"Combat Shopping" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martindale Lee)

"Yes, indeed," she replied as she began to turn, "I'm looking . . ."

The man blinked and looked flustered when presented with unmistakable evidence of his misidentification of Horatia's gender. But he quickly recovered. "My humble apologies, my lady. How may we serve?"

"I understand you're the best armorer in town."

The salesman beamed. "Indeed so, my lady. Voted so in the Forgecroft Observer five years' running. May I say you've come to the right place for a gift for your noble spouse."

"I'm not married."

"For your handsome betrothed then."

"Don't have one of those either."

"Then it's your brother being so honored?"

"I probably have a few running about, but so far, none have made themselves known to me."

The man was reaching the end of both experience and imagination. Then a thought crossed his mind and he smiled solicitously. "Of course. A tribute of fine armor from a dutiful daughter to her beloved father."

Horatia barked a laugh. "That would assume I knew who he was. No, the armor I'm looking for is for me."

The man's face went the color of milk from which the cream had been skimmed. From his mouth, which had dropped open, came a short series of unintelligible sounds, and his eyes, holding an unreadable mixture of expressions, had returned to Horatia's impressive bosom. "But . . . you're . . . you're . . . female!"

"I thought we'd already established that. So can you help me or not?"

"My lady, I am so terribly sorry, but we cannot. Ambyrcryffye y Fyrcche is an armorer of gentlemen."

Horatia pointed to a large yet tasteful sign on one wall of the shop. "It says right there, and on one out front, that you specialize in custom work. I assure you I can pay for it."

"Indeed we do," came the reply, "and I'm sure you can, but . . ." There was a pause as he cast through his mind for an acceptable comeback. The patent smile returned, and he continued smoothly. "None of our designs and patterns would take into account your . . . huh . . . unique dimensional challenges." He seemed rather pleased with his delicate turn of phrase. He seemed even more pleased when another idea struck him. In short order, Horatia had been given the name and location of someone who worked exclusively in "designs for women."

* * *
Horatia double-checked the address she'd been given; Feddoricce GroveHoly's looked like many things, but an armorer wasn't one of them. And the "armor" on display in front of the shop looked like nothing the warrior had ever seen on the battlefield, in either configuration or color.

Take the item identified as a "breastplate," an intricate interspiraling of what appeared to be hammered gold and silver, displaying fine craftsmanship and an engineer's eye for cantilevering. But it was plate armor by only the thinnest definition of the term and left more of the titular anatomy exposed than it protected. The idea of having anyone see her in it made Horatia blush; the thought of facing a bare blade with nothing but it between the blade and her was one she put aside quickly.

On the other side of the entrance was something that covered a great deal more of the torso and was made of leather, although she knew of no natural animal that courted predatory attention with a pelt of such a color. It also appeared to be so small in the waist that one would be hard-pressed to breathe in it, much less fight. As to the functionality of the four dangling straps at the bottom, she had not a clue.

She was examining a bit of mailЧtwo bits, actually, tiny triangles of iridescent links strung on a thin chainЧwhen a female voice behind her said, "That doesn't come in your size." At first glance, Horatia wondered where the woman who had spoken was hiding. The person she'd turned to face looked like an undernourished preadolescent boy, although why a boy would be wearing a spirally breastplate and a microscopic breechclout that matched the mail in her hands, she couldn't guess.

She wasn't given time to try; the hanger was plucked out of her hands and returned to the rack as the woman said, "Actually, you'll find nothing here in your size. Our artisans design for an elite clientele and," she looked Horatia up and down, pursed her lips and snorted derisively, "that clientele does not include oversized women."

"Over whose size?" Horatia queried as she returned the up-and-down appraisal with a raised eyebrow. "From the looks of it, your artisans don't design for women at all. And they sure don't design armor, which is what I'm looking for. Any suggestions?"

* * *
Horatia next found herself looking at full-length wall-portraits of willowy maidens and signs announcing Breastbindings Sale! Buy two, get the third free! and wondering if she'd misremembered the street address. Then she spotted another sign that read, On your way to your ideal size? Wear Llaene Briant on your way down!. And the saleswoman approaching her was considerably more substantial than the women in the portraits. This must be the place.

"Right this way," the woman replied brightly when Horatia told her what she was looking for. Horatia began to feel hope. It didn't last long.