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

wouldn't spit on them. It might give them the strength to crawl to water. Very
nice, the way you took out that kinless fishfucker's throat. Fast." She eyed
the other woman. "I don't think you'd make a very good slave, anyway. Can't
see you lying down peacefully for the masters horny teenaged offspring,
somehow." She sipped, continuing in a slightly different tone: "Room for two."

Pretty, she thought idly. Interesting. One of the compensations of exile was
meeting odd types. Everything came to Illizbuah if you waited, went the
saying. Although it was very odd that they should meet again; it smelled of
luck. Two sheep, Glitch, she added mentally.

"I thank you," the other said, in Fehinnan still more heavily accented. She
laid a fingertip to the white strand of hair at her temple and inclined her
head slightly. "I hight . . . pardon, am Megan. Called . . . Byeliy-skayishka,
ah, ' white-Hair-Bit?' She indicated the silver strand in her hair.
"Whitlock," Shkai'ra said, pronouncing the word carefully. "I think.
Godsdamned Fehinnan always sounds like they've got porridge in their mouths."
She shrugged. "I'm being rude. Speed to your horse, strength to your lance, a
straight shaft to your bow. Shkai ra Mek-Kermak's-Kin, I am called: late
Senior in Stonefort, in the Kommanz of Granfor. On the Sea of Grass, six
months' travel north and west."

Megan examined her speculatively. The copper-blond hair was darker wet and she
hadn't recognized the woman at first. Tall, eyes of a pale smoke-grey,
startling against the dark-tanned face. A thin nigh-cheeked face ... a saber
must have caused that scar arcing from the corner of an eye down the cheek;
there were other white marks on right arm and left leg, below where the shield
would cover. A cavalry fighter, then. That would accord with the greeting; and
a plains dweller, like those at home.

The appraisal flickered through her mind in the instant it took to slide into
the water, submerge, and resurface, slicking hair back from her face. A few
suds floated free, from the preliminary cleaning; the swamps took more than
one rinsing; to wash out of her memory, even if the mud was on her skin.

"A tided one . . . The only rank I claim is Riverguild Master, out of
F'talezon in Zakos, and owner/captain of my own ship. Over the Great Sea-the
Lannic, it is called here, and in the eastern end of the Mitvald." No need to
tell her any more than that. The company, ships, warehouses and all, may be
down to rags before I get back.

"Nice to hear someone who speaks Fehinnan with a worse accent than mine,"
Shkai'ra said, grinning. She was actually fluent, but the sounds were
difficult for her after the staccato gutturals of Kommanzanu.

Resentful at being ignored, the cat stood on his hind legs, stretching up. She
smiled, an odd closed curve of the lips, and scratched expertly behind his
ears. The yellow eyes closed to slits.

"As for titles, 'penniless exile' would be better, here. Or 'sellsword,' as