"01 - Sword Dancer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

Moon would've sold you off by now." I bent down, sliding my knife free, and
sliced her bonds. She winced as stiffened muscles protested, so I set down her
sword and massaged the long, firm calves and shoulders subtly corded with
toughened muscle.
"You have my sword!" In her surprise, she ignored my hands altogether.
I thought about allowing those hands to drift a little southward of her
shoulders, then decided against it. She might be stiff after a few days of
captivity, but if she had the reflexes I thought she did, I'd be asking for
trouble. No sense pushing my luck so soon.
"If it is your sword," I said.
"It's mine." She pushed my hands away and rose, stifling a groan. The leather
tunic hit her mid-thigh and I saw the odd runic glyphs stitching a border around
the hem and neck in blue thread that matched her eyes. "Did you unsheathe it?"
she demanded, and there was something in her tone that gave me pause.
"No." I said, after a moment of heavy silence.
Visibly, she relaxed. Her hand caressed the odd silver hilt without showing any
indication she felt the same icy numbness I'd experienced. She almost touched it
as a lover welcoming back a long-missed sweetheart.
"Who are you?" I asked suddenly, assailed by a rather odd sensation. Runes on
the sword blade, runes on the tunic. Those twisted, dizzying shapes worked into
the hilt. The sensation of death when I touched it. What if she were some sort
of familiar sent by the gods to determine if my time had come, and whether I was
worthy of valhail or hoolies for a place of eternal rest--or torment?
And then I felt disgustingly ludicrous, which was just as well, because I'd
never thought much about my end before. Sword-dancers simply fight until someone
kills them; we don't spend our time worrying over trivial details like our
ultimate destination. I certainly don't.
She wore sandals like mine, cross-gartered to her knees. The laces were
gold-colored and only emphasized the length of her legs, which almost put her on
a level with me. I stared at her in astonishment as she rose, for her head came
to my chin, and very few men reach that high.
She frowned a little. "I thought Southroners were short."
"Most are. I'm not. But then--I'm not your average Southroner." Blandly, I
smiled.
She raised pale brows. "And do average Southroners send women into a trap?"
"To keep you out of a greater one, I sent you into a small one." I grinned. "It
was a trick, I agree, and maybe a trifle uncomfortable, but it kept you out of
the clutches of a lustful tanzeer, didn't it? When you told Moon 'the Sandtiger
plays for keeps,' he knew enough to hang onto you until I got here, instead of
selling you to the highest bidder. Since you were so insistent on seeing him
without my personal assistance, I had to do something."
A momentary glint in her eyes. Appraisal. "Then it was for my--protection."
"In a backhanded sort of way."
She slanted a sharp, considering glance at me, then smiled a little. She got
busy slipping her arms into the sword harness, buckling it and arranging it so
the hilt reared over the top of her left shoulder, just as Singlestroke rode
mine. Her movements were quick and lithe, and I didn't doubt for a moment she
could nearly emasculate a eunuch who had very little left to lose anyway.
My palms tingled as I recalled the visceral response of my body to the touch of
the Northern sword. "Why don't you tell me what business it is you have with Old