"Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 2 - Swordsinger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

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Sword SingerSword Singer
Book 2 of the Sword Dancer series.
By Jennifer Roberson




Sword Singer
Table of Contents
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve,
Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty,
Twenty-one, Twenty-two, Twenty-three, Twenty-four, Twenty-five, Twenty-six,
Twenty-seven, Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine, Thirty, Thirty-one, Thirty-two,
Thirty-three, Thirty-four, Thirty-five, Thirty-six, Thirty-seven, Thirty-eight,
Thirty-nine, Forty, Forty-one, Forty-two, Forty-three, Forty-four




One
"Flea-bitten... jug-headed... lop-eared--" I sucked in a deeper breath,
"--thrice-cursed son of a Sahet goat!"
Or similar sentiments. Trouble was, I was mostly incoherent, being somewhere on
the delicate edge of discomfort and disaster.
He didn't answer. At least, not verbally. Physically, yes, and fervently; he
humped and hopped and squealed, then buried his nose in the sand. Since he
simultaneously elevated eloquent hindquarters with a powerful precision, I
didn't stand much of a chance.
My saddle does not, thank valhail, have much of a pommel on it, being little
more than a hummock of rigid leather shaped to fit the stud's back and my rump.
I'd bought it thinking mostly of comfort for the long, hot hours spent crossing
the Punja on one job or another. But now I blessed myself for picking it; a man
in imminent danger of taking a nosedive off a horse--headfirst, belly-down,
scraping over the shoulders and neck--doesn't much want to leave the best part
of himself hung up on the front of a saddle while the rest of him sprawls in the
sand.
Of course, I did have other worries. Like where my sword might end up. Even the
most active sword-dancer doesn't generally entertain his opponent upside down in
the circle; this meant there existed the possibility my borrowed sword might end
up out of its sheath and in something else entirely, possibly even me.
Or--(just give me half a chance)--in the stud himself.
Face-first, I slid over the sloping front of my saddle (sucking up belly and
everything else I could) and proceeded to dangle, however briefly, in the
vicinity of his head.
To which the stud took an immediate dislike, not being an animal who much cares
to have a large, cursing man shrouding his head like a glop of half-cooked egg.
The hindquarters came back down. It was the head's turn to elevate itself.
Because I knew what was likely to happen if I didn't take immediate action, I