"Martha Wells - Wheel of the Infinite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

Before Maskelle could answer, the prisoner said, “She doesn’t need a club to get company. Some
women don’t.” He spoke in Kushorit, the common language of the Empire, but lightly accented Maskelle
frowned; she should be able to tell what province he was from by that accent, but she couldn’t place it.
She had been too long from her native land, perhaps, too long among the soft voices of Ariad. The fact
that he knew Kushorit was no real clue; it was a common language throughout the provinces too, spoken
by traders, scholars, diplomats.
The leader crossed the stained planks to step close to her captive. She grabbed a handful of his hair
and jerked his head back. “So you don’t like my face?” she said softly.
I wager she didn‘t do that before he was more securely bound. Maskelle tended to find male
bullies merely amusing, but for some reason the female ones always stirred her to rage. Careful, careful,
she reminded herself. The darkness in the river was so uncontrolled, so near, so willing to be tapped it
was hard to resist the temptation.
Voice slightly constricted from the pressure the leader was putting on his neck, he still said, “Your
face I could ignore; it’s your personality and your breath that turn my stomach.”
This time Maskelle placed the accent; he was from the Sintane. It was a province far on the outer rim,
known for fine figured goldwork and weaving. He was a long way from home. The Sintane didn’t have
deserters or mercenaries like the other provinces; they had outcasts. She looked at the sword the raider
was holding. The hilt might be horn or bone, and the ring between the blade and the hilt seemed to be
plain silver, all of which told her nothing. The Sitanese sometimes carved family totems into the hilts of
siri, and the ring was often an elaborate piece of jeweler’s art. Maskelle said, “You must be terribly
afraid of him.”
One of the raiders gave a short bark of laughter and the leader released her grip on the captive to
face Maskelle. “What are you saying?”
“If you aren’t afraid, then cut him loose and let him fight your men. If you call them men.”
The leader came to the edge of the platform and pushed her face close to Maskelle’s. She growled,
“I should feed you to the moray, Koshan bitch.”
Seen at close range her scar was an ugly puckered fissure across a face webbed with fine lines and
darkened with ingrained dirt. The woman was bigger than Maskelle, much younger, all hard muscle, but
Maskelle felt no fear; her blood was singing with the urge to kill. She rocked forward on the balls of her
feet, looked into the other woman’s glaring eyes, and said with utter seriousness, “The moray would
choke.” Even that was almost too much; if she said one more word, the dam would break and her rage
would find an outlet whether she willed it or not. Physical threats always made her lose her temper; in all
the years, that had never changed.
The raider blinked, suddenly uncertain, perhaps sensing the danger but not wise enough to realize just
what the source was. She stepped back slowly, fingering the hilt of her knife. Maskelle waited, smiling,
but the woman shook her head and laughed. “Do as she says. Let him fight.” She gestured to the men
behind her.
Maskelle took a deep breath that the others probably read as relief. It was part disappointment, part
attempt to hold on to her suddenly tenuous self-control.
One of the raiders stepped forward, drawing his long belt knife. The prisoner tensed and Maskelle
held her breath; if they changed their minds now there was nothing she could do about it. But the raider
slashed the man’s bonds and stepped quickly back. The prisoner freed himself from the rest of the ropes,
looked around at the raiders, and with admirable self-possession, stretched and rubbed his neck. He
caught Maskelle’s eye and she flicked a glance at the gallery railing behind her, wondering if he would
pick up on the hint. She needed the raiders’ attention to be away from the cargo doors and the crane.
He didn’t nod, didn’t indicate that he had seen her signal, but he suddenly dropped to the platform
and kicked the kneecap of the raider who held the captured siri. The man collapsed with a shriek, his leg
giving way with a sharp crack. The prisoner came to his feet, taking the sword easily from the raider’s
shaking hand, ducked a deadly swipe from a bori club as he passed Maskelle and vaulted over the
gallery railing.