"Linda Evans - Time Scout 2 - Wages of Sin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

him. She was cute. Skeeter had discovered to his surprise that he liked kids.
There'd been a time when the sight of another child-particularly boys-had made
his blood run cold.
Long time ago, Skeeter. Long, long time ago. You're not everybody's bogda
any more. You're not anybody's bogda anymore. And that was the best part of
all. As long as he kept up the con games, the swindles, the mastery of skills
a-bitter, deadly childhood had taught him, Skeeter Jackson would never again
be anybody's isolated, lonely, private tribal spirit-in-the-flesh, a position
that had, much of the time, amounted to that of victim, unable to retaliate
when teased, taunted, or hooted at in careful privacy by the other boys,
because it was unseemly behavior for a bogda to roughhouse, no matter what the
provocation. So he'd developed the knack of endurance and remained a victim
because that was the only thing he could do, other than steal the belongings
of certain tormentors and plant them in the yurts of other tormentors. He'd
grown skilled at the game and enjoyed the results with bitter, malicious glee.
And all of that was something few people understood, or ever could
understand, because Skeeter would sooner die than admit any of it to those who
hadn't already figured it out for themselves.
He wondered, sometimes, if his friend Marcus carried memories as
frightening as his own? After two weeks in Rome, he was convinced of it. After
witnessing what went on casually on the streets, he deliberately asked Agnes
to take him to see the slave markets. What he found there ... well, if Skeeter
had harbored any shred of scruple, it was erased by the sights and sounds of
that place.
Anything he stole from any rich Roman bastard was money the wretch deserved
to lose: The more, the better. For a moment, Marcus' words about him and his
standing with Goldie Morran made sense. There were levels and levels of
depravity. Compared to these pros, Skeeter was a saint. He watched through
narrowed eyes endless parades of rich, arrogant Roman men carried through the
streets in fancy sedan chairs and recalled the bitter cold winds which swept
endlessly across the steppes where he'd grown to teenhood.
He recalled, too, the glint of winter sunlight on sharp steel and the
myriad ways of killing a man the people who'd raised him had taught their
sons. And as he remembered, Skeeter watched wealthy Romans abuse helpless
people and bitterly wished he could introduce the two groups for an intimate
little get-together: Roman to Yakka Mongol, steel to steel.
 Because that would never happen in Skeeter's sight, he elected himself the
Yakka Clan's sole emissary in this city of marble and misery and money. He
could hardly wait to start depriving them of serious amounts of gold earned on
blood, not just a purse here and there just begging to be lifted by nimble
fingers. His long-awaited chance finally came the morning of their last day in
Rome. The entire tour group left the inn near dawn.
"Form up in your groups," Agnes called, echoed by other Time Tours guides
and even a freelancer or two hired for guiding their employers safely to
places not on the main tour, then safely back again. Since Skeeter was closest
to Agnes, it was her voice he paid most attention to as they formed up in the
silvery, pearl-hued morning. "We'll be taking seats together in the upper
tier, which is reserve for slaves and foreigners. Be sure you have the proper
coinage with you to purchase admission tickets and don't forget to collect a
colored handkerchief to cheer on your favorite racing team. The gladiatorial