"Shirley Meier & S. M. Stirling - Fifth Millenium 02 - Saber and Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Meier Shirley)

over at the castaway they were just bringing onboard.

A small, pale woman lying on the boards, black braids knotted and crusted with
salt, silver nail-paint shining on her hands. Captain might get a good passage
fee from that one. Looks like she might clean up nicely, though I don't
recognize the race. White-skinned as a Payalach highlander, but tiny, like a
dwarf except that the proportions were normal. She craned her neck, more
interested, as the bosun looked up and said something to the captain, smiling,
pointing to the woman's ankles and the wooden cuffs. The captain smacked his
palms together and clasped self-satisfied hands in the small of his back as he
turned back to the wheel. The bosun sent someone below and held a cup of water
to the woman on the deck. Ten-Knife put his paws out on Shkai'ra's knee and
started to knead and purr. The castaway drank thirstily, coughed, drank more.

"Ai! Cat! Stop that!" Shkai'ra unhooked his claws from her horsehide breeches
and her skin, dice clattering to the deck, and looked up again as the crewman
Drought up a length of rope.

They're counting her a found slave. If she lives, her sale will be more than
enough to pay for her rescue. There's a good market for exotics in the City,
and there aren't many races that small. She looked down at the dice and
grinned at the three sixes showing. "la, Ten-Knife, always lucky when I don't
know it or need it."

Her head snapped up at the sudden shouting forward, hand falling reflexively
to the bone hilt of her saber. The half-dead castaway had exploded up off the
deck when they'd tried to secure her ankle chains. One crewman stumbled back,
bloody hands clamped over his face, the bosun lay on the deck with her throat
slashed open.

No blade, how-

The castaway launched herself on the next, the one with the boathook, blocked
the weapon with one forearm, snatched his belt-knife and slashed up with it in
the same motion.

Shkai'ra's mouth pursed in a silent whistle. Not bad. Other crew answered the
noise, grabbing up belaying pins and rope-ends as they ran. The captain jumped
over the poop rail to the main deck, pulling his sword. The woman backed up
against the rail, boathook in one hand, knife in the other, bloody to the
elbows. She panted, swaying on her feet. Shkai'ra found herself watching,
standing relaxed with her hand on her sword. She rather hoped the castaway
would escape; that had been a good fight.

There was a black blur from the duffle beside her as Ten-Knife streaked across
the deck, leaped up and landed, all claws out, on the captain's cotton-clad
back. He shrieked with surprise and pain, spun around, trying to reach over
his shoulder with the shortsword; the first mate reached to pull the cat loose
and pulled back her thumb bitten to the bone. Ten-Knife jumped down.