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

the Illsat Keo was safe from that. But the Ariaden needed to make their living, and to them this post
would look far more like the beginning of civilization than the temple on the Sare. People and travellers
meant possible audiences, and therefore money. If they pressed on, they might have to camp on the road.
As she was considering this, a wagon pulled by two steaming oxen trundled out of a narrow track
between the trees, loaded down with several happily shouting children, an aged farmer, and a large load
of taro. She swore under her breath. She had forgotten how populated this area was. There was no
avoiding people now; there would be small farms and larger plantations everywhere along the road. She
nodded resignedly. “It’ll do.”
They drew the wagons up in a clear spot just far enough away not to encroach on the territory
already staked out by the merchants, and Rastim and Firac went in to conduct negotiations. Maskelle
tried to help Old Mali unharness the wagon, got cursed at for her pains, and left the old woman to it in
disgust. She went to sit on one of the fallen logs above the water steps, not quite sure where this feeling
of impatient distraction had come from.
A few of the boatmen came up to get her blessing on their keel-tokens and she gave it, since her
blessing was still worth what it was worth, even though it wasn’t currently sanctioned by the temples. The
sky had lightened, but the canal water was a dull brown, the current fast-moving, and branches and other
debris were catching in the fish traps and around the pilings. Something drew her eyes to an old barge
pulled up on the bank of the canal for a repair to its aging hull. There was someone stretched out asleep
on the flat roof of the cabin. Not exactly an unusual sight; there were plenty of boatmen doing the same
on their beached craft or in the shelter of the pilings. Then she recognized him and she realized what she
had been looking for.
He had disappeared earlier that day and she had admitted to none of the initial disappointment,
growing irritation, and progressive worry she had felt throughout the afternoon. She shook her head at
herself. Obviously he must have taken the direct way through the trees when the road curved, beating
them here.
She wasn’t sure where this sudden obsession had come from. He was just following them because
they were going the same way and were indisposed to interfere with him; he had already discovered the
perils of travelling alone.
Maskelle looked up, frowning, as Rastim and Firac came down the steps from the post and
squelched across the muddy ground toward her. Rastim’s face was stony and Firac was muttering angrily
under his breath.
“I take it things didn’t go well,” Maskelle said as they approached.
“There’s a problem,” Firac said grimly.
“What?”
“We can’t afford it.” Rastim folded his arms, looking away at the river.
Maskelle gazed up at the Infinite, begging it for patience. None of the Ariaden had ever been this far
into the center of the Empire before. The Temple of the Sare had probably charged next to nothing for
the food and fodder they had used, and nothing at all to camp in its protection. The outpost must charge
city prices. “You didn’t offer them a show?”
“They don’t want one,” Rastim said stiffly. He had obviously been mortally offended.
“Not just that,” Firac clarified, outraged. “They won’t let us perform for the merchants or these
others.” He waved an arm around at the boatmen, now watching curiously, and the other travellers and
traders in the compound. “The merchants’ head driver already asked if we were performing tonight—”
“Oh, Ancestors above.” Maskelle stood up. That was enough. Rastim looked startled, then aghast.
She ignored him, going around to the front of the post and up the steps to the doorway, her irritation
boiling over. Inside she found her way through rooms smelling strongly of fish, lit by smoky lamps or
propped-open windows. Firac was all but cheering her on, but Rastim was at her elbow, worriedly
muttering, “Your temper, your temper.”
She found the factor in a long room that opened onto one of the balconies, sitting at a table, arguing
with traders.