"Modesitt, L E - Recluse 10 - The Magic Of Recluse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Krystal giggled . . . again. Her hair was up, this time in golden cords, and instead of playing with it, her fingers ran along the sword blade. For some reason, I remembered how surgically she used a knife at meals.
Wrynn frowned. She carried a brace of throwing knives.
Gilberto paused while he looked us over again. "Here . . . you will get exercise, and you will learn weapons, beginning with the ones you have picked out. Not those exact ones, but the same type."
"Why not these?" asked Myrten, grasping his pistol tightly.
"They're enchanted to seek affinities . . . which reduces their effectiveness. Now, please put them back where you found them, and I'll take you to the student armory, where you will be issued a set of weapons based around the one you chose."
The whole business seemed odd. Why have us choose weapons at all? Certainly the Brotherhood could have told who was suited for what weapons. Why did they bother? And what was the basis for deciding who was "suited" for what?
"What is the basis for these 'affinities'?" I asked, as Gilberto started to turn toward the other doorway-the one across from where we had entered.
"Your underlying character is the most important thing. If you have training with a weapon that is not suited to your character, that can confuse the issue, but Talryn indicated that was not the case for any of you."
"How would he know?" asked Wrynn.
Gilberto shrugged. "I just teach weapons. The masters know what they know."
He wasn't telling all he knew, but what else was new? That didn't exactly surprise me. Gilberto walked toward the doorway, then turned to wait for us to put back the charmed weapons.
I got up to return the staff. I liked mine better.
Tamra didn't look at anyone as she walked across the springy greenish floor toward the racks. Krystal took a long time to let go of the sword.
Staying more than a respectful distance behind Tamra, I followed.
The practice weapons were scarred, but sound. The cutting weapons had rounded edges, from what I could see, since I received a club, a truncheon, and a staff. As far as I could tell, only Tamra, Sammel and I received no edged weapons at all.


XII

GILBERTO HAD BEEN right about one thing. Training with the weapons was hard, and not just physically. Who ever would have thought about the proper ways to hold a truncheon? The staff ... I guess I saw that as more like a sword or an unpointed spear . . . anything that long clearly required technique.
Almost all of what I learned was new, and with all the repetition in the lectures, the weapons classes were usually the most interesting.
"Lerris, used properly, that truncheon is a far more effective weapon than a knife. Used properly . . . you're holding it like . . ." Gilberto broke off and shrugged. "I cannot even make a comparison."
Most training sessions were like that. Initially, nothing I did was right. The same was true of almost everyone-except Tamra and Krystal. Gilberto said almost nothing to Tamra, except occasional suggestions. Krystal he paid more attention to, but not much. As far as any kind of blade went, she picked up what he had in mind immediately.
Me ... it was like I had two left thumbs.
"Lerris, stop fighting yourself . . . just relax."
How many times I heard those words, I don't recall; but hear them I did, time after time.
Once we had some basic idea of what we were doing, Gilberto began pairing us off-first against him, or one of his apprentices; then, occasionally, against each other.
Eventually I found myself facing Tamra, not exactly in the field I had wanted.
We stood on opposite sides of a white practice circle on the spongy green flooring. Outside, the late summer sky was overcast, which was the exception rather than the rule, and the light filtering through the long and high wall windows was grayish.
Tamra smiled. Her face lit up when she smiled, but it was not a pleasant light at all. "Rules, Magister Gilberto?" The fingers of her heavy padded gloves tightened on the hard wood of the practice staff-the center part that was unpadded. Not that the padding on the ends was all that heavy. Her eyes were on me, as if she were studying some insect or a painting on a wall.
A wisp of her flame-red hair peeked from under the leather and wood of the padded practice helmet.
"Tamra . . ." began Gilberto. Then he shook his head. "No blows to face, knees, elbows or groin."
"I can live with that," announced the redhead. I thought I could, also, but I didn't like the look in Tamra's eyes, or the instinctive ease with which she took her balanced stance. Then, again, I overtopped her by nearly a head and probably had twice her physical strength. And I hadn't done that badly against Demorsal, one of Gilberto's apprentices, over the past days.
Besides, Tamra deserved anything I could land on her, the arrogant bitch. Always so damned superior, as if she didn't really belong with mere dangergeld trainees.
"Two to one she takes him . . ." Myrten's raspy whisper annoyed me more than the bet. He laid odds on everything. I couldn't see as well as I would have liked. The helmet restricted my peripheral vision, but I felt as though Myrten had rasped his bet at Sammel. Sammel shook his head.
"Start when I tell you. And stop at the bell. Do you understand? Ready?" Gilberto stepped out of the circle, then glanced at Tamra. "Tamra?"
She nodded.
"Lerris?"
"Yes." I nodded without taking my eyes off Tamra. I didn't see why everyone thought a match between Tamra and me was such a big deal. She clearly had more experience, but I was stronger, and almost as quick.
Myrten probably bet on her because I'd trounced him in the last round. At least I was halfway decent at something.
"Go!"
Tamra circled to my right. I pivoted.
Thwack. I barely managed to throw my staff up to block her first thrust.
Thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack . . .
I danced back, still on the defensive.
Thwack . . . thwack . . . thwunk . . .
". . . oooofff . . ." Her last blow crashed into my lower-right ribs. Her staff moved like lightning bolts, flashing this way, forking back, always probing.
Thwack . . . thwunk . . .
Another blow ... to my ribs on the left.
Thwack . . .