"Martha Wells - Wheel of the Infinite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

outside. One of them must have realized she wasn’t just an ordinary, albeit eccentric, Voice travelling the
Great Road and told his fellows; the tension emanating from them was palpable now. The lead priest
stopped and eyed her narrowly. He said, “When I saw you, I had hoped for an easy answer.”
She resisted the impulse to say something philosophical about easy answers. She didn’t suppose him
to have any more patience with such platitudes than she did. Instead, she said, “If it’s an omen, it’s a
frightening one. I’ll tell the Celestial One of it when I see him.”
“If it is a dark power . . .”
It would be simpler if it was a byproduct of her curse, a wandering dark power that corrupted
whatever it touched, following in her wake. “If it’s a dark power, I’ll deal with it. I haven’t been with the
Adversary for seven years, but He does take care of His own.”
There was a stifled noise of shock and fear from one of the other priests. The lead priest glanced
back at them, frowning. He turned back to her, and she could see him recalling what she was, despite
everything. He hesitated, then said, “I offer you our hospitality . . . The guesthouse . . .”
 His companions were badly startled, but evidently their fear of her was still an abstraction, whereas
their fear of him was firmly founded, and they made no open protest. She smiled, badly tempted, and she
knew she hadn’t quite left the desire to cause chaos behind. She shook her head. “No, we both know
how that would end.”
He misunderstood and his grey eyes turned angry. Maskelle sighed. She had forgotten what it was
like to deal with the young of the well-born. She said, gently, “You can stand bond for everyone in your
temple, but you aren’t their conscience, and I don’t have the time to waste in fighting.”
He still watched her grimly, no sign of any bend in that stiff spine. Then he stepped back and gave her
a full sixth-degree bow, only one degree less than the rank actually due her. He turned away and his
retinue followed with less grace, one of them sneaking her an abbreviated bow behind the backs of the
others.
Maskelle walked slowly through the dark, back to the wagons where Rastim and Old Mali waited for
her by the fire. Rastim let out his breath in relief when he saw her and Old Mali grunted in eloquent
comment. “Trouble?” Rastim asked her.
She nodded and leaned her cheek against the staff. Trouble. She had known it would happen, but
perhaps she hadn’t thought it would be so soon. Maybe I am too old for this, she thought. Too old for
war, too mean-tempered for peace.
“Should we move on tonight?” Rastim sounded worried.
Maskelle looked around. A few other members of the troupe had broken cover. Firac with his two
young sons, who worked the apparatus on the largest of the puppets, and Therasa and Doria, who
played the speaking women’s parts. The travel had been difficult and their oxen weren’t in the best of
shape. She shook her head. “No, we’ll stay the night.”



Chapter 2
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Despite her assurances to Rastim that all would be well, Maskelle had sat up the rest of the night on
watch. The priest of the Sare had kept his word. Nothing had disturbed the peace of the plain, or the
serenity of the temple.
From the time Maskelle had been a young initiate she had been used to sleepless nights. The Year
Rites could last for days, and once the Wheel of the Infinite was constructed it had to be guarded, until it
could be dispersed into wind and water to strengthen the supports of the universe.
Now she sat on the wagon seat next to Old Mali, thinking of the upcoming Hundred Year Rite. The
sky was overcast and a slight breeze stirred the thick vegetation on the edge of the jungle to either side of