"Christine W. Murphy - At Your Command" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Christine W)

Prologue
BOY TUGGED at his leather collar, then stopped when he noticed the embarrassed glances of his
friends. He fingered the bowl of food that he'd left untouched at his feet until now. Other members of the
circle of nine looked away, giving him time to switch bowls with Owl, the youngest and the most in need
of food, aside from Boy.
"Prince is a cruel fellow," Tandia whispered. She stroked Boy's bare arm with her painted nails.
Her touch sent whispered taunts between his legs, which he dared not answer. Boy shook his head.
After three days in the collar, it hurt to speak.
Prince, so named because he was the only one among them who could gather the coins for a meal,
hadn't meant to cause Boy pain. Like a thoughtless fool, he gave his friend candied sweets Boy could not
eat. Nothing could pass the constricting bands that circled his neck except for the smallest sips of water.
The collar provided the master with insurance Boy would return with what he stole.
If he weren't so busy stuffing his face with boiled honey sticks, Prince would doubtless scold him from
staying away from his master for so long. "The collar ensures the slave return to his rightful owner. You
don't wish to go against the natural order do you? I must attend school every morning and work with my
father every afternoon. My mother has already picked one of my fat cousins for my bride. When I marry,
I won't have even these few hours to spend with you, my friends."
Boy had received the lecture before with a respectfully bowed head. He did not want to hear it again,
not when his stomach had shriveled to an aching nut.
Now, Boy looked at Prince, one of his eight friends, who squatted around the fire with him and shared
stories of the day. What about his smiling friend made him more worthy of a happy life? Why did he wear
embroidered linens and have food enough to share?
Tandia scratched at Boy's arm for attention. He fought to ignore her. Only a rich man could afford a
wife, or a woman such as Tandia.
"Let me take you back," Tandia said. "I can say I found you in a ditch, beaten by palace guards. You
are dirty enough that your master will believe me. Where did you get all these bruises?"
Aware of his scars and filthy loincloth, Boy pulled away again, ashamed to have his well-washed friend
touch him and afraid she might guess his secret desire for her. He was a slave, he could be nothing more.
She wore her second best dress, tightly woven threads dyed a pale yellow. The hue made her skin
glow golden, like the sand. He could almost wish he, too, served a master who required a clean slave, a
well-fed slave, but Tandia had told him he would not like the work.
"You have to go back, Boy." The haughty words of Prince came to him over the smoky fire. The rest
of his friends nodded. No one dared disagree, not when their fingers were still sticky with his treats. "You
are a slave and a thief. It is your destiny. If you are afraid someone will catch you, come home with me.
Mother has a broken bowl you can take. That should satisfy your master for a day or two."
Boy didn't contradict his naive friend. A broken bowl, a silver one, would not satisfy his master. Only
beating his property would sate him, and then, only for a few days. Boy would return to his master, he
had no choice.
Soon the gnawing pain in his stomach would grow more unbearable than his fear of a beating. He
would kneel before the man who held the key to the shameful band he wore about his neck. Certain
knowledge of the humiliation to come and the beating that must follow were not what kept Boy from
returning. Fear trapped him outside the village and kept him hiding in the scraggly shrubs that dotted the
dunes.
Three days ago, he had faced death for the first time.
The end had come swiftly to the man kneeling in the square. The victim's head rolled from his
shoulders, severed by a shining blade, and came to rest at Boy's feet. A guard retrieved the head and
stuffed it into a basket.
Boy couldn't stop staring at the spot where the dead man's eyes had fixed him in place. "Who was this
man?" he'd asked.
 "A thief," barked the guard. "What's that you're hiding there under your shirt?"