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

Megan had noticed and avoided a number of people trained much the same way she
was. Thieves had a look to them. "So. What should we be doing?"

Shkai'ra looked down at her. "You can buy anything in Illizbuah, anything that
exists. But I know just the place you might be interested in."

The weapons shop was part of the Dark Creatures of the Earth Brought Forth and
Transformed by Effulgent Light: one of the metalworkers' bazaars. The whole of
it was covered, two stories high on arched glass-fiber-concrete; below were
narrow laneways through acres of milling confusion-customers, guards,
artisans, fetch-and-carry slaves, apprentices, food sellers. For all that, it
was less crowded than might have been expected; access was limited, and
Shkai'ra had had to show her member's sigil in the Guards', Mercenaries' and
Caravaneers' Guild to enter.

"Whulzhaitz," she snarled in her own language. "Sheepshit. Sometimes I think
it would have been better to settle among unlettered folk. At least if they
rob or kill or imprison you, it will be for a better reason than not having
your papers in order."

I'd better buy papers, soon, Megan thought. I'll probably need them to leave
from the looks of this place.

They plunged into the crowd. Shkai'ra's height and sword and alien looks made
only a modicum of elbow work needful; she noted that surprisingly few jostled
Megan, and none twice. The air was thick: smoke from the forges, despite their
fuel of charcoal or city gas; sweat, the vinegary smell of hot metal; the
soapy almost-taste of quenching oil. Light was dim through the grimy
skylights, and Shkai'ra found her way more by memory than sight. It played her
false more than once, amid booths cobbled with board and canvas.

"Been more than a year; they shift .. . Ah, here." One alcove opened to a long
narrow workshop. It was for display and a little finishing work; a lathe
whirred somewhere in the background, and the teeth-jarring sound of a
grindstone came, clear through the sun-roar of the crowds echoing from the
pillars.

The proprietor looked up from dashing a dipper of water over his head as they
turned sideways to enter. The wet glistened on his scalp, bald as an egg, and
on skin as black as the soot of his trade and seamed with five decades of
forge heat. He was dressed in a loincloth and leather apron; not a tall man,
but muscle bulked huge on ape-thick arms and shoulders.

"Hai, Firehair! he said, grinning hugely. He had the slightest trace of an
accent; native-born, but his mother had wandered in on a ship from the Sea
Islands. "No need to ask what you seek."

He waved a hand toward the walls and racks. Weapons, and things that must be
weapons from the company they kept. There were swords, short double-edged