"Thieves World v2 7 - 1988 - Dagger - D Drake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Star was old enough to recognize the fury, and wise enough to avoid it even when
she was fatigued. She patted her protector's hip.

The coin Samlor held between the middle and index finger of his left hand was
physically small but minted from gold. It was an indication to the sharp-eyed
tapster that his customer wanted more than drink, and a promise that he would
pay well for the additional service. The man behind the bar nodded as he scooped
clabbered milk from a stoneware jug under the bar.

6 David Drake

There was no drink more refreshing than blue John to a dusty traveller, tired
and hungry but too dry to bolt solid food. It was a caravaner's drinkЧand Samlor
was a caravaner, obvious to anyone, even before he ordered. He shouldn't have
been surprised at the way a stranger had addressed him.

Samlor's cloak was pinned up now to half-length as he would wear it for riding.
When he slept or stood in a chill breeze, it could cover him head to toe. The
fleece from which it was tightly woven had a natural blue-black color, but it
had never been washed or dyed. Lanolin remaining in the wool made the garment
almost waterproof.

The tunic he wore beneath the cloak was wool also but died a neutral russet
color. Starting out before dawn on the caravan road, Samlor would wear as many
as three similar tunics over this one, stripping them off and binding them to
his saddle as the sun brightened dazzlingly on the high passes.

The bottom layer against his skin of silk, the only luxury Samlor allowed
himself or even desired while he was on the road.

He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man even without the added bulk of his
cloak, but his wrists would have been thick on a man of half again his size. The
skin of his hands and face was roughened by a thousand storms whipping sand or
ice crystals across the plains, and it was darkened to an angiy red that
mimicked the tan his Cirdonian genes did not have the pigment to support.

When Samlor smiled, as he did occasionally, the expression flitted across his
face with the diffidence of a visitor sure he's knocking at the wrong address.
When he barked orders, whether to men or beasts, his features stayed neutral and
nothing but assurance rang in his chill, crisp tones.

When Samlor hil Samt was angry enough to kill, he spoke in soft, bantering
tones. The muscles stretched across his cheekbones and pulled themselves into a
visage very different from the way he normally looked; a visage not altogether
human.

He rarely became that angry; and he was not angry now,

DAGGER 7