"Esther M. Friesner - Chicks 05 - Turn The Other Chick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

Suzanne's threatening pen. The chief tried to focus on the pen's tip, squinting as his entire head followed
the wavering instrument. "Here, now. I've had enough. Are you a sorceress or are you just crazy?"

Suzanne's anger at the bandits, at Calliope, and at the entire situation finally flared. She raised the pen
over her head, her eyes wild, her unkempt hair flaring around her face. "I'mnotcrazy. I'm awriter!"

The bandits stared wide-eyed at her for a moment. "Run!" several shouted at once, and the entire pack
took to its heels.

Perplexed, Suzanne watched them go, holding her fighting stance. As the figures of the bandits dwindled
into the distance, she finally lowered the pen, then ran her free hand through her hair. "I don't lookthatbad
in the morning," she muttered.

Calliope reappeared directly in front of her, smiling with approval. "Excellent! You've had experiences
worthy of interest. I'm sure you're just filled with the spirit of Inspiration."

Suzanne glowered at her Muse. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I feel inspired to do something right now."
Her hand balled into a fist as she swung right at Calliope, but the Muse vanished like a burst soap bubble
and Suzanne's attack swished through empty air.

Grumbling and feeling muscles knot up from sleeping all night on rocks, Suzanne limped toward her
horse, now standing with no sign of skittishness. Suzanne eyed the beast sourly. "I'm going to call you
Inconstant. You really don't seem to care what happens to your owners, do you?" It was impossible to
tell for sure on a horse's face, but Suzanne thought Inconstant smirked at her words.

Riding in full daylight, the journey back to the city was an easy one. Suzanne found a writing pad in one
of the saddlebags and worked on a story as she rode. A new set of guards were at the city gate when
Suzanne arrived. They waved her through, though not without some worried comments that her attire
might represent the first indication of a trend toward modest dressing by barbarian sword maidens.

This time, Suzanne strode firmly into the Temple of Inspiration, ignoring the flinches of those she passed
close enough to that they caught a whiff of her odorous armor. She came up to the same Editor she'd
spoken with before, kneeling briefly as she presented her offering.

"Another manuscript already?" The Editor took it, glanced at the first page, kept reading, and twenty
minutes later looked back up at Suzanne. "Your offering is accepted." Suzanne smiled as the Editor
painstakingly counted out a small pile of coins. "That's the standard payment rate. It's set by the goddess,
so don't complain to me."

"It's fine." Suzanne swept up the coins.

"Can I expect more offerings from you?"

Suzanne smiled again. "Perhaps. First, though, I have to kill my Muse."
The Editor shook her head sadly. "Writers can't kill their Muses. A Muse can leave of its own accord,
but it can't be killed."

"I can try." Suzanne paused before the idol of Inspiration to toss some of her new coins onto the
goddess' altar, then headed out of the temple.