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

Northern. (And oh-so-cool in the stuffy warmth of the cantina.) "Are you Tiger?"
Hoolies, she was looking for me!
After losing a moment to inward astonishment and wonder, I bared my teeth at her
in a friendly, lazy smile. It wouldn't do to show her how much she impressed me,
not when it was my place to impress her. "At your service, bascha."
A faint line appeared between winged blond brows and I realized she didn't
understand the compliment. In Southron lingo, the word means lovely.
But the line smoothed out as she looked at Ruth and Numa, and I saw a slight
glint of humor enter those glacial eyes. I perceived the faintest of twitches at
the left comer of her mouth. "I have business, if you please,"
I pleased. I accommodated her business immediately by tipping both girls off my
knees (giving them pats of mutual and measured fondness on firm, round rumps),
and promised substantial tips if they lost themselves for a while. They glared
at me in return, then glared at her. But they left.
I kicked a stool from under the table and toed it in the blonde's general
direction. She looked at it without comment a long moment, then sat down. The
burnous gaped open at her throat and I stared at it, longing for it to fall open
entirely. If the rest of her matched her face and hair, it was well worth
alienating all the Ruths and Numas in the world.
"Business." The tone was slightly clipped, as if to forestall any familiarity in
our discussion.
"Aqivi?" I poured myself a cup. A shake of her head stirred the hair like a
silken curtain, and my mouth went dry. "Do you mind if I drink?"
"Why not?" She shrugged a little, rippling white silk. "You have already begun."
Her face and voice were perfectly bland, but the glint in her eyes remained. The
temperature took a decidedly downward dip. I considered not drinking at all,
then decided it was stupid to play games and swallowed a hefty dose of aqivi.
This one went down a lot smoother than the last one.
Over the rim of my cup, I looked at her. Not much more than twenty, I thought;
younger than I'd judged on first sighting. Too young for the South; the desert
would suck the fluids from her soft, pale body and leave behind a dried out,
powdery husk.
But gods, she was lovely. There wasn't much of softness in her. Just the hint of
a proud, firm body beneath the white burnous and a proud, firm jaw beneath the
Northern skin. And eyes. Blue eyes, fixed on me levelly; waiting quietly,
without seductiveness or innuendo.
Business indeed, but then there are degrees in all business confrontations.
Instinctively, I straightened on my stool. Past dealings with women had made me
aware how easily impressed they are by my big shoulders and broad chest. (And my
smile, but I'm sparing with that at first. It helps build up the mystique).
Unfortunately, this one didn't appear to be impressed much one way or another,
mystique or no. She just looked at me squarely, without coyness or coquetry. "I
was told you know Osmoon the Trader," she said in her husky Northern voice.
"Old Moon?" I didn't bother to hide my surprise, wondering what this beauty
wanted with an old relic like him. "What do you want with an old relic like
him?"
Her cool eyes were hooded. "Business."
She had all the looks, but she wasn't great shakes at conversation. I shifted on
my stool and let my own burnous fall open at the throat, intending the string of
claws I wear around my neck to remind her I was a man of some consequence. (I