"John Maddox Roberts - Stormlands 03 - The Poisoned Lands" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts John Maddox)

anticipation. Ansa reined in his mount as it tried to break into a run. He
patted its neck and leaned toward its ear.
"Easy, my pet. We're still miles from the river. No sense running now. We'll
be there before nightfall." He felt like running himself.
They camped that night near the first river of the Canyon territory. It was a
small stream, but after the desert it was a blessing and they had to watch the
cabos carefully lest they drink too much and founder. The workers were
scarcely less thirsty and they rushed down the muddy bank to sprawl on their
bellies, sucking up the now-murky liquid in prolonged draughts. The warriors
showed more self-control, first allowing their mounts to drink, then wading
upstream to clearer water before leaning from their saddles to dip from the
stream with wooden bowls.
The natives who inhabited nearby villages had long grown accustomed to these
visitations, and soon traders appeared with such goods as they knew these
visitors craved. Fresh foods and strong drink were in high demand. The village
women were ill-favored by nomad standards, but some were not so discriminating
and they found many eager customers among the workmen, who were happy to spend
their pay before the tax-gatherers took it.
Ansa sat at the fire with some other warriors, eating and drinking and talking
endlessly, after the immemorial fashion of off-duty warriors. The tender meat
of fat domestic animals was a great luxury to them, after weeks of tough
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John Maddox Roberts
THE POISONED LANDS
11
game or dried rations. The king periodically issued stem injunctions against
overindulgence in wine and beer, which were scarce in their homeland, although
more common now that they traded so widely. His subjects agreed that these
were wise rules and proceeded to ignore them every chance they got.
"We'll stay here for ten days," said Bulas, an older Ma-twa warrior who was in
command of the mission. "The cabos can eat and drink and fatten up in that
time."
"So can we," said a younger man, his voice unsteady with drink.
"I won't be returning with you," Ansa said. Bulas peered at him through the
smoke. "What do you mean?"
Ansa took another swallow of the pleasantly bitter beer. "I mean to stay here
and push south. Til rejoin you at the crater next year or the year after.''
"That would be unwise," Bulas said. "You may be taken prisoner and tortured to
reveal the site of the steel mine." Ansa shrugged. "I'll claim to be from one
of the southeastern peoples, a Ramdi or Ensata. Foreigners will never know the
difference. Even if they've been on missions to our territory, my brother and
I don't much resemble the Amsi orMatwa."
"How will you be able to bear it?" asked an Amsi his own age. "To be alone in
a foreign land, without kinsman or tribesman is terrible. If you are sick or
wounded, who will guard you? If you die, who will perform the rites?"
"I'll take my chances," Ansa said. "You accomplish nothing if you lake no
risks." Then* after a pause, "I confess, though, that I would as soon not
travel alone. Will any of you accompany me?" He looked from one to another,
but their expressions were doubtful. He had not expected otherwise. The
tribesmen were profoundly conservative. His father's merging of the peoples