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

"South of here," I told her. "Dangerous country."
"Danger is irrelevant." She prodded Moon's belly once more. "Give me a name,
slaver."
"Omar," he said miserably. "My brother."
"Slaver, too?"
Osmoon shut his eyes. "It's a family business."
She pulled the sword away and slid it home without feeling for the scabbard.
That takes practice. Then she brushed by me without a word, leaving me to face
the shaking, sweating, moaning Moon.
He put trembling fingers to the sword slit in his neck. "Cold," he said.
"So--cold."
"So are a lot of women." I went after the Northern girl.




Three
I caught up with her at the horses. She already had one saddled and packed with
waterskins, a little dun-colored gelding tied not far from my own bay stud. The
white burnous had disappeared somewhere in one of Moon's hyorts, so she was bare
except for her suede tunic. It left a lot of pale skin exposed to the sunlight,
and I knew she'd be bright red and in serious discomfort before nightfall.
She ignored me, although I knew she knew I was there. I leaned a shoulder
against the rough bark of a palm tree and watched as she threw the tasseled
amber reins over the dun's head, looping one arm through as she tended the
saddle. The silver hilt of her sword flashed in the sunlight and her hair burned
yellow-white as it fell down her tunicked back.
My mouth got dry again. "You headed to Julah?"
She slanted me a glance as she tightened the buckles of the girth. "You heard
the slaver."
I shrugged the shoulder that wasn't pressed against the tree. "Ever been there?"
"No." Girth snugged, she hooked fingers in the cropped, spiky mane and swung up
easily, throwing a long leg over the shallow saddle covered with a coarse woven
blanket. Vermilion, ocher and brown, bled into one another by the sun. As she
hooked her feet into the leather-wrapped brass stirrups, the tunic rucked up
against her thighs.
I swallowed, then managed a casual tone. "You might need some help getting to
Julah."
Those blue eyes were guileless. "I might."
I waited. So did she. Inwardly, I grimaced; conversation wasn't her strong
point. But then, conversation in a woman is not necessarily a virtue.
We stared at one another: she on a fidgety dun gelding layered with a coating of
saffron dust and me on foot (layered with identical dust, since I'd come
straight from the cantina), leaning nonchalantly against a palm tree. Dry,
frazzled fronds offered little shade; I squinted up at the woman atop the horse.
Waiting still.
She smiled. It was an intensely personal smile, but not particularly meant for
me--as if she laughed inwardly. "Is that an offer, Sandtiger?"
I shrugged again. "You've got to cross the Punja to reach Julah. Ever been there
before?"