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

concerned.
She said, “Well?”
Gardick, who always had something to say, said, “Can we expect more of that tonight?”
“No, not tonight.”
There was an uncomfortable stirring. Firac, Doria, Vani, the others, familiar faces after all these
months. They were nine in all, not very many to perform some of the more elaborate productions, but the
Imperial capital of Duvalpore would appreciate the intricacy of Ariaden theater where the provincial cities
hadn’t. One or two wouldn’t meet her eyes, others looked worried, others merely tired.
Rastim cleared his throat. “I think we all know what sad condition we would be in but for the . .. but
for Maskelle.”
She pushed her ragged hair back from her face, to cover her momentary smile. Her name still
sounded odd, spoken in an Ariaden accent. More proof this land was in her blood; she had been foolish
to ever leave.
Gardick said, “No one is saying different.” He looked around at the others, his expression combative.
“But we don’t have to pretend to like it.”
Maskelle laughed. Sometimes she liked Gardick.
Then Gardick said, “And who’s that?”
He was pointing past her, at the swordsman. Maskelle pressed her lips together. And sometimes she
didn’t like Gardick at all.
Rastim saved her from the embarrassing admission that she had no idea by stepping forward and
saying, “Now, that’s Maskelle’s business, isn’t it? Why don’t we all get some rest? We have more travel
tomorrow.”
That little speech should have occasioned a revolt, if not a small riot, but the troupe had become
accustomed to accepting the impossible along with the unpleasant in the past few months, and all they did
was stamp and grumble, or exchange tired looks and roll their eyes.
As the others drifted back to their wagons, Rastim leaned close and out of the side of his mouth
whispered, “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered back.
He grimaced at her and she grimaced back. She patted him on the back and made shooing motions.
Rastim went reluctantly, casting doubtful glances over his shoulder.
She turned back to her swordsman. He was ignoring the curiosity of the Ariaden and matter-of-factly
studying a long slice on his forearm. The bori club must have grazed him. Well, you did tell him not to
draw the sword. “Come with me, I’ll clean that up for you,” Maskelle said. Old Mali had left a brazier
near the fire and she used one of the wicker pads to pick it up.
 He gave her an odd look, but followed her back to her wagon obediently enough. She climbed in and
lit two of the hanging cage lamps with the coals from the brazier, then set it in the padded holder on the
shelf. He was sitting on the tailgate, looking over the interior of the wagon. It was furnished with cast-offs
and hand-me-downs and oddities collected in travel, frayed blankets and cushions of faded Tiengan
weaving, a battered copper tea server, Nitaran puzzle boxes. He was looking up at the curved roof
where about a dozen puppets hung, their painted faces pointing down like an audience of human-headed
bats, their features lifelike in the dim light. They were being stored here because Maskelle had few
possessions and the other wagons were overfull. There were also pieces of scenery folded up in the
chests and under the bunk. Maskelle moved a stage tree aside to get to the clean rags and salve.
“You’re a healer too?” he said, somewhat warily.
“Not really.” Old Mali had made the salve. Maskelle wasn’t going to mention that in case he had seen
the old woman outside. Old Mali’s appearance didn’t exactly engender confidence in her skills as a
physician, and she knew the Sintane was fairly civilized for the outer reaches. She looked up and saw he
was still sitting on the tailgate. She lifted a brow. “I could toss it to you.”
He came further into the wagon, taking a place on the bench almost within arm’s reach. But again she
had no sense that he was afraid, just careful, like a strange cat that had chosen her for a companion.