"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

dancer or singer. She'd sworn that she could bear the pain he would have to put her through to do so.
The reason? An admirable one; she'd felt that the Healers were overburdened, and that they would
feel obliged to pain-block her, which would add to their burden. Yes, she'd known that the Healers
would treat her for nothing, and that his services cost a high-ranking reward-chit. No, she hadn't cared.
"I've got a pile of these things already, so I'm saving them up for a better commission once the war's
dead," she'd said gruffly. "Urtho's aides brought me a new horse—Kaled'a'in-bred at that. I've got a new
tent. I don't crave pretties. I look like a horse myself, so fancy clothing on me would look like barding on
a mule. So what else am I going to spend a chit on? Besides, this way I get an attractive man to put his
hands all over me. That, I can use."
So he manipulated her vertebrae as she stifled her gasps of pain, until her gasps turned to ones of
sheer relief. He was so impressed by her courage and sense that he'd had Gesten prepare a hot soaking
tub for her, with aromatic oils in it. He had her soak until her muscles completely relaxed, then he gave
her the massage she had paid for, rubbing her down gently until she was just dozing. Then he did for her
what he would not do for Conn Levas. They were good hours.
She left his tent smiling and exhausted. He sat back while Gesten cleaned up and prepared for the
last client of the day, smiling just as widely as she had. Once in a while, he got a client who was worthy of
his skills in every way—that skirmisher was just such a one, and it had been a privilege to help her. Odd;
both she and Conn Levas were mercenaries, and yet they were so unlike each other. Ah, well,
experience had shown that the only thing similar about most soldiers was the uniform they wore.
"That was a fine lady," Gesten observed as he expertly put away the oils and stowed the massage
table. "I think I ought to go over and suggest she spend one of those 'useless' chits of hers on a makeover
with us. I don't see any reason why she has to keep on looking like a wild mare. She's lean enough to be
elegant, and if she'd just let me do something with her hair..."
"That's a good idea, if you want to," Amberdrake agreed. "I'd take the exotic approach with her.
You know, she could carry off some of the Kaled'a'in costumes quite impressively. Maybe with a
cat-stripe paint pattern across her shoulders—"
"That's what I like about you, Drake," Gesten interrupted cheerfully. "You always see the potential.
Think you can exercise that one more time today? That gryphon Zhaneel will be here shortly."
"Gryphon?" Amberdrake replied, momentarily confused. Then he hit his head with the heel of his
hand. "Right! I nearly forgot! My mind is still muddled from this day. I'm just tired. Did you—"
"I've got the oils and the satin cords and the beads and feather-paint," Gesten said, snorting a little.
"As if I'd forget! Listen, I'd like to go over and put Skan to bed if you don't mind. Do you think you can
handle this youngster alone?"
It was Amberdrake's turn to snort. "As if I hadn't been taking care of gryphons all by myself long
before you came looking for some fool to hire you! Of course, I can."
"All right, then, fool-who-hired-me," Gesten replied, giving him back as good an insult as he'd
gotten. "I'll go make sure that featherhead up on the hill gets his sleep, then I'll see to it you don't drown
yourself in the tub when I get back."
Gesten indicated a bright but battered wheeled storage chest with a nod of his snout. "Everything
you need is in there, and I replaced whatever had dried out or was too old to use. If I do say so myself, I
don't think there's a kestra'chern in the army with a better stock of 'gryphon pretties.' By the time you get
done, she should be stunning. Provided you can do your job."
He whisked through the curtain before Amberdrake could make a rejoinder. Amberdrake just
laughed and took his time getting out of his chair. He changed into a utilitarian pair of loose linen breeches
and baggy shirt, tying a sash about the latter. He would not need any fancy robes with this client; instead,
he needed clothing he could work in, clothing that could be splashed with dye and not take harm. Over
that he wore his receiving robe, with its intricate designs.
Amberdrake stepped outside the tent to take in some of the camp's relatively fresh air before the
client arrived. "Small" feathers—the size of a hand—drifted by in the breeze, discards from some
gryphon's vigorous preening, no doubt. Activity in the camp had stepped up a bit from earlier that day; it