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

There were crowds along the Laneway of Impeccable Respectability; they turned
to* throngs as the two women turned onto the eastbound Street of Dubious
Delights Tolerated But Not Approved; that was a major artery leading to the
Old City that Megan had wandered the night she came in. Carts drawn by oxen,
mules, horses, dogs, and humans crowded the brick pavement; folk on foot
thronged among them. Naked porters bent under wicker baskets; robed upper
servants; a party of off-duty soldiers in green leather tunics, hands on the
hilts of their shortswords; two tall black Haytin from the Kahab Sea, feathers
nodding from their fantastic sculpted manes of coiled hair.

Smells of sweat, dung, hay, smoke, hot brick dust hung around them among the
creaks and clatters and babble cast back by the three-story brick walls on
either side.

Not every building along Delight Street was a joy den, of course; tiny stores
spilled their goods onto the raised side passages, hawkers cried, pedal-driven
looms thumped from behind blank walls; a small girl in a loincloth stood and
drew rude words on the stucco with a stick of charcoal until a
harassed-looking woman darted out to drag her off by one ear, swatting at the
child's rear energetically with her other hand.

Megan dodged around a cart loaded twice head-high with cornstalks, then
avoided a priest in a soiled orange robe with stubble on her shaven skull with
a whirl that brought her to rest against the counter of a wine shop. Tubs of
wine, beer and fruit juices were sunken into the counter, which bore stacks of
cheap clay mugs, a dipper, and the elbows of a scowling owner.

As crowded as the night street, she thought. But the nature of the crowd had
changed. People spoke more loudly, and sunlight brightened them; the night
folk were gone to their pallets. This city at night had a darkness more than
material, tasting of smoke and incense and music. A torrent of children
passed, shrieking with the excitement of some incomprehensible game.

She reached over to touch Shkai'ra on the elbow. "See, that one there?"

Gawking, a boy of fifteen seasons stood on the corner. Tall for his age, and
big in the wrists and ankles; Shkai'ra judged him to be from the Piedmont
borderlands from his long tunic and leggings and the pale skin, perhaps of a
yeoman-farmer kinfast.

"An easy mark,' Megan said. She slid a tiny iron slug across the counter and
took a cup of pomegranate juice, cool and tart on her tongue. Briefly, she
wondered at the metal's value. "In F'talezon, the child packs would leave him
stripped and wondering on the DragonLord's doorstep. Not a healthy place.'

"Not greatly different here," Shkai'ra said as they elbowed their way forward
again. A woman in a soiled white tunic was talking to the boy. "That's Maihra,
of the Low Lords. They specialize in kidnapping; that one's kinfast will have
to pay well for him.