"Christopher Stasheff - Rogue Wizard 07 - A Wizard In Midgard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)

was perfectly proportioned, but on a larger scale than most women, and looking
under the dirt and lines of fatigue on her face, Gar saw that her features, too,
were perfectly proportioned, almost classical, like those of a Greek statue-but
the haunted look, the shadows of fear and bitterness, kept her from being
beautiful. Still, she made him catch his breath.
She finished the bread and cheese, and he still had not made a move in her
direction, only raised his cup to drink, then poured the stew into two bowls.
She came close enough to take the mug of tea and sip, holding her improvised
staff at guard and ready to run. "Why did you save me back there?"
"I don't like seeing men manhandling women," Gar told her. "I don't like seeing
six against one, either. I've been on the receiving end too often. By the way,
my name is Gar Pike."
Either the double meaning of the name was lost on her, or she was in no mood to
laugh. She stood frowning at him, but didn't offer her own name. Instead, she
asked, "How did you know I'm not a murderer?"
"You might have been," Gar allowed. "But more than anything else, you might have
been some sort of slave who had managed to escape."
"Think you know everything, don't you?" she said darkly. Gar laughed, but
managed to kept it low and soft. "Know everything? Enough to survive, at least.
Beyond that? I don't even know why I'm alive."
The woman digested that, thought it over, then said, "Who does?"
"Married people," Gar told her, "the ones who are in love, at least. And the
ones who have children."
She flinched; he could see he'd struck a nerve, and said quickly, "But I'm none
of those, and probably won't ever be."
"Why?" She was suddenly intent.
"I'm too big for most," Gar explained, "and too moody for the rest. Besides, if
a man hasn't married by thirty, there isn't much chance that he will."
It was more than true-in a medieval society. Again, she winced. He guessed her
to be in her mid-thirties, though allowing for the medieval rate of aging, she
could be younger, even in her late teens or early twenties.
"Why are you living, then?" She asked it with that same intensity, almost a
hunger.
Gar shrugged. "Because I was born," he said, "and I haven't quite given up yet."
She thought that statement over too, then gave her little nod once more.
"Back away," Gar warned. "I'm bringing your stew to that rock."
Her eyes widened, and she darted back into the forest, but stopped when she was
fifty feet away, almost lost in the leaves. Gar moved slowly, keeping both hands
in sight, rising and crossing to the rock where he'd left the bread and cheese.
He set down the bowl and went back to his own place. As soon as he sat, she came
back, much more quickly than she had the last time. Good, he thought. She's
remembering how to trust, at least a little.
She knelt, a broken branch ready in her left hand as she lifted the spoon with
her right, darting quick glances at the bowl when she had to, but otherwise
keeping her eyes on Gar. When she was done, they simply sat looking at one
another for a while, and neither seemed to feel the need to be the last to look
away. She frowned a little, studying him as though he were a problem she had to
puzzle out, almost seeming not to notice his gaze, being too intent on watching
him. Her eyes were large and gray and long-lashed, but haunted....
Gar realized he was holding his breath for some reason, and forced his mind back