"David Gemmel - Sipstrassi Tales 03 - Bloodstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

our freedom. Perhaps we are viewed as a threat to the solidity of their existence. In short, I don't know
why. You might just as well ask why men like to kill one another, or find hatred so easy and love so
difficult.'
'It is probably territorial,' said Shannow. 'When men put down roots they look around them and assume
that everything they can see is now theirs - the deer, the trees, the mountains. You come along and kill
the deer and they see it as theft.'
That too,' agreed Jeremiah. 'But you do not share that view, Mr Shannow?'
'I never put down roots.'
'You are a curious man, sir. You are knowledgeable, courteous, and yet you have the look of the
warrior. I can see it in you. I think you are a ... deadly man, Mr Shannow.'
Shannow nodded slowly and his deep blue eyes held Jeremiah's gaze. 'You have nothing to fear from me,
old man. I am not a war-maker. I do not steal, and I do not lie.'
'Did you fight in the War, Mr Shannow?'
'I do not believe that I did.'
'Most men of your age fought in the Unifying War.'
'Tell me of it.'
Before the old man could begin, Isis came running into view. 'Riders!' she said. 'And they're armed.'
Jeremiah rose and walked between the wagons. Isis moved alongside him, and several of the other
women and children gathered round. Dr Meredith, his arms full of firewood, stood nervously beside a
pregnant woman and her two young daughters. Jeremiah shaded his eyes against the setting sun and
counted the horsemen. There were fifteen, and all carried rifles. In the lead was a slender young man,
with shoulder-length white hair. The riders cantered up to the wagons and then drew rein. The
white-haired man leaned forward on to the pommel of his saddle.
'Who are you?' he asked, his voice edged with contempt.
'I am Jeremiah, sir. These are my people.'
The man looked at the painted wagons and said something in a low voice to the rider on his right. 'Are
you people of the Book?' asked White-hair, switching his gaze back to Jeremiah.
'Of course,' the old man answered.
'You have Oath papers?' The man's voice was soft, almost sibilant.
'We have never been asked to give Oaths, sir. We are Wanderers and are rarely in towns long enough to
be questioned about our faith.'
тАШI am questioning it,' said the man. 'And I do not like your tone, Mover. I am Aaron Crane, the Oath
Taker for the settlement of Purity. Do you know why I was given this office?' Jeremiah shook his head.
'Because I have the Gift of Discernment. I can smell a pagan at fifty paces. And there is no place in God's
land for such people. They are a stain upon the earth, a cancer upon the flesh of the planet, and an
abomination in the eyes of God. Recite for me now Psalm 22.'
Jeremiah took a deep breath. 'I am not a scholar, sir. My Bible is in my wagon - I shall fetch it.'
'You are a pagan!' screamed Crane, 'and your wagon shall burn!' Swinging in his saddle, he gestured to
the riders. 'Make torches from their camp-fires. Burn the wagons.' The men dismounted and started
toward, Crane leading them.
Jeremiah stepped into their path. 'Please sir, do not do . . .' A rider grabbed the old man, hurling him
aside. Jeremiah fell heavily, but struggled to his feet as Isis ran at the man who had struck him, lashing out
with her fist. The rider parried the blow easily and pushed her away.
And Jeremiah watched in helpless despair as the men converged on the fire.
*
Aaron Crane was exultant as he strode towards the fire. This was the work he had been born for,
making the land holy and fit for the people of the Book, These Movers were trash of the worst kind, with
no understanding of the demands of the Lord. The men were lazy and shiftless, the women no better than
common whores. He glanced at the blonde woman who had struck at Leach, Her clothes were
threadbare and her breasts jutted against the woollen shirt she wore. Worse than a whore, he decided,