"Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 3 - Sword Maker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

my eyes,
stinging, and my mouth. It also caught on my short-cropped beard
repeatedly, no
matter how many times I stripped it back. Even the hood didn't help;
the wind
tore it from my head again and again and again, until I gave up and
left it
puddled on my shoulders.
"You and that butcher's blade," I muttered.
Still Del said nothing.
Wearily I scrubbed at brows, eyes, face. I was tired, too tired; the
wound in my
abdomen ached unremittingly, reminding me with each twinge I'd departed
Staal-Ysta far sooner than was wise, in view of the sword thrust I'd
taken. The
healing was only half done, but I'd departed regardless. There was
nothing left
for me in Staal-Ysta. Nothing at all, and no one.
Deep in the cairn, flame whipped. Smoke eddied, tangled, shredded on
the air.
Wind carried it away, bearing word of my presence to the beasts
somewhere
northeast of me in darkness. The hounds of hoolies, I called them; it
fit as
well as any other.
I waited for her to speak, even to accuse, but she made no sound at
all. Just
sat there looking at me, staring at me, holding the jivatma across
wool-trousered thighs. The blade was naked in the darkness, scribed
with runes I
couldn't--wasn't meant to--read, speaking of blood and forbidden power
too
strong for anyone else to key, or to control, with flesh, will, voice.
Del could control it. It was part of her personal magic; the trappings
of a
sword-singer.
Sword-singer. More than sword-dancer, my own personal trade. Something
that made
her different. That made her alien.
Whose name was Boreal.
"Hoolies," I muttered aloud in disgust, and raised the leather bota yet
again to
squirt Northern amnit deep into my throat. I sucked it down, gulp after
gulp,
pleased by the burning in my belly and the blurring of my senses. And
waited for
her to say something about drink curing nothing. About how a drinking
man is
nothing more than a puppet to the bota. About how dangerous it is for a
sword-dancer, a man who lives by selling sword and skill, to piss away