"Janrae Frank - Journey of Sacred King 1 - My Sister's Keeper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frank Janrae)

though she had done a fair bit of that in less prosperous times. Every man in the
room watched her hungrily, wishing they could find themselves between those legs
one sweet night. Some remembered the taste of her from earlier days; yet not one
made the slightest untoward comment or grab at her, for there was a half-breed ogre
living in the inn's stable that would smash the first one to try.

She had just set three tankards down on a table occupied by sailors whose ship had
put in that morning and started back for the kitchen when the door opened and three
more customers came in. Becca had never seen them before. They stood looking
around as if for someone they knew. She measured and weighed them in a single
shrewd glance. The male, a half breed sylvan to judge by the breadth of his
shoulders and deep ivory tones of his skin, was as fine a piece of manhood as
Becca had ever seen. Becca prided herself on having sampled the bedroom artistry
of all the races of the coast, but had never tasted the wares of the woodland peoples
because of their rarity in the region. Seeing this one triggered a moment of
speculation, a wisp of fantasy, and a tingle between her thighs, all of which she
shoved away with a toss of her head. "If he's still here when things slow down," she
muttered, sweeping her gaze over him once more.

A silver circlet wrought like tiny leaves held the heavy masses of his curling auburn
hair in place and, though combed to conceal them, the delicate tips of his pointed
ears showed through. He carried a yew bow almost as long as he was tall, a slender
sword hung at his hip and he wore the simple rustic green tunic and breeches of the
Sharani yeomynry.

Two Sharani women flanked him, dressed and armed as he was; both black-haired
and a head taller than the half-breed; both boyishly slender, hard and well muscled,
with modest breasts. The older one carried herself with the cool pride of a woman
accustomed to command. The burnished bronze of her skin was a shade lighter than
Aejys Rowan's. She wore her smoky black hair pulled back in a simple tail. Becca
guessed her age at early twenties, then reminded herself that the usual measurements
were less than precise when applied to members of the long-lived Sharani race: She
could as easily be sixty as twenty. The woman's hands were scarred in the middle as
if a narrow blade had been driven through each one. Becca started slightly: hadn't
she heard stories during the Great War about a young woman with scarred hands?

The other, who looked to be a girl of sixteen, was an odd shade of walnut that
didn't look quite real. Her green eyes drank everything in as if it were all incredibly
new to her. Her high cheeks formed a delicate triangle with her small chin. Sensitivity
and compassion lay in her glance and mischief in the turn of her mouth.

They drew every eye in the taproom: Sharani were rare along the coast. Becca
observed the reactions of her patrons and, not knowing whether that might mean
trouble despite the fact that the Cock and Boar was Sharani owned, intercepted the
trio heading for the bar.

"Can I help you, sir? I am the tavern master," Becca said with crisp politeness,
stepping in front of them.

The half-breed smiled shyly, his large dark green eyes, shaped like sidewise tear