"Kim Stanley Robinson - The Years Of Rice And Salt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

He was asleep on the warm sand of a beach, dreaming of the steppes, trying to keep Temur out of the
dream by force of will alone, when he was rousted by strong hands, rolling him over and tying his legs
together and his arms behind his back. He was hauled to his feet.
A man said 'What have we here?' or something to that effect. He spoke something like Turkic, Bold
didn't know many of the words, but it was some kind of Turkic, and he could usually catch the drift of
what they were saying. They looked like soldiers or perhaps brigands, big hardhanded ruffians, wearing
gold earrings and dirty cotton clothes. He wept while grinning foolishly at the sight of them; he felt his face
stretch and his eyes burn. They regarded him warily.

'A madman,' one ventured.

Bold shook his head at this. 'I I haven't seen anyone,' he said in Ulu Turkic. His tongue was big in his
mouth, for despite all his babbling to himself and the gods, he had forgotten how to talk to people. 'I
thought everyone was dead.'

He gestured to the north and west.

They did not seem to understand him.

'Kill him,' one said, as dismissive as Temur.

'The Christians all died,' another said.

'Kill him, let's go. Boats are full.'

'Bring him,' the other said. 'The slavers will pay for him. He won't bring down the boat, thin as he is.'

Something like that. They hauled behind him down the beach. He had to hurry so the rope wouldn't pull
him around backwards, and the effort made him dizzy. He didn't have much strength. The men smelled of
garlic and that made him ravenous, though it was a foul smell. But if they meant to sell him to slavers, they
would have to feed him. His mouth was watering so heavily that he slobbered like a dog, and he was
weeping as well, nose running, and with his hands tied behind his back he couldn't wipe his face.

'He's foaming at the mouth like a horse.'

'He's sick.'

'He's not sick. Bring him. Come on,' this to Bold, 'don't be scared.
Where we take you even the slaves live a better life than you barbaria
dogs.'


Then he was shoved over the side of a beached boat, and with great jerks it was pulled off into the
water, where it rocked violently. Immediately he fell sideways into the wooden wall of the thing.

' UP here, slave. On that pile of rope. Sit!'

He sat and watched them work. Whatever happened, it was better than the empty land. just to see men
move, to hear them talk, filled him. It was like watching horses run on the steppe. Hungrily he watched