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

stared down into the contents, but didn't reach down to pick anything out. He
just stared, and then I saw how his hands rubbed themselves on the the fabric of
his burnous, brown palms against heavy yellow silk, until I got impatient and
told him to hurry it up.
He turned to face me. "It's--it's in here."
I waited.
He gestured. "Here. Do you want it?"
"I said I did."
One plump hand waved fingers at the chest. "Well--here it is. You can come get
it."
"Moon... hoolies, man, will you bring me the woman's sword? What's so hard about
that?"
He was decidedly unhappy. But after a moment he muttered a prayer to some other
unpronounceable god and plunged his hands into the chest.
He came up with a scabbarded sword. Quickly he turned and rushed back across the
hyort, then dumped the sheathed sword down in front of me as if relieved to let
go of it. I stared up at him in surprise. And again, brown palms rubbed against
yellow silk.
"There," he said breathlessly, "there."
I frowned. Moon is a sharp, shrewd man, born of the South and all of its ways.
His "trading" network reaches into all portions of the Punja, and I'd never
known him to exhibit anything akin to fear... unless, of course, circumstances
warranted a performance including the emotion. But this was no act. This was
insecurity and apprehension and nervousness, all tied up into one big ball of
blatant fear.
"What's your problem?" I inquired mildly.
Moon opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "She's a Northerner," he
muttered. "So's that thing."
He pointed to the scabbarded sword, and at last I understood. "Ah. You think the
sword's been bewitched. Northern witch, Northern sorcery." I nodded benignly.
"Moon--how many times have I told you magic is something used by tricksters who
want to con other people? Half the time I don't think there is any magic--but
what there is, is little more than a game for gullible fools."
His clenched jaw challenged me. On this subject, Moon was never an ally.
"Trickery," I told him. "Nonsense. Mostly illusion, Moon. And those things
you've heard about Northern sorcery and witches are just a bunch of tales made
up by Southron mothers to tell their children at bedtime. Do you really think
this woman is a witch?"
He was patently convinced she was. "Call me a fool, Tiger. But I say you are one
for being so blind to the truth." One hand stabbed out to indicate the sword
he'd dumped in my lap. "Look at that, Tiger. Touch it, Tiger. Look at those
runes and shapes, and tell me it isn't the weapon of a witch."
I scowled at him, but for once he was neither intimidated or impressed. He just
went back to his carpet on the other side of the incense brazier and settled his
rump upon it, lower lip pushed out in indignation. Moon was offended: I doubted
him. Only an apology would restore his good will. (Except I don't see much sense
in offering an apology for something that makes no sense.)
I touched the sheath, running appreciative fingers over the hard leather. Plain,
unadorned leather, similar to my own; a harness, not a swordbelt, which
surprised me a little. But then, hearing Moon name this sword the girl's weapon