"E.Voiskunsky, I.Lukodyanov. The Crew Of The Mekong (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

him in the fields, and he probably knew some handicraft which he could
practise. But it would be impossible to hide a healthy young Russian for
long. The Khan's men would learn about him sooner or later-and that would be
the end of Sadreddin. Taxes were onerous as it was, and now he would be
stripped of everything he possessed. He could let the Russian go free, of
course. But where would he go to? Sadreddin grew angry with himself. The
faithful should never take pity on infidel dogs.
No, he had not fed and nursed the Russian to let him go just like that.
He would find a different way out.
One night at the end of summer Sadreddin prepared a basket of
provisions and put the basket and Fedor into his covered cart. Casting
fearful glances to right and left, he drove through the sleeping hamlet.
He had not concealed his plans. Fedor knew that the kindly Uzbek was
taking him to some place far away from Khiva to sell him.
"Are you a gunner?" he asked Fedor for the hundredth time as the cart
rolled along.
Fedor, who had learned a little Uzbek, nodded.
"Can you do a blacksmith's work?"
Again Fedor nodded absentmindedly. He was wondering what to do. It
would not be hard to overpower sluggish Sadreddin and take the horse and
cart and food away from him. But what next? It must be all of 800 versts to
Guryev. Travelling by cart it would take him a month to reach that city. But
it would be risky to follow the road. On the other hand, setting out across
the desert, without knowing where the wells were, would mean certain death.
Sadreddin knew that Fedor had no way of escaping, and so he travelled
along slowly without taking any precautions.
They reached Bukhara in two weeks' time. There Sadreddin sold Fedor to
a merchant from Kashgar for a good price. He spent the money on Bukhara
merchandise.
"You have brought good luck to my house," he told Fedor in parting.
"You fetched a good price.
If I can return home with these goods without being robbed, my family
will live well. For this, Allah will help you, even though you are an
unbeliever."
The swarthy Kashgar merchant, who had been told Fedor's history,
laughed into his thick black beard. Poor Sadreddin thought the price he had
been paid for Fedor made him a rich man. He had no idea of the true value of
a strong young man who had been trained in the arts of warfare and
metallurgy.
The merchant treated Fedor well, even giving him a horse to ride, for
he knew that Fedor would not attempt to escape from the caravan. He also
gave Fedor sheets of paper and a copper inkpot on a chain to hang at his
belt. When the caravan set up camp for the night Fedor would take his pen,
made of a split reed sharpened at the end, and, in a hand grown unaccustomed
to writing, would describe the landmarks and details of the journey. In
Astrakhan not so long ago he had envisioned his travels to distant India
from Khiva to gather information about that country. Now he was actually on
his way to India but as a slave instead of a scout of the tsar. Still, who
could tell? These notes might yet prove useful.
Fedor had decided to conceal his homesickness and bitterness and bide