"Perry, Steve - Matador 02 - Matadora" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

Dirisha felt her face go hot. "I could have thrown the dart before I realized it was a game."

"Recall the sting you felt on your hand  the one holding the dart? If it had not been a game, you would have been down  if I had been using potent loads in my weapon."

Dirisha bit down on her anger. That was true enough. But it raised another question. "What if I hadn't noticed in time? I could have killed you, not knowing it was a test."

"Doubtful. Even with stinger ammunition, I would have been able to disable your hand so you would not have been able to complete the throw."

"How? I could have taken a sting or two "

"But not a dozen stings, or more, perhaps."

Her inclination was to laugh or call him a braggart, but Dirisha did neither. His voice was matter-of-fact; not so much confident as assured. What he said was not a guess in his own mind, at least but an actuality. And, despite the concealing robe, there was a hint of Center control which showed through when they'd walked to the office. From what she had seen and what Bork had told her, Pen was some kind of adept. At what, Dirisha didn't know, but at something.

"You expected something different," Pen said, interrupting her thoughts.

"I suppose. I'm not sure what, but yes, something different."

"And you aren't particularly interested or impressed with our little operation."

Dirisha inclined her head briefly, acknowledging his perception.

He leaned forward slightly and brought the tips of his fingers together into a tent. "You're a ronin, playing the Musashi Flex, hoping to reach enlightenment. Maybe you can find it here."

Dirisha laughed. "Really? I've been to a dozen planets and nearly that many wheelworlds, studying. What makes you think you have something I couldn't find elsewhere?"

Pen stood, a move so smooth it seemed effortless. "If you would follow me."

He walked from the office without looking back, but Dirisha felt as if he were aware of her every movement.

They retraced the path Bork had used to bring her into the building. Once outside, Dirisha finally saw more people, a dozen or so, doing stretching exercises on the rockfoam. There were four women and eight men and they were dressed in loose-weave orthoskins, as Bork had been. There were enough variations in the cut and colors of the skins so they could not be called uniforms, but they were very similar.

Pen swept past the exercisers toward the lines of footsteps printed upon the spongy ground cover. When he reached the nearest, he stopped. "You are adept in a handful of martial arts, an expert in body control and movement," he said. "Can you walk the pattern?"

Dirisha stared at the complex layout of foot positions. She had played fugue now and again and the implication was clear enough: I can do it, can you?

She reached for her Center, felt the comfort there, and took a deep breath. Without a word, she stepped onto the first diagram and began to walk the pattern. The first five steps came easily. The sixth was more difficult, but she managed it. Years of training gave her the ability to make the seventh step, but she almost fell despite that. She managed to plant her foot upon the eighth step, but from there to the ninth was impossible. Dirisha knew her limits and she had reached them. She pivoted sharply to face Pen.

He nodded, and waved her aside with one hand. She moved, and watched very carefully as he approached the beginning of the pattern. She watched with all the zanshin perception she could muster, trying to see not only his feet but his entire body. She had spent years training, learning how to watch an opponent, to judge his moves exactly; but, even so, she had only the smallest inkling of how he did it. One moment and he was starting; another moment, and he was done. It was unbelievable and yet Dirisha was certain Pen had placed his feet precisely on each of the steps in the pattern; more, he had danced it and made it seem effortless. She was impressed. But she had to know something more important.

When Pen returned to stand in front of her, Dirisha said, "There are masters of a thing and then there are Masters of that same thing." More fugue, but simple enough so anyone with the smallest skill could follow it.

The edges of Pen's eyes crinkled, an obvious smile. He waved his hand at the group of people stretching nearby. "Pick one," he said. "Your choice."

Dirisha nodded. He knew fugue. She had challenged him to answer one of the classic martial problems: you can do; can you also teach? One of the problems with many great artists were that they were personally adept, but could not pass it on. There had been some greats Lee, Sandoz, Villam who had not been able to teach for shit.

On the face of it, her challenge had been answered. He must have been certain to offer her the option; still, Dirisha had learned to take little for granted. She turned to face the dozen people in orthoskins. She scanned the faces, looking for some hint of ineptitude. Nothing wait. She stared hard at a young woman with blond hair cut like a cap. Her face looked familiar. Where had she seen it? She was certain she had...

It came to her suddenly. On the ferry, the near-collision with the tiny sail craft. That woman had been on the boat. Dirisha remembered her laughing face as the larger vessel had gone by, missing by scant meters. Surely that episode had been caused by a lack of attention or ability?