"02 - Sword Singer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

and there; collections for a Punja-mite of a greedy merchant who then tried to
cheat us out of our commission; effecting the rescue of the kidnapped son of a
powerful tanzeer who embraced the Hamidaa religion, which proseletyzed the
uncleanliness of women, while all the time the kidnapped "son" was in reality a
daughter; escort duty for a caravan bound from one domain to another; other
assorted employments.
Nothing, certainly, requiring remarkable ability with sword or guile. Nothing
that added to the reputation of the Sandtiger, the legendary Southron
sword-dancer, whose skill in the circle was matched by no man.
Unfortunately, now there was a woman. And she had displayed remarkable abilities
with a sword, relieving a renegade sword-dancer of his life. As for guile, Del
had little; she was blunt-spoken, straightforward, intolerant of Southron word
courtesies that often did little more than waste time. And time was her enemy.
The worst part of our journey was done. The Punja lay far behind us. What we
faced now, once free of Harquhal, was the North.
Hoolies. I was a Southroner--what did I want with the North?
Nothing. Except Del, who had more than casual ties with the land of snow and
banshee-storms.
More than casual ties with powerful Northern magic.
Glumly, I swung down off the stud in front of a lopsided adobe cantina roofed
with a lattice of woven boughs, and tied tassled reins to a knobby post set
crookedly in the ground. I heard the sounds of laughter and merriment inside,
male and female; smelled the pungent stink of huva weed, the aroma of roasting
mutton, the tang of wine and aqivi.
Also the sweet-sour smell of urine; the stud was relieving himself.
Swearing, I skipped back and nearly stumbled over my own sandaled feet, not
wanting my burnous splattered. The stud rolled an eye in my direction and
wrinkled a pale-brown muzzle forested with whiskers. I began again my endless
litany of unflattering equine appellations.
Del avoided the steaming puddle as she dismounted and tied her gelding to
another post. Absently she hooked a left hand up to the exposed hilt of her
sword, snicked it twice against the tip of the hidden sheath to check ease of
movement, nodded once. I'd seen her do it before, many times. It is a habit,
though varied in execution, all sword-dancers develop.
We all have idiosyncracies. Some of them keep us alive.
"I take it you want to leave at first light." I waited for her to fall into step
beside me.
She shrugged. "There are things we much purchase first. Food, clothing--"
"Clothing!" I frowned. "I admit we could use cleaner apparel, but why spend good
coin on things we already have?"
She pulled aside the threadbare vermilion curtain at the door. "If you wish to
go north with nothing more to wear than a dhoti and burnous and freeze your
gehetties off, you may. But I have no intention of freezing to death." And she
ducked in, forgetting, as usual, that I require more room than she does in
entrances built for shorter men.
I jerked the curtain off my face and scowled after her as I followed. Then I
coughed; huva smoke packed the exposed rafters of the cantina, drifting in slow,
eddying, malodorous ocher-green wreaths. The vice is one I abhor since a
sword-dancer needs all his faculties in the circle. Of course Del had taken my
opinion as somewhat tainted by the fact I drink aqivi with great abandon,