His hair was not cropped short in a soldier’s
cut nor did he wear a proper hat. Instead, his black hair hung loose
and long and moved with his white kaffiyeh. A rope of red silk
secured his headgear. His arms were bare that summer day, the
sleeves rolled to his biceps, and his forearm was circled with
tattooed wreaths and trade-bracelets of silver beads and pewter
charms and gleaming yellow brass. His horse was a good one, solid