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

in the process-" More laughter, to herself. "Well, I can pay." She tossed the
paper aside and moved to the window, sighing and stretching in vast
contentment. It was early morning, and the rain had washed the air of some of
its tidewater sultriness; there was a freshness to the damp, a smell of coffee
and food and silt-laden water from the river.

Megan watched a moment, then poured herself a mug of tea. She leaned back
against the pillows, heaped high and newly beaten into submission, promptly
scalding her mouth.

"Fishguts! I should know better." She put the mug down and watched Shkai'ra
for a long moment before gathering her hair to rebraid it. "I knew there was .
. . ouch ... a reason that I seldom unbound this mess. I should hack it all
off." She finished winding the braids around her head and fetched her knife as
Shkai'ra drew her saber.

"On the lunge, wouldn't it be better to use the other arm as a
counterbalance?" Megan asked.

"Not ... if ... you're . . . using ... a shield," Shkai'ra said, between deep
even breaths. She shifted her grip to the two-handed foot fighting stance and
snapped into the guard-against-spear, then whipped down into the straight cut
to the head, the pear-splitter. The moves flowed one into the other, yet each
was sharp and definite, ending with a "huff' of expelled breath at the moment
of impact, the long flat muscles standing out under the skin in clean relief
as they tensed and relaxed.

"Not that I really know much about those ox-stickers," Megan said. She began
her own exercises, a series of fluid moves, one into the other, holding each
pose a second or so, increasing the speed until she was blurring through a
shadow fight that ended with the lunge; throat, heart, groin. She stood up,
and nodded at her imaginary opponent, and walked back toward the bed, nipping
the knife.

Shkai'ra had finished with a sideways flick of the sword and had stood
watching, wiping the steel in her hands carefully, before starting to dress.
"Ox-sticker it might be, but good for keeping small people with sharp objects
in their hands at a safe distance."

Megan glanced out of the corner of one eye. "Oh?" She found herself wanting to
show off her skill. What is the matter with me? She tossed the knife
thoughtfully in her hand.

The Kommanza stuffed the last bit of bread into her mouth and finished
buckling on her saber. The stiletto disappeared up one sleeve, and the dagger
rode opposite the sword. Then she produced a shot-pistol from under the
pillow, a heavy double-barreled weapon with a pistol grip. Breaking it open,
she checked the brass cartridges.

Megan looked down at the cup left on her tray and picked it up with an