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

opportunity to learn refinement in my line of work. "Look bascha--I'm willing to
take you to Moon and make sure he doesn't fiddle with the goods, but you'll have
to tell me what you want to see him for. I don't work in the dark,"
One fingernail tapped against the scarred wood of the liquor-stained table. The
nail was filed short, as if it--and the others--weren't meant to be a facet of
feminine vanity. No. Not in this woman. "I have no wish to hire a sword-dancer,"
she said coolly. "I just want you to tell me where I can find Osmoon the
Trader."
I glared at her in exasperation. "I just told you what will happen if you see
him alone."
The nail tapped again. There was the faintest trace of a smile, as if she knew
something I didn't. "I'll take the chance."
What the hoolies, if that's the way she wanted it. I told her where to find him,
and how, and what she should say to him when she did.
She stared at me, blonde brows running together as she frowned. "I should tell
him 'the Sandtiger plays for keeps'?"
"That's it." I smiled and lifted my cup.
She nodded after a moment, slowly, but her eyes narrowed in consideration.
"Why?"
"Suspicious?" I smiled my lazy smile. "Old Moon owes me one. That's all."
She stared at me a moment longer, studying me. Then she rose. Her hands, pressed
against the table, were long-fingered and slender, but lacked delicacy. Sinews
moved beneath the fair skin. Strong hands. Strong fingers. For a woman, very
strong.
"I'll tell him," she agreed.
She turned and walked away, heading for the curtained doorway of the cantina. My
mouth watered as I stared at all that yellow hair spilling down the folds of the
white burnous.
Hoolies, what a woman!
But she was gone, along with the illusion of coolness, and fantasizing about a
woman never does much good besides stirring up desires that can't always be
gratified (at least, not right away), so I ordered another jug of aqivi, called
for Ruth and Numa to come back, and passed the evening in convivial discourse
with two desert girls who were not part of any man's fantasy, perhaps, but were
warm, willing, and generous nonetheless.
That'll do nicely, thank you.




Two
Osmoon the Trader was not happy to see me. He glared at me from his little black
pig-eyes and didn't even offer me a drink, which told me precisely how angry he
was. I waved away the smoke of sandalwood incense drifting between us (wishing
he'd widen the vent in the poled top of his saffron-colored hyort), and
outwaited him.
Breath hissed between his gold teeth. "You send me a bascha like that, Tiger,
and then say to keep her for you! Why did you bother to send her to me in the
first place if you wanted her for yourself?"
I smiled at him placatingly. It doesn't do to rile past and potential allies,