"C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 2 - When True Night Falls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

hard to imagine them getting along, much less working
together as closely and as efficiently as they did. Rasya
Maradez was tall and lean, with clear blue eyes, sun-
bronzed skin, and short hair bleached platinum by the
unremitting sun. Smooth muscles played along her slender
limbs as she moved, obscured only by a pair of cut-off
breeches and an improvised halter top. Irresistible, if you
liked the athletic type. Damien did. The captain, by
contrast, was a swarthy man, dark-skinned and dark-
featured, solid enough in his massive frame to act as a
back-up anchor if they needed it. His face and hands were
battle-scarred - from street brawls, Damien suspected - and
though he handled his own gold-chased instrument with
obvious reverence, his tough, lined fingers seemed more
suited to a brigand than the person of an officer. Their
temperaments were likewise mismatched but surprisingly
compatible, resulting in a tense but efficient partnership
that had successfully tamed Erna's most dangerous waters.

The captain turned slowly, scanning the length and
breadth of the shoreline through his own instrument.
Between his fingers delicately engraved figures adorned the
golden barrel, studded with precious gems. Tarrant had
given it to him as a gift when they first left port, and
Damien remembered wondering at its design. He shouldn't
have. Its message of value, tasteless but eloquent, had won
the captain over in an instant. What good will the Hunter
could not inspire in this crew, he clearly intended to
purchase.

Carefully Damien studied the lay of the land beyond,
breakwater and cliff face and an occasional rocky slope that
might through some stretch of the imagination be termed a
beach . . . he scanned the salt-frothed shoreline, wishing he
had Tarrant's Sight. By now the Hunter would have
analyzed every current in the region and picked them apart
for the messages they carried. Yes, he would have said,
there's human life, just south of here. Unaware of our
presence. Sail on with the wind . . .

And then Damien drew in a sharp breath, as he caught
sight of a pattern that wasn't wholly natural. It took him a
moment to focus on it: a pale line, mostly straight, that
wound upward from the base of the cliff to its summit
several hundred feet above. Artificial, he thought. Without
a doubt. His fingers tightened about the slender tube as he
focused in on the line itself, on the rhythm of tiny shadows
that peppered its length. Trying to identify them.

And for a moment he stopped breathing, as he realized