"Alastair Reynolds - The Sledge-maker's Daughter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Alastair)

The Sledge-makerтАЩs Daughter by Alastair
Reynolds
Author: Andy
24 Jan
This story, from Interzone issue 209, has been shortlisted for the 2007 BSFA Award
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The Sledge-makerтАЩs Daughter
by Alastair Reynolds

She stopped in sight of Twenty Arch Bridge, laying down her bags to rest her hands from the weight of
two hogs''' heads and forty pence worth of beeswax candles. While she paused, Kathrin adjusted the
drawstring on her hat, tilting the brim to shade her forehead from the sun. Though the air was still cool,
there was a fierce new quality to the light that brought out her freckles.

Kathrin moved to continue, but a tightness in her throat made her hesitate. She had been keeping the
bridge from her thoughts until this moment, but now the fact of it could not be ignored. Unless she
crossed it she would face the long trudge to New Bridge, a diversion that would keep her on the road
until long after sunset.

'''Sledge-maker'''s daughter!''' called a rough voice from across the road.

Kathrin turned sharply at the sound. An aproned man stood in a doorway, smearing his hands dry. He
had a monkeylike face, tanned a deep liverish red, with white sideboards and a gleaming pink tonsure.

'''Brendan Lynch'''s daughter, isn'''t it?'''

She nodded meekly, but bit her lip rather than answer.

'''Thought so. Hardly one to forget a pretty face, me.''' The man beckoned her to the doorway of his
shop. '''Come here, lass. I'''ve something for your father.'''

'''Sir?'''

'''I was hoping to visit him last week, but work kept me here.''' He cocked his head at the painted
wooden trademark hanging above the doorway. '''Peter Rigby, the wheelwright. Kathrin, isn'''t it?'''

'''I need to be getting along, sir'├Н'''

'''And your father needs good wood, of which I'''ve plenty. Come inside for a moment, instead of
standing there like a starved thing.''' He called over his shoulder, telling his wife to put the water on the
fire.

Reluctantly Kathrin gathered her bags and followed Peter into his workshop. She blinked against the
dusty air and removed her hat. Sawdust carpeted the floor, fine and golden in places, crisp and coiled in
others, while a heady concoction of resins and glues filled the air. Pots simmered on fires. Wood was
being steamed into curves, or straightened where it was curved. Many sharp tools gleamed on one wall,
some of them fashioned with blades of skydrift. Wheels, mostly awaiting spokes or iron tyres, rested
against another. Had the wheels been sledges, it could have been her father'''s workshop, when he had
been busier.