By S. M. Stirling
Against the Tide of Years maintains the adventures of the Nantucket citizens who've been transported via time to the Bronze Age. within the years considering their arrival, the fledging Republic of Nantucket has striven to higher the primitive global during which they now exist. Their best matters are setting up a structure and dealing with the waves of immigrants from the British Isles. yet a renegade time vacationer plans his personal destiny by means of forging an empire for himself in response to conquest through glossy expertise. The Republic has no replacement yet to stand the inevitable conflict attributable to one in every of their own....
Read or Download Against the Tide of Years (The Change, Book 2; Nantucket, Book 2) PDF
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Additional info for Against the Tide of Years (The Change, Book 2; Nantucket, Book 2)
Fuck the bed,” she said. ” Yasmin giggled a little shyly, as if our relationship were beginning all over again from the very first night together. ” she asked. I let out my breath, taken by her loveliness and her quiet, unaffected charm. It was as if I were seeing her again for the first time. “I don’t want you to use any moddy,” I said quietly. ” “Oh, Marîd,” she said. She squeezed my hand, and we stayed like that, staring into each other’s eyes, inhaling the perfume of the sweet olive, hearing the songs of thrushes and nightingales.
A moment later, Abdoulaye opened it. “Let me have it. ” Over his shoulder, I could see several men engaged in some high-spirited gambling. “I have the whole sum, Abdoulaye,” I said, “but you’re going to write me out a receipt. ” He looked angry. ” I glared back at him. “The receipt. ” He called me a couple of foul names, then ducked back into the room. He scrawled out the receipt and showed it to me. “Give me the fifteen hundred kiam,” he said, growling. ” For a second I thought about hitting him hard with the edge of my hand across the flat of his nose, breaking his face for him.
You’re welcome,” said the boy. That stumped me. ” Dumb kid. Lieutenant Okking would find him in an alleyway some night. Or I would, with my kind of luck. Hassan was in the storeroom, checking some crates against an invoice. The crates were addressed to him in Arabic script, but other words were stenciled in some European language. The crates could have contained anything from static pistols to shrunken heads. Hassan didn’t care what he bought and sold, as long as he turned a profit. He was the Platonic ideal of the crafty merchant.