"Nancy Springer - Isle 03 - The Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

made a move to hinder. When the bread was gone, Trevyn sank back and lay very still, afraid he might
retch. But he kept it down, and toward evening he felt strength coming of it. He sat up and looked
around.

"-Whence d'ye come?" a slave asked him, but he only smiled and shook his head. There were about a
dozen men in



the pit, of all ages and sizes. Some had black hair, some brown or russet, but none were as blond as he.
They stared at him curiously. "Were ye shipwrecked?" another ventured, but again Trevyn gave no
spoken reply. Almost insensibly he had resolved to be a mute in this land, so that he would not betray
himself. And also in silent, inward rebellion. . . . Throughout the long day on the beaches he had uttered
no sound. That had been his father's stubbornness in him; they could enslave him, but, by blood, they
could not make him cry out. Now Trevyn realized that his bravado might stand him in good stead. Better
even to be a mute slave than a dishonored prince held for ransom, or dead, or worse.

The slavers kept Trevyn in the pit with the others for a week. The food was only bread in the morning,
raw turnips or carrots at night, and dirty water that seeped down the walls into shallow stone cups. But
even on this diet Trevyn gained strength, for he was allowed to rest. Indeed, he paced the stony floor
with boredom and restless rage. Every once in a while some wretch was hurled down from above as he
had been. Many had been slaves all their lives and picked themselves up almost as if they were used to it.
Others looked as miserable as he had been. But none, Trevyn noticed, had been beaten as cruelly as he.

The morning of Trevyn's eighth day in the pit, a narrow ladder dropped through the trapdoor and a slave
merchant shouted at the slaves to come up. They went docilely, almost numbly, took their places, and
were roped into a line as if they were indeed nothing more than trade goods. Hatred and pride would not
let Trevyn go so tamely. Let them come get him, he grimly thought. Heart pounding, he waited.

"That towheaded lout must be deaf as well as mute," he heard one slayer say.

"If he has eyes, he knows well enough what he's to do," another snapped. "If he weren't so
good-looking, I'd kill him now and save someone else the trouble."

Three of them came down after him. He crouched, hands at the ready; by any god, they had better
beware of him now that he had the use of his hands! They came at him from three sides. He lunged at
one . . . and then they pinned him more deftly than he would have believed possible, tied his wrists



with cutting force. One of them glared angrily, a bruise forming on his swarthy face.

"Give me that whip," he said, reaching for it.

"We're already late starting," the other replied testily. He turned on Trevyn. "Get up the ladder, you, or
we'll leave you here to starve?"

He wanted to make them hoist him up by main force. But he sensed that the threat was not idle; the
slavers seemed to have reached the last stages of exasperation. Reluctantly, slowly enough to make them
lash at him from behind, he went up and took his place in line. He had never felt less willing to yield; his