"Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 4 - Sword Breaker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

She said something of succinct, exquisite brevity in Northern, which is her native tongue, and
which adapts itself as readily to swearing as my Southron one does.

"Hah, " she said, more politely. "You forget, Tiger--I know better. I know you. What you are is a
man who's been kicked in the head, and drunk on top of it."

Well, she had the first part right: I had been kicked in the head, and, of all the indignities, by my
own horse. But the second part was wrong. "I'm not drunk."

"You were yesterday. And last night."

"That was yesterday--and last night. And most of that was the kick in the head... besides, I don't
notice it kept me from rescuing you."

"You didn't rescue me."

"Oh, no?" With meticulous effort, I got off my knees and onto my feet, turning slowly to face her.
Movement hurt like hoolies. Sweetly, I inquired, "And who was it who held back an angry mob of
people intent on ripping you to pieces for killing the jhihadi?"

Del's tone, surprisingly, was perfectly matter-of-fact. "He wasn't the jhihadi. He was Ajani.
Bandit. Murderer. Rapist." She looked through thready smoke seeping upward from the handful
of coals masquerading as a fire. Lumpy, bone-gray kheshi dripped from a battered cup as she
scooped up a generous serving and held it out to me. "Breakfast is ready."

The stud chose that moment to flood the dirt. Which reminded me of something.

"Wait--" I blurted intently.

And staggered off to the nearest bush to pay tribute to the gods.




One
I hooked my foot into the stirrup as I caught reins and pommel--and stopped moving altogether.
Which left me sort of suspended, weight distributed unevenly throughout sore legs stretched
painfully between stirrup and ground. Since the stirrup was attached to saddle--which was, in
turn, attached to a horse, however temporarily by dint of a cinch--I realized it was not the most
advantageous of positions if the horse decided to move. But for the moment, it was the best I
could manage.

"Uck, " I commented. "Whose idea was this?" The stud swung his head around and eyed me
consideringly with one dark eye, promising much with nothing discernible. Except I know how to
read him. I exhibited a fist. "Better not, cumfa-bait." Del, from atop her roan, with some asperity:
"Tiger."

"Oh, keep your tunic tied." With an upward heave that did nothing at all to ease the ache in my
head--or the rebellion in my belly--I swung up. "Of course, in your case, I'd just as soon you
untied the tunic." I cast her a toothy leer that was, I knew in my heart of hearts, but a shadow of