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

"I could eat," Shkai'ra said. "After all that hardtack, I could eat half a
roasted pig. Cods and demons, I got sick of coconut and pineapple down south."

Megan found herself wanting company. I've always been comfortable alone, she
thought. But that's always been in a familiar place or surrounded by my own
people.

Shkai'ra rose and wrapped herself in the cool fluffy towel held out by an inn
servant. "The Weary Wayfarer sets a good table," she said, stretching with
unselfconscious pleasure. "Among its other virtues. Neutrality is one;
freelances stay here, from the City and the world." She looked down to the
smaller woman; standing, the other's head just reached her breastbone. "We are
not unfriends." There was a speculative look in her eyes, just for an instant.
"Perhaps we may become friends.' The narrow face lit for a moment in an oddly
charming smile. "It would be dangerous for both of us if we were enemies, I
think."

Megan looked up and imagined that face over a blade, all angles and planes,
with not a soft line in it. "You'd have the weight and reach on me," she said
casually as they proceeded through to the changing room. Flattery. 'What does
she want? Attendants handed them long linen robes and cloth sandals. "But I'd
be willing to wager on speed, if only for the first pass," she continued,
tying the sash of the robe herself, forestalling the servant who tried to do
it for her. She knows this city, even if she's not native. We'll see.

There was an outdoor dining area, tucked into the angle between two roofs at
second-story level. Seaward, the masts of ships showed forest-thick over the
warehouses. Harbor smells were overborne by roasting meat and garlic.

"Ach, mat smells good," Megan said, looking around at the low tables and
cushions. Like home. The table bore candles in glass bubbles, salt, spices, a
platter of cornbread, a tall beaker, and cups of cool brown stoneware. The
breeze blew crisp and strong, damp from the river but cool against skins still
heated from the baths. The wind was rising before rain.

Shkai'ra shook herself and tucked her feet beneath her on the cushions. "Fish
stew?" she said to Megan inquiringly.

It sounds better than what I've been eating lately." No need to mention slave
gruel. "But I have wished for good red meat."

"I was raised on steak myself," Shkai'ra said. "Well, then. Hmmm."

A rotund woman climbed puffing out onto the rooftop terrace, followed by
several servers with trays. She presented them at a neighboring table,
whisking off the ceramic covers to a round of applause as blue flames danced
over the dish. Then she waddled over to Shkai'ra's table, mopping at her face
with one end of the towel that lay around her neck.