"Miller.and.Lee.-.Liaden.Universe.-.The.Tomorrow.Log" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Steve)

She was very fast: he sensed, rather than saw the truncheon snapping toward his head and spun in the move Edreth had drilled him in until he danced it in his sleep.
The stick whizzed by and the sorl-blade was out in the same instant, slicing back along the line of attack; drawing blood on his assailant's upper arm-the merest pinprick, but she grunted surprise.
The stick sang again and he twisted, danced under it and sideways, his arm snaking up and over her shoulder, until the blade rested, gently, against her throat.
"Drop it!"
She did, noisily; and her partner raised empty hands. Gem considered his position, blade absolutely steady, just nicking the skin.
It did not do to wantonly kill the servants of the Vornet; and this pair were doing nothing more than their duty to their leader. He looked at the man; saw the rapid-fire still in its holster; saw the empty hands and nonthreatening stance.
"You'll carry my word to Ms. Belaconto?"
The other nodded. "The message is that Gem ser Edreth declines to perform a service for Saxony Belaconto. Forcefully."
"That is," Gem agreed, "the message." He stepped back and slid the sorl-knife away. The man turned to go; the woman bent to retrieve her truncheon.
"Leave it!" he snapped; and she looked at him in surprise before glancing at her mate. "Leave it," the man said and she did, the two of them fading down the narrow courtway and out into the main street.
When he was sure they were gone, Gem picked the truncheon up and hurled it with all his strength to the roof across the cowl.


CHAPTER THREE

Events quieted. Gem went about his several businesses, though he kept a wary eye out, and on the evening of the third day he allowed himself to believe that the Vornet had relinquished its interest in him. Nor, indeed, did the next disturbance in his life come from that quarter.
He was at Kayje's Concourse, having a light nuncheon and watching the play, when Phred approached and bowed.
"Master Gem, there is one here who asks to share your table."
He frowned, because here, of course, was the Vornet again, when he had dared to think them safely settled.
"The young person in scarlet, sir," Phred murmured, under the guise of refreshing Gem's wine.
He turned his head slightly to look and found his glance captured across the room by a pair of enormous black eyes, sparkling bright in the dimness of the club; he broke the contact and picked up his glass.
"Send her away."
"Yes, sir. Your pardon, sir."
Gem returned his attention to the action at the Spyro, sipping now and then, but abruptly without taste for his nuncheon. Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Phred speak to the young person in scarlet, saw her begin to protest; saw the discreet intercession of the bouncer. Confronted with both headman and bully, she hesitated and finally left, shoulders defiantly straight in the bright cloth.
Gem joined the crowd in the center of the Concourse; wagered a bit on the Wheel; had another glass of wine and bought a deck at the Knave's table. In due time he collected his winnings and turned his steps toward home.
He had barely stepped away from the brightly lit pedstrip and onto the DownRamp when he felt her fall in beside him; heard a young, firm voice:
"Anjemalti Kristefyon."
He neither quickened his pace nor slowed it; nor did he glance aside or give any sign that he had heard.
"I am Corbinye Faztherot," she continued, hurriedly, matching him, stride for stride. "I know that this is not done seemly, but the need is great, and I ask that you forgive the informality forced upon me. My rooms are nearby, if you would but step aside..."
Still, he did not alter his pace; her voice might have been the whisper of river wind against his ears for all the heed he gave it.
"We are kin!" she cried, shockingly loud in the stillness of the 'Ramp. "Of the same Ship and Captain! You must hear me-the courtesy, at least, of a reply-" Her hand was on his arm and at last he did stop and spun to face her in the dimness; saw with noontime clarity the space-tanned face; the huge light-sensitive eyes; the short pale hair and the long, lithe grace of her; felt the strength in her fingers and ripped his arm away.
"I do not know you," he said coldly, "and I do not know your kinsman. I am Gem ser Edreth and I have no kin, and none to order me, now that my master is dead. You should mind your manners and not be snatching the arms of strangers in the dark, young miss, or you'll find yourself hurt-or wronged and in the Blue House."
"You are Anjemalti Kristefyon," her voice was low; exultant in its surety; "child of Captain Maijella Kristefyon of the Ship Gardenspot. You carry the genes of the Crew; you are the Captain-to-Be, who is now the Captain-in-Truth. The Ship is in danger and you are foretold in the Tomorrow Log-"
"And you," he snarled, "are mad! Good-night, moonling, and may the gods conspire to allow you live through the night!"
He spun away then, and ran to the base of the 'Ramp; going from there through all the backways home, trying with all his skill to lose her. When he finally did reach Jilvon Court, he hovered long at the entrance-way, straining ears and dark-seeing eyes.
At last, convinced that she was no longer with him, he entered his house, went straight to the bar, and poured himself a brandy.


CHAPTER FOUR

His name was Anjemalti Kristefyon; he was nine years old, his mother was dead, and his Uncle Indemion hated him.
There were blows, and hard words about faulty genes, for his mother had mated with no man of the Crew, but with a Grounder, and had exulted in the spindly, half-blind boy that union produced, to her brother's cold disgust.
The blows were hard to take, but the words were harder, especially when they dealt with his mother, so that he cried aloud and felt acid in his own heart. And the acid grew until the day he drew his boy's blade and launched himself at the man, surprising both by drawing blood, by the strength and determination of the attack.
The beating that time was very bad.
Not long after, his uncle took him to Prongdil. They walked a dismal port-fair to a stinking tavern, his uncle's hand brutal about his arm. The place grew quiet as they entered, then erupted noisily as they marched toward the back of the room.
"Hey, Olbi, look at this! A father and son act!"
"A half-wheel for the little one, don't he look fresh!"
"Fresh! Unplucked, I'll warrant-a whole wheel for the virgin!"
"As if you'd know what to do with him! Beautiful mouth, eh?"
This last drew a bit of laughter and he felt his face heat, though he barely knew why. His uncle pulled on him roughly then, and he stopped.