"Christopher Stasheff - Rogue Wizard 07 - A Wizard In Midgard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)

or to be allowed to go first, but they were sprinkled throughout the line. It
wasn't even big person/small person in alternation, but one here, two there,
even three in one place. Finally he cracked the system--the ones in front were
the oldest, with the youngest next; the middle-aged came last, forcing
themselves to wait, presumably because the others needed their food more.
Finally Gar came up, and the server scraped the bottom of the bucket to come up
with half a ladleful for him. She started to hold it out, then stared. "You have
no bowl!"
"I'm new today," Gar told her.
"Are you indeed!" She peered up at him, squinting-she was one of the small ones.
"What's your name, lad?"
"Gar," he answered.
"Well, I'm Lalle." The little woman turned to her partner, a woman two feet
taller than herself. "Vonna, have we an extra bowl?"
"Always." The big woman set down her ladle and fished an empty wooden bowl out
of a huge pocket in her apron. She handed it to Gar. "Scrub it with sand when
you've done, and keep it under your pillow! Here, now." She scraped around the
bucket with her ladle and plopped a half-dipper of porridge into his bowl. Lalle
added her half dipper, and Gar thanked them numbly, then turned away, staring
into his bowl and wondering how he was supposed to survive to do heavy work on a
bowl of thickened pea soup.
He also wondered how he was supposed to eat it, but one look at his fellow
slaves told him the answer. He sat down by the door and dipped two fingers into
the mess, then stuck them in his mouth and sucked off the food. It was crude,
but it worked. The porridge was, at least, reasonably tasteless. He reminded
himself that it could have been worse. In fact, he was so hungry that it
actually tasted good-or felt that way.
When he was done, he followed the others outside to a sand heap where he scoured
his bowl, then went back indoors. He was amazed to hear the slaves beginning to
sing. It was a slow, mournful ballad, even as he would have expected, but it was
full of the promise of the joys of tending the gardens of the gods amid the
fragrance of fruits that made people always young, and where all work seemed
play.
Gar listened, feeling his stomach sink. Were their lives so miserable that this
was the golden afterlife that made the burden of existence bearable-an eternity
of work for a kind master, in a garden where perfume induced euphoria? He
shuddered inside at the thought.
Then a rough voice tore through the song. "Greta!"
The slaves fell silent on the instant, and the girl who had brought Gar his
drink stood up, paling and backing away, hands out to defend. "Not me! It was
only three nights ago!"
"So I find your body pleasing." Kawsa strode into the slave barracks, two other
overseers behind him, grinning eyes gleaming with lust. "Out, girl, and into the
barn!"
"No!" Greta cried. "It's not fairl Not so soon! Choose someone else!" She turned
to her fellow slaves in appeal. "Someone who hasn't been in a while, please!"
Stone-faced, Rega started to rise, but Kawsa just pushed her back down. "It's
you tonight, Greta lass, and none other! Come now!"
"No! I won't!" Greta backed away, then suddenly bolted for the window.
Kawsa caught her in two strides, wrestling her down to the floor, then catching