"Steve Perry - Matador 00 - The 97th Step" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

ray hide, and it would be heavier than it appeared, were that the case. The big mue meant to work on his
thrall with the strap, that much was obvious, and nobody in the pub was likely to stand in his way. Why
should they? Might draw attention, and who knew what that might bring?
Ferret's grip tightened on the plastic ale stein; tendons raised on the back of his hand.

Stoll must have caught the movement, subtle as it was. He said, "Easy, lad. There's no profit to be made
for the risk here."

Ferret looked at his friend, and nodded. He relaxed his hold on the stein. "You're right, Shanti." He
struggled to calm the tension he felt. The slaver mue was big and obviously violent, and there was no way
to tell how good he was. Ferret had learned not to judge from appearances. He'd studied close combat
for more than a year with Elvin Dindabe, who'd been rated a Top Player in the Musashi Flex before he'd
retired. Some men could kill you without raising their heartbeats, and they looked like nothing. It was not
his business, no, he wasn't some kind of cosmic do-gooder, you got started on that and there was no end
to it. But there was that strap—

The slaver's mistake was in timing. At that precise instant, he flicked the supple snakeskin strap up and
snapped it at the cowering boy. The pop! of the leather as the tip slapped against the boy's shoulder
reached Ferret then, and all logic, self-interest and thoughts of minding his own business fled before a
fifteen-year-old memory. Against that power, all else was blown away like pollen in a windstorm. The
past reached out and claimed him.

Ferret stood, muscles flexing into fighting mode.

Across the table, Stoll sighed. "Go," he said, sounding disgusted. "I'll watch your back."

Ferret spared him a glance as he started for the slaver. From his belt, Stoll pulled a focused-beam hand
wand, quickly moving it under the table, out of sight.

"—Worthless dung-whelp!" the slaver said, using his wrist to clear the strap over his shoulder for another
lash. "You'll learn to move when I say move!" One of the slaver's table-mates nodded. The slaver saw
this, and he grinned. Now it was a show, something to entertain his friends. He wiggled the strap and his
smile increased.

The slaver must have caught Ferret's motion peripherally, for he turned slightly to look at the approaching
man. Softly, he said, "You got a problem, flo'man?"

Ferret managed to keep his anger at a low simmer. He glanced at the strap and said, "That. Better you
shouldn't use it on the boy."

The slaver's smile never wavered. This must have happened to him before, somebody sticking his nose in
where it didn't belong. Ferret knew that the mue wasn't afraid of what he saw: an average-sized pale
human, no weapons visible, jamming his face into the slaver's business without call. The smell of burned
cashews increased suddenly, now it seemed almost overwhelming, a hot stink that lay over Ferret like the
sudden quiet the confrontation had brought to the pub. Men, women, humans and mues looked on, dogs
watching to see if what went down was bark or bite.

The slaver said, "Oh? And what would you have me do with it, Reverend?" He flicked his wrist, and sent
a spiral wave down the length of the strap. A practiced move.