[Shkloboo]

Ну, да и кстати - там дальше буквально пара страниц и мы читаем про падение героини в пропасть (или куда там её кинули).
Итак:

Удар был так силен, что подломились ноги, в плече при столкновении с камнем что-то хрустнуло. Но вместо того, чтобы разбрызгать по земле мозги, она всего лишь раздробила челюсть… об окровавленную грудь брата, чье изувеченное тело лежало, распластавшись под деревом.

Так Бенна Меркатто спас жизнь своей сестре.

Ну то есть как бы вообще не секрет кто кому кем приходится.

Но, возможно, это козни руссоперевода?

Twigs snatched, grabbed, lashed at her. A broken branch knocked her spinning. Wood cracked and tore around her as she plunged down, down, and crashed into the mountainside. Her legs splintered under her plummeting weight, her shoulder broke apart against firm earth. But rather than dashing her brains out on the rocks, she only shattered her jaw against her brother’s bloody chest, his mangled body wedged against the base of a tree.

Which was how Benna Murcatto saved his sister’s life.

нет, всё верно, в отзывах люди тоже пишут, что аберкромби подает сюжет так, что герои поначалу подаются, как любовники, и только под конец становится известно, что это брат и сестра

Теперь мы знаем, какова цена этих отзывов=) "Конец", под который нам становится известно, что это брат и сестра, наступает где-то на 10 странице книги=))
П.С.
Кстати, я-то сразу удивился, почему то что он - брат, такая уж новость. Ведь (я думал) вроде как в первой половине книги о её семье рассказывают и о брате тоже. Каюсь, я был не совсем прав.
Рассказывают об это... во второй же, блин, главе!

Скрытый текст - тык:

Jappo Murcatto never said why he had such a good sword, but he knew well how to use it. Since his son was by five years his younger child and sickly too, from a tender age he passed on the skill to his daughter. Monzcarro had been her father’s mother’s name, in the days when her family had pretended at nobility. Her own mother had not cared for it in the least, but since she had died giving birth to Benna that scarcely mattered.

Those were peaceful years in Styria, which were as rare as gold. At ploughing time Monza would hurry behind her father while the blade scraped through the dirt, weeding any big stones from the fresh black earth and throwing them into the wood. At reaping time she would hurry behind her father while his scythe-blade flashed, gathering the cut stalks into sheaves.

“Monza,” he would say, smiling down at her, “what would I do without you?”

She helped with the threshing and tossed the seed, split logs and drew water. She cooked, swept, washed, carried, milked the goat. Her hands were always raw from some kind of work. Her brother did what he could, but he was small, and ill, and could do little. Those were hard years, but they were happy ones.

When Monza was fourteen, Jappo Murcatto caught the fever. She and Benna watched him cough, and sweat, and wither. One night her father seized Monza by her wrist, and stared at her with bright eyes.

“Tomorrow, break the ground in the upper field, or the wheat won’t rise in time. Plant all you can.” He touched her cheek. “It’s not fair that it should fall to you, but your brother is so small. Watch over him.” And he was dead.