"Silistra - 01 - High Couch Of Silistra" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Janet E)

I stood on the Torth pelt wringing my hair dry. The smell of the room, of star steel and damp clean body, of my own need, excited me.
Finally I was dripped dry enough to dress. I wound the Koster silk, all embroidered in gem tones, around. my body, and clipping two ends at the neck and the others at my hip, drew it taut over my breasts and hips. Then I regarded myself in the mirror behind the couch. My skin gleamed from the needle spray of the shower. I tingled all over. My image reassured me. Even with my hair still damp, and parted simply, I looked well. There were no toilet maids to dress me here. I would have to get used to caring for my own needs. I had done it in the past. I reached back and took the curling mass of my hair where it fell over my hips and squeezed once more. The drops ran down my legs and dripped on the rug.
I inspected my reflection once again. Good enough, I thought, and tossed the bone comb on the couch. The rust silk set me off to my best advantage. There was, however, something missing. Thoughtfully, I disengaged the clip that held the two ends of the silk

strap together at my right hip. I lifted the ends and stuffed them through my chald, so that they were tightly belted to my waist. Then I refastened the clip higher on my thigh. I fingered my father's ring for a moment. Better. I turned, slowly, full around. Much better.
As I made my way to the dining hall, my anticipation heightened. My hungers had sorted themselves out. I was more than ready to eat, and the smell of roast parr and fried grintafish made my mouth water.
M'lennin's back was toward me, and he was engaged in animated conversation with one of his visitors, he whom I took to be the pilot, for his hair was cut close to the head, and he wore a tight-fitting brown uniform, that of his vocation. The small dark man was almost hidden behind a pile of Silistran fruit of every conceivable variety. I stood in the doorway scanning the room, as is my wont. All the food upon the table was Silistran. M'lennin never ate local produce. There was a whole parr, its skin shining with glaze, its square snout propped up in the air by the name fruit between its teeth. There was a side of denter, with roast tuns, a starchy dark-skinned tuber, for garnish. The table, as long as my body and half as wide, was overflowing with meats and vegetables and fruits. There were four large decanters, two of an amber liquid which I took to be brin, for it bubbled and frothed, and two darker, almost certainly kifra wines. It was an impressive spread, and would have fed forty, rather than four. M’lennin was consistent, at least, in his excess.
M'len and the pilot had not noticed me. I stepped silently into the hall, planning to cross the marble floor unannounced.
I had made perhaps a third of the distance when a hand came down firmly from behind me on my left shoulder. Reflexively I dropped and kicked out. I felt my foot connect with something hard. Crouching free, I pulled my hair back from my face.
My would-be attacker was on his knees, clutching his diaphragm.

M'lennin and the pilot were leaning on each other, laughing hysterically. I saw the overturned chairs and spilled fruit on the floor, and the menial robot clicking irritably as it scurried to set things right.
"I would introduce you two," gasped the Liaison through tears of laughter, "but I see you have already met."
My adversary raised his head to me, steadying himself with one hand on the floor as he rose. I, too, got to my feet.
My hands on my hips, I regarded him. I did not think the situation humorous. I have had much training from the Slayers. My teacher, Rin diet Tron, would say I have many moves. I would say I have a few, though I am no match for a Silistran Slayer.
"My apologies, lady," said my attacker. He was a good head taller than I, dark-complexioned, with a great mass of black hair. Under straight, pronounced brows his eyes were gray, frank, open. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. I thought him very attractive, though overly muscled. I had brought him down through luck, and he knew it. He weighed perhaps thrice what I carried. He rubbed his middle.
"I am Estri," said I, extending my hand palm up. I would not exchange apologies with him. I smiled and nodded my head.
"Khaf-Re Dellin," said he. His voice was pleasant, low and rich. His large hand, palm down, enveloped mine. The back of his hand was fleeced with black silky hair. He wore a white, collared shirt, and the black shorts I knew were part of the Liaison dress code, though M'len always wore pants and boots.
His eyes had mine, and we stood there, palms touching, longer than was appropriate. Neither of us spoke. I searched for something to say, but I was mute. Instead I disengaged my hand and turned to M'lennin.
"You had better teach him some manners before he goes to Arlet," I advised in a low voice.
"Perhaps you will do it for me," he said, giving me a piercing stare. He stepped between us and put his

arm around Dellin's shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. The Liaison First said something to the Liaison Second in a voice too low for me to catch his meaning-
"Seat yourself, Keepress," said M'lennin. I did so, choosing a spot before the platter of parr. I winced when my bottom settled on the padded bench.
Mien, standing over me, grinned and reached under the table. When his hand reappeared, it held a cushion. I took it and placed it beneath me, and sat again, this time gingerly.
The Liaison First took his armed chair at the narrow end of the table. The pilot sat across from me. He introduced himself as Dalf Tragett, of Beten, a B.F. planet in the adjacent quadrant. I had had Betenese in Astria. They are tiny powerhouses, brilliant and sensitive. The Betenese are among the best mathematical minds in the B.F., much sought as astrogators. We exchanged suitable pleasantries and I asked after two captains I knew from his home town. He was flattered, surprised at my interest, and we chatted.
Dellin had not seated, but continued his inspection of the tapestries that hung from the gray walls of the huge and lofty dining hall, that inspection which my entrance had interrupted.
I was piqued.
M'lennin was' openly amused. He leaned back in his steel and sueded armchair, sipping brin. As host, he should have served us, but he did not.
I rose to serve the pilot, and turned to face M'len, letting my hair fall over my shoulder so the Betenese could not see my face. I stuck my tongue out at the Liaison First, and he choked on his frothy mouthful.
"Brin is a lightly intoxicating drink, brewed from grain called binnirin, which grows both wild and cultivated all over Silistra and is one of our staple crops," said I, handing a crystal glass of amber liquid to the pilot. He sipped it hesitantly, then nodded and took a larger swallow.
"It will not, of course," I continued, "intoxicate a

Beten, unless one of such prodigious appetites were to drink, perhaps, a whole barrel."
We both laughed. I poured another tall foaming glass and carried it across the hall to Dellin, where he was dutifully inspecting a Torth sculptured panel. I looked back over my shoulder and saw M'len handing a pipe to the pilot.
"Liaison," said I, a safe distance from his broad back, "will you taste brin?"
He turned and looked past me toward the table. We were well out of earshot, if we kept our voices down.
"Keepress," said he, extending his hand for the glass, "I will have whatever you see fit to give me," and his eyes were frank and appreciative.
I tossed my head, letting some of my nearly dry hair fall over my breast. The curling ends rested on my naked thigh.
"My couch-price," I breathed, "is fifty gold dippars, in Astria. Here, however, I am at the Liaison First's disposal. Should you make an arrangement with him, I would have no choice but to honor it."
A cloud crossed Dellin's face. Had I misread him?
"I would give you that chance," said he. His voice was low but angry. "I would make an arrangement with you, not M'lennin. I want nothing not freely given." I saw that he had much to learn of Silistra.
"And I cannot," I explained, "give you what is not mine to give."
He looked at me, not understanding, leaning his shoulder against the Torth panel, sipping his brin so that I could not see the expression on his face.
"You are incredibly beautiful," he tried again.
"Surely worth fifty gold dippars, then?" I asked.
"Doubtless," he confirmed.
"I cannot lower my price, my value, my status, by lying with a man like some binnirin farmer's daughter, for nothing. Do you understand? On Silistra, such things are not done. If you would have me this night, you must pay my couch-price to M'len, or strike with

him some bargain." I smiled reassuringly. "You have much to learn before you go to Arlet."