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The Magehound :: Каннингем Элейн
Страница: 47 из 216In two more steps, Matteo saw where she had gone: a narrow alley, shaded by tall buildings on eitherside and almost obscured by the thick flowering vines that twined up the walls. He skidded to a stop and darted in after her.
Too late. As he rounded the corner, he heard the wemic's voice lifted in a sound that was half snarl, half guttural chuckle, and utterly triumphant.
Tzigone heard it, too. She cast a baleful look over her shoulder at Matteo and began to climb the vine-covered walls. "At least try to hurry," she muttered.
Matteo tested a handful of the fragrant vines and found that they would hold his weight. The rough stones on the wall beneath provided footholds. It was not unlike some of his training exercises, and he managed to almost keep pace with Tzigone.
The roof was smooth and broad. Tzigone rolled to her feet and started off at a trot. She pointed toward the public garden in the midst of the city. "Going roof to roof, we can reach the bilboa tree from here. Once we're in the tree, Mbatu will never find us."
Matteo was momentarily startled to hear her speak the wemic's name. "You have had dealings with this wemic?"
She tossed a glance back at him. "How many lion-men have you seen in this part of the world? Stories are told, and I have ears to listen."
"Ah. Rumors."
"They've kept me alive so far," she retorted. She turned and planted her fists on her narrow hips. "Why are you just standing there? Are you coming or not?"
"Not." He folded his arms and leveled a steady gaze upon the incredulous Tzigone. "Do not think me ungrateful for your help, but I have had enough of flight. Go your way and leave me to mine."
"Which is?"
"I will confront the wemic in battle," he said simply.
The girl hissed with exasperation. "Did you see the wemic's baldric? The sword slung over his shoulder?" she said grimly.
Matteo sent her a puzzled look. He could recall both precisely: the baldric was a broad leather strap, tanned a light tawny hue, slanted across the wemic's great chest and joined to the belt that encircled his humanoid torso. The baldric held a scabbard that slanted over the wemic's back, fastened tightly at the top and secured at the bottom by a short strap so that the scabbard could tilt outward when the wemic drew his sword-a necessary adjustment, given the length of the blade. Otherwise the creature would have to reach behind his head to draw the sword, exposing the pit of his arm to his enemy's blades. No seasoned warrior would make himself vulnerable in this way. A quick stab or a thrown dagger could pierce the lungs and drown the wemic in his own blood.
Too late. As he rounded the corner, he heard the wemic's voice lifted in a sound that was half snarl, half guttural chuckle, and utterly triumphant.
Tzigone heard it, too. She cast a baleful look over her shoulder at Matteo and began to climb the vine-covered walls. "At least try to hurry," she muttered.
Matteo tested a handful of the fragrant vines and found that they would hold his weight. The rough stones on the wall beneath provided footholds. It was not unlike some of his training exercises, and he managed to almost keep pace with Tzigone.
The roof was smooth and broad. Tzigone rolled to her feet and started off at a trot. She pointed toward the public garden in the midst of the city. "Going roof to roof, we can reach the bilboa tree from here. Once we're in the tree, Mbatu will never find us."
Matteo was momentarily startled to hear her speak the wemic's name. "You have had dealings with this wemic?"
She tossed a glance back at him. "How many lion-men have you seen in this part of the world? Stories are told, and I have ears to listen."
"Ah. Rumors."
"They've kept me alive so far," she retorted. She turned and planted her fists on her narrow hips. "Why are you just standing there? Are you coming or not?"
"Not." He folded his arms and leveled a steady gaze upon the incredulous Tzigone. "Do not think me ungrateful for your help, but I have had enough of flight. Go your way and leave me to mine."
"Which is?"
"I will confront the wemic in battle," he said simply.
The girl hissed with exasperation. "Did you see the wemic's baldric? The sword slung over his shoulder?" she said grimly.
Matteo sent her a puzzled look. He could recall both precisely: the baldric was a broad leather strap, tanned a light tawny hue, slanted across the wemic's great chest and joined to the belt that encircled his humanoid torso. The baldric held a scabbard that slanted over the wemic's back, fastened tightly at the top and secured at the bottom by a short strap so that the scabbard could tilt outward when the wemic drew his sword-a necessary adjustment, given the length of the blade. Otherwise the creature would have to reach behind his head to draw the sword, exposing the pit of his arm to his enemy's blades. No seasoned warrior would make himself vulnerable in this way. A quick stab or a thrown dagger could pierce the lungs and drown the wemic in his own blood.