"Shirley Meier & S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millenium 02 - Saber and Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

Like being in a nightmare, only with your eyes open, Megan thought as the ship
lurched and flung her against the ring-bolt. She grabbed and clung to it,
feeling Jaipahl and the person beyond him catch onto the chain linking them
together. She blinked to test that her eyes were open. The Arkan Hell is like
this: airless. On the fairest of days, when the hold was opened as much as it
could be, a candle wouldn't stay lit on the bottom deck, fading to a red
smolder. During the storm the ship was sealed, and now it was like being
smothered: you could fill your lungs till they hurt, but it did no good.

She licked dry lips, trying to swallow, bracing herself as she was flung on
top of Jaipahl, both of them sliding in the mush of shit and piss, blood and
vomit coating the boards. "Sorry," she shouted to make herself heard over the
shrieking of the ship. She could feel him nod. It was like thunder in the
dark; the hull vibrating as it slid into the troughs of the waves, numbing the
ears. The moans of the sick and dying couldn't be heard.

The Flycatcher's bottom boards, just above the bilge, were packed with slaves
lying head to toe, four across the beam. Around the sides of the ship there
were half floors, wide enough for one rank of slaves to lie, and one more
above that, the half trestles made of cheap pine. Megan was lucky enough to be
on the top tier.

There was no way to get water, and the shitbuckets at the ends of the rows had
become dangerous missiles as the ship rolled, lurching out of their stands.
For a moment, she shuddered at the thought of what it must be like down at the
bottommost layer.

How many days: one? Two at most? She'd hesitated about doing anything as the
storm hit, even though the crew would be busy. If the slaves could get loose
in the tumult, they'd nave to crew the ship. I hate being unsure of what to
do. They were nowhere near land that she last knew, but with the storm blowing
for more than a day they'd have to do something soon or all die of thirst. I'd
heard that storms on this sea could run for days, but reading it and feeling
it are two different things. The groaning of the wooden hull was an even,
harsh grind, punctuated now and then with tooth-grating crack-pop sounds as
the Flycatcher climbed up and planed down waves peaking high as the mizzen
masthead.
Jaipahl reached out in the dark and fumblingly patted her shoulder. She
swallowed again, trying to work up spit, tasting dry bile. Jaipahl leaned over
and yelled in her ear.

"There's more water in the bilge, someone passed the word up. It's running
through the slats on the bottom tier."

Her skin crawled as she realized the ship's seams were going. The Flycatcher
was filthy but sound, and the decking hatches were still tight. The rhythm of
the waves was bad, though-a pounding twist as the slaver ploughed into each
swell, wrenching as her bow broke Free. Treenails were yielding, stringers
working loose on the frame, caulking tearing out.