"Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 5 - Sword Born" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

ominously, but even less happy to feel the accompanying protests of the boards
beneath my feet. Sandals slid, scraping on dampness and salt. The shift in wind
filled my mouth with hair; I spat and stripped it out, then tucked it behind my
ear, which did no good at all. Swearing inwardly, I resolved to have Del cut it as
soon as possible. Or to hack it off myself.

Del also grabbed at the rail as we swung heavily through the choppy waves,
grasping wood firmly. Even as she opened her mouth to make a comment or ask
a question, a babble of shouting behind us pretty much answered it. I knew fear
when I heard it. The whole crew suddenly stank of it.

"Trouble," I observed, wiping the slick of foamy spray off my face. Salt stung in
my eyes.

The crewman nearest us looked away from the blue sails long enough to gesture
urgently. "Below," he said. "Below. Below."

"Trouble," Del agreed.

Of course, the last place I wanted to be was immured in a tiny cabin near the
waterline as the ship wallowed and bucked. I hung onto the creaking rail,
maintaining a now-precarious balance against the violent undulance, and
scowled at the sailor.

"I'll go," she said.

Startled, I stared at her. "Wouldn't you rather stay on deck and see what we're
facing?"

"And I'd rather have swords to face it with," she declared. "That's where they
are. Below."

Ah. So they were. "Bring mine, bascha."

"I had planned on it."

The sailor saw her go, looked relieved, then noticed I remained at the bow. His
eyes bulged as the ship continued its wallowing, graceless turn. "Below!"

No, not below, thank you ... but as we swung around, the blue-sailed ship fell
out of line of sight from my spot at the bow. I let the sailor believe I was
following his suggestion; instead I made my way aft, moving so as to keep my
eye on the other ship even as I clutched the rail, cursing in disgust as I caught a
toe against a coil of prickly rope and nearly fell. This thrice-cursed boat, in rough
seas, was harder to ride than the stud when he pitched a fit.

Still, I considered it curious that our captain would turn around rather than
sailing on, especially as we were two days away from the last island, which
meant there was no safe harbor within reach; but we'd been heading into the
wind, which slowed us down. Now we moved with it. The sails bellied, cracking