"Ashley McConnel - Highlander Scimitar" - читать интересную книгу автора (McConnell Ashley)

shadows.

The rest of the dojo was empty at this hour, the exercise mats rolled up
neatly out of the way. The weapons were racked or mounted, as if they
were no more than conversation pieces, works of art interrupting the
bare starkness of the walls.

The exercise was complete, finished with a snapped nod, a silent salute
to the invisible opponent. Joe stifled an urge to applaud. He did
shift his weight, and MacLeod pivoted smoothly, unstartled.

"Joe. Hello." A faint, pleasant accent, too light to identify anymore,
flavored his voice. A glint of pleased recognition lit his dark eyes.

"You're slipping, MacLeod. You don't want somebody sneaking up on you
one day."

The words were wry, and the man to whom +,hey were addressed met them
with an equally wry smile in response. It wouldn't happermot now, not
ever. Joe was reasonably sure MacLeod had known someone was standing in
the doorway in the same heartbeat he had arrived; focus on the kata
notwithstanding, MacLeod was always aware of his environment.

Now, setting the sword aside, he reached for a towel and began to dry
the sweat from his chest and arms. "Something up7" he asked, perhaps a
trifle too casually.

"No, no. Just hadn't seen you for a few days, thought I'd look in and
see how you were doing." Joe moved away from the doorway, limping over
to look at the sword. It was a practice weapon, weighted to duplicate
another weapon, kept out of sight but always to hand. He shifted the
package under one arm, mentally measuring the sword against it.

MacLeod chuckled. "I'm doing fine, Joe. No ancient enemies showing up,
no new ones either. It's quiet. I like it that way." He tossed the
towel over his shoulder, led the other man into the back office of the
dojo.

This, too, showed much of the spare good taste of its owner. Weapons
hung on these walls as well, but this was a room for doing business,
with a wooden desk-not expensive, but not cheap either-office chairs,
and metal file cabinets. It was a place where work was done, and
clutter was not permitted.

A bottle of water waited on the desk; MacLeod took it up and drank
deeply, ostentatiously not looking at the package Dawson carried under
his arm. Dawson waited; MacLeod was in excellent shape and would
recover quickly from the exercise, and then there were the private
rituals of friendship to be observed.