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

expression of disgust. "Swill!' She threw the contents as far back into her
throat as possible, so she wouldn't have to taste it, and shuddered. "Gahh,
that's awful." She washed the taste of fish oil from her mouth with a swig of
cold tea and sat on the pillow by the desk.

Shkai'ra clicked the firearm closed with a flexing of her wrist and walked
over to run a finger around the inside of the china tumbler. She tasted and
made a grimace.

"Zoweitz of foulness, what is this stuff?" She patted her pouch to make sure
the other two rounds were in place; that was the price of a good horse, and
the weapon would buy and stock a farm.

Megan held up her hands and looked at the light glancing off the silvery
nails. How much do I trust her? "These are steel. The witch who gave me these
warned me that the iron in them comes from my body. Fish oil has the most of
what is needed, and rather than letting my claws leach me of my life . . ."
She reached out and tapped them on the mug. The sound rang hard. "I've had
them only about seven, eight iron-cycles; moonturnings, you would say."

Shkai'ra looked at her hands, halfway between nervousness and appreciation.
That was a good magic, for a warrior; ten Knives nobody would suspect and
nobody could take away. Even the steel-sheen could have been paint.

"Sharp, too, from what I saw on board the Radiance, kheeredo," she said.

"Sharp? Oh, I don't have means of really honing them, yet." Megan lapsed into
silence. The word "kh'eeredo" had a sense of kinship in it, but this one had
been a stranger to her just yesterday. On the ship she had distracted the
sailors, but that had been for the cat's sake. . . . Bonds could be used
against you. They opened you up to feeling and emotion. The old habits died
hard; even the donning of clothing had put the other at arm's length. Perhaps
the aloneness wasn't necessary, here.

Her voice was sharp as she turned her eyes away, a crease between the
eyebrows. "A weapon, I take it?" She nodded at the shotpistol that Shkai'ra
still held.

"Ia," Shkai'ra said, tossing it to her. Megan caught it automatically. "You
point it, pull the hook on the bottom called a trigger, and it makes holes in
things. Magic, I suppose. Expensive, too; a last chance if you're cornered."

She turned and kicked her foot into a sandal, bracing the foot against the bed
and winding the soft leather straps around her calf. Boots and trousers still
felt more natural, but she looked alien enough as it was, and the Fehinnan
clothes were more comfortable in this weather. Her back prickled slightly; it
was early days, to let the little one behind her with a weapon. Still,
Shkai'ra thought herself a judge of people.

As her other hand came up to support the weight of the dung, Megan looked at