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

"Huh," was his only comment.
Skeeter glanced at the gate-departure board suspended from the ceiling and
whistled silently. He would have to stretch his legs if he wanted to catch
Marcus before he went off shift at the Down Time Bar & Grill. But he still had
several minutes' leeway until he had to catch up with Agnes for the Porta
Romae Gate departure.
He picked his way cautiously through a horde of "medieval" damsels, knights
in handcrafted chain-mail armor, and throngs of pages and squires, even
"authentic" vendors and friars, all headed for Tournament down the newest of
TT-86s active gates, the "Anachronism" as 'eighty-sixers called it after the
name of the organization that used it most. It led, of all places, to North
America prior to the coming of the paleo-Indian population that would
eventually cross the Bering Strait and settle. two empty continents. Several
times a year, hordes--masses-of medieval loons flooded IT-86, every one of
them just dying to step through the Anachronism to play at war, medieval
style.
Skeeter shook his head. From the realities of war as he'd seen it, Skeeter
couldn't find much in wholesale slaughter that should be turned into any kind
of game. For, it smacked a little of heresy (whatever that might be) to mock
the brave dead they pretended to emulate. Clearly, they got something from it
they badly needed, or they wouldn't keep doing it. Especially with the cost so
high.
Not only did they have every other tourist's normal expenses, they had to
get permission to take their own horses and hunting falcons along, with stiff
penalties if any of the uptime animals got loose and started a breeding colony
millennia before they should have existed; they had to haul fodder and cut-up
mice for their animals; then had to find a place to keep said animals until
Anachronism's departure date and then, of course, they all had to get through
the gate in time, balking horses, screeching falcons, their own provisions as
well as the animals', in short, everything required for a one-month, downtime
Tournament and the honor to have fought in or attended one.
The single thing he understood about them was their detestation of nosey
newsies. It was rumored that no newsie had ever gotten through with them. Or
if they had, they hadn't survived to tell the tale. North America was a bad
place, that long ago. Sabre cats, dire wolves-you name it. Meaning, of course,
that Skeeter's intention of stepping through the Anachronism was right up
there with his intention of walking up to Mike Benson and holding out his
hands to be cuffed.
Skeeter watched with admiration as hawkers of "medieval wares" counted up
their sales and tourists pushed to hand over cash for "MAGIC POTIONS!";
crystals mounted as necklaces or stand-alone little trinkets, attuned to the
buyer's aura by placing it under the pillow for seven consecutive full moons;
charms for wealth, health, harmony, courage, and beauty; exquisite,
illuminated calligraphy with even more exquisite prices; plus relatively cheap
jewelry that commanded top-rate prices because it was "handmade in the most
ancient methods known to our medieval ancestors."
In Skeeter's educated estimation, they were as much con artists as Skeeter
himself. They even kept back the good stuff (he knew; he'd pilfered a coveted
item or two for his quarters, to liven it up a bit), keeping it hidden to sell
at the Tournament, bringing along a supply of junk to sell to gullible