"Janat Kagan - Hellspark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kagan Janet)

The tape beeped end-of-message and then there was nothing to see but cabin wall. Swift-Kalat took
off his spectacles and continued to stare at it. Even in GalLing’, and even with van Zoveel’s careful
disclaimer, the words were chilling. They could do the sprookjes no good. He did not want to face van
Zoveel for fear of the further harm the man might do with his words.
To postpone the unpleasant duty as long as he could, he ate, telling himself throughout that van
Zoveel’s words in GalLing’ could have no adverse effect on the sprookjes’ situation. That, in fact, he
knew that reliability was an aid to understanding only; that it was only superstition that it had an effect on
reality. Having reassured himself somewhat, he showered as well, rebraiding his hair while it was still
damp. There was no point in waiting for it to dry: it would only get wet again as he crossed the
compound to van Zoveel’s cabin.
The thunderstorm had not let up. He stood on the sheltered step of his cabin for a long time, reluctant
to venture into the storm. Thunder rattled, numbing his ears; a sheet of lightning whited out even the red
mud of the compound.
For a long moment, he was deaf and blind. He blinked furiously to clear his eyes, shielding them with
a raised hand from ensuing flashes as the lightning repeatedly struck the stand of lightning rods that grew
only two kilometers from camp.
When at last he found his vision returning, swift-Kalat could no longer distinguish between the dazzle
of the Lassti flash wood and that in his own optic nerves. He drew an angry breath and plunged into the
pouring rain. All around him sparks flew.

Chapter One
Sheveschke, on the Rim of The Goblet.

WIND ROSE TO sweep the great bay known as The Goblet, where the Sheveschkem fleet
gathered to honor Veschke, patron saint of thieves and traders, and to be blessed by her priests. The
hissing light of torches along the wharf shaped and shadowed a hundred small craft, all alive with
whispered sounds as if they shared the festival excitement. Ironwood hulls groaned and ropes creaked to
the pulse of the waves; pennants and ribbons snapped counterpoint in the wind. They spoke of a
thousand more ships beyond the acrid blaze of torchlight.
The same wind brought the wood-smoke of the festival fires, the tang of keshri bark, and the warm,
rich smell of great cauldrons of stew.
It was the sailing wind of Sheveschke, and it whipped through Tocohl Susumo’s red-gold hair and
sent her moss cloak streaming about her. Her 2nd skin glistened over her tanned flesh like rubbed-in oil,
reflecting the sparks riding the wind.
She was tall and spare, and she acknowledged her kinship to the captains of these tiny craft with a
nod that, on another world, would have been a bow. Momentarily caught by torchlight, her eyes flared
gold.
Beyond the bay, a thousand extra stars bejeweled the clear, cold skies of Sheveschke, their light
splintered and spattered by the rowdy waves of Shatterglass Sea. A thousand extra stars—the Hellspark
traders come to pay their own respects to Veschke, to have their ships blessed, side by side with the tiny
skiffs and the sleek schooners of Sheveschke.
Tocohl Susumo looked up at the sky, into constellations old and new. (Where are you, Maggy?) she
subvocalized. (Here,) came the response, and a tiny arrow appeared against the night sky, projected on
Tocohl’s spectacles, to indicate a new star at the tail-tip of the smallest Lunatic Cat.
Tocohl smiled her satisfaction, then leaned against the ironwood railing and said, (Now play back the
message from Nevelen Darragh.)
(Your adrenaline level has dropped two points in the last five minutes. Playing Nevelen Darragh’s
message would only raise it again,) said Maggy; and Tocohl imagined a plump and prim Trethowan
attempting to speak Jannisetti without using any taboo words.
(Cheeky,) Tocohl said, (don’t argue with me.)