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

dragging it off the tailgate.
She reached them a moment later. Her swordsman was holding the furiously struggling figure face
down. Maskelle moved around, trying to get a better look at the intruder as he twisted his head back and
forth in the wet grass, choking with rage. And it was a “he” she saw, and not an “it.” He was dressed in
torn and dirty trousers like a fieldworker and he was wire-thin, the bones standing out in his outflung
arms. There were no old rank designs on the scalp beneath the stringy dark hair, and there was no
disguising the rough and calloused skin from long hours at outdoor labor. One of his outstretched hands
was clutching a small silver-glass globe.
Maskelle’s brows knit. “Bastard sons of pigs,” she muttered. The Ariaden, the Mahlindi, the
boatmen, everyone inside the post, they all would have been killed. She could feel the power inside the
glass straining to break free, even as the fieldworker strained to break free from his captor. She stepped
close and caught a handful of the boy’s greasy hair. He twisted away and spat at her, but she had already
seen what she needed to see. The pupils of his eyes were as silver-grey as the surface of the globe,
opaque and solid, not like human eyes at all.
Rastim tumbled out of his wagon and moved to stand beside her, scratching his head and looking
down at their unwelcome visitor. Heads were peering out from the other wagons. She stepped back and
said, “Kill him.”
There was a shocked word of protest from someone and Rastim stared at her.
Maskelle ignored him, looking down at the man who had caught the boy, preventing him from
breaking the globe and setting the curse loose on the compound. He hadn’t bothered to draw the siri,
which was sheathed again at his belt. He had his knees planted on the boy’s shoulders, keeping him
pinned to the ground.
The others were silent now, aghast or baffled. The boy hadn’t reacted to Maskelle’s words, though
she had spoken in Kushorit, except to make the same gasping, snarling noises he had made since he had
been caught. Of course, in Teachings, the philosopher Arabad had theorized that speech was impossible
without a soul. So the old fool was right about something, Maskelle thought dryly. I should write him
a letter. She said, “Whoever sent him here tied his soul to the curse in the globe. He’s already dead, his
body just doesn’t realize it yet.” It was an old magic, older than the temples, and a foul one.
Even though she had just told him to do it, the swiftness still surprised her. The snap of the boy’s neck
was audible. The swordsman stood, stepping casually away from the now limp body. She recalled that
this was the third time he had surprised her, and according to all reputable authorities three was a highly
significant number.
She sat on her heels and pried the globe out of the boy’s hand, bending the dead fingers back to
work it loose. She turned it over curiously. The glass was free of defect, the silver-grey pigment blended
with it evenly. She knocked it against the wagon wheel.
The glass shattered and the contents spilled out on the grass. There was a general scramble among
the Ariaden to move back. When nothing immediately disastrous happened, Rastim returned. “Dried
snakes?” he asked, baffled. The globe had contained a bundle of what did appear to be small desiccated
snakes, each no more than an inch or so long.
“Not snakes,” Maskelle said. “Tela worms.” The wisps that looked like dried skin were actually their
wings. They swarmed like bees and their poison burned into the blood and made the body jerk and
spasm. A few of them could kill a large man in minutes. It would have been an unlovely death for all of
them. “If the globe had broken while he was still alive, his life would have fed theirs and they would have
swarmed over everyone in the camp.”
“Gah,” Rastim said, or something like it.
Old Mali, ever practical, was approaching with a straw brush and a small shovel. Maskelle nodded
for her to go ahead and the old woman swiftly scooped up all the dried worms. “The fire,” Maskelle said.
Old Mali gave her a disgusted look, but took the shovel to the cooking fire anyway and tipped its
contents in.
Maskelle got to her feet again, unconsciously brushing her hands off on her robes. She turned and