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

sacrosanct. And there was no greater pleasure than burning the enemy's yurts
in the night-or, metaphorically, scamming the last, living cent out of any
tourist or government bureaucrat who richly and most royally deserved it.
If others called him scoundrel because of it ...
So be it.
Yesukai the Valiant would have applauded, given him a string of ponies for
his success, and maybe even a good bow-all things that Skeeter had coveted.
La-La Land was the only place where a latter-day Mongol bogda could practice
his art without serious threat of jail. It was also the only place on earth
where-if life grew too unendurable or the scholars caught up with him-he could
step back through the Mongolian Gate, find young Temujin, and join up again.
"Y'know," Skeeter slurred, downing yet another glass of whiskey, "nights
when m' luck's down and I got no one, sometimes I swear I'm gonna do just
that. Walk through, next time th' Mongolia -Mongolian-Gate opens. Haven't done
it yet, Marcus. So far," he rapped his knuckles against the wet surface of the
wooden bar, "m' luck always takes a turn for the better, jus' in time. But my
Khan, he always said luck alone don't carry a man through life. That's why I
work so damn hard. It's pride, don' you see, not jus' survival. Gotta live up
t' Yesukai's standards. And genr'ally-" he hiccuped and almost dropped his
glass, "-genr'ally it's fun, 'cause a' bureaucrats anna' damn arrogant
tourists are a bunch a' idiots. Incomp'tent, careless idiots, don' even know
wha's around 'em." He laughed a short, bitter laugh. "Let'm stay blind'n deaf
'n stupid. Keeps the money coming, don't it?'
He met Marcus' gaze with one that was almost steady, despite the appalling
amount of whiskey he'd consumed.
"If no one else unnerstan's, so be it. 'S not their life t' live. 'S mine."
He thumped his chest, staining a Greek chiton of exquisite cut and embroidery
when the remaining whiskey in his glass sloshed across the garment and puddled
in his lap. "Mine, yunnerstand. My life. And I ain't disappointed, Marcus. Not
by much, I ain't."
When Skeeter began to cry as though his heart were breaking, Marcus had
very gently taken the whiskey glass from his hand and guided him home, making
sure he was safely in bed in his own apartment that night. Whether or not
Skeeter recalled anything he'd said, Marcus had no idea. But Marcus remembered
every word-even those he didn't quite understand.
When Marcus shared the precious story of Skeeter Jackson with Ianira, she
held her beloved close in the darkness and made sacred promises to her
Goddesses. They had given her this precious man, this Marcus who cherished not
only Ianira herself, but also their beautiful, sloe-eyed daughters. They had
given Ianira a man who actually loved little Artemisia and tiny little
Gelasia, loved their cooing laugher and loved dandling them by turns on his
knee and even soothing their tears, rather than ordering either beautiful
child left on the street to die of exposure and starvation simply because she
was female.
There in the sacred privacy of their shared bed, Ianira vowed to her
Goddesses that she would do whatever lay in her power to guard the interests
of the man who had given her beloved the means to discharge his debt of honor.
When Marcus joined with her in the darkness, skin pressed to trembling skin,
she prayed that his seed would plant a son in her womb, a son who would be
born into a world where his father was finally a free man in his own soul. She