"Ann Maxwell - Concord 1 - The Singer Enigma" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxwell Ann)

 Lyra’s eyes were as opaque as her thoughts for a moment, then she said, “May I touch her, or her
mate?”
“Bithe thought you’d never get around to him; he was getting lonely. Here,” said Tarhn, bracing her
with his free arm, “hold your arm out as I did.”
“I thought you said they were light.”
“They are, but—” Tarhn steadied Lyra as Bithe swooped onto her arm and shoulder. “—they push
off hard,” finished Tarhn.
Bithe and Lyra studied each other for a moment, then Bithe’s tongue flicked out and tickled Lyra’s
nose.
“Behave yourself, Bithe,” said Tarhn.
Lyra laughed delightedly. “No, let him touch as he pleases. He’s not heavy at all. Like lightning ... all
power and movement.”
“And danger,” muttered Tarhn. But not for Lyra. She had a voice and touch that would charm a
rogue slizzard.
When Lyra’s fingers unerringly found the patch of skin under Bithe’s wing that forever needed
scratching, Tarhn realized that Lyra must be in some type of rapport with the slake. He probed
discreetly, but neither of the animals had the sluggish mind and muscles that betrayed an animal under
mental control. And Bithe fairly rippled pleasure at finding another pair of hands that knew where he
itched. Tarhn sighed inside himself; the Carifil weren’t going to be happy when they found out the
qualities of Lyra’s mind. Or were they? Maybe they already knew. Maybe—
“Sorry, Lyra, I wasn’t listening.”
“The slakes. They enjoy the touching, but I sense they would enjoy it more after they’re fed.”
“Getting nervous?”
“Not about Bithe,” smiled Lyra. “n’Lete is less tolerant of hunger and strangers. But, to raise young in
the world you’ve described, I guess intolerance would be useful.”
“Necessary.”
“Yes ... but she is grace and blue fire just the same.”
N’Lete’s sinuous body rippled.
“Keep talking,” laughed Tarhn. “You’ve just made a convert to tolerance.”
“Vanity?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Tarhn, stroking n’Lete’s head with his fingertip. “She knows
she is the culmination of five thousand years of Helix breeding. She’s just pleased by your discrimination.”
Lyra ran her fingertips lightly down n’Lete’s back. The slake’s head lowered fractionally in response.
Then both slakes jumped to the floor. They waited, wings folded, balancing on their rear legs and long
tails.
Tarhn opened a travel bag and brought out a handful of synthomeat strips and two soft bottles of
clear fluid.
“How often do they eat?” said Lyra, her eyes never leaving the slakes as their serrated teeth quickly
rasped the meat into paste.
“It varies,” said Tarhn, poking open the bottles. “The more active they are, the more they eat. This
will hold them for about two standard days. Longer, if they don’t get some exercise. They need water
every day, though if they must they can go without longer than I can.”
Quiet sipping sounds made a counterpoint to Tarhn’s words. The sounds increased in volume as the
liquid diminished.
“What will they do now?”
“Sleep, if we let them. Incurably lazy,” added Tarhn, laughing softly. The slakes ignored him, except
to request a lift to their perches. Tarhn obliged, throwing them lightly upwards.
“Have you eaten yet?” he said to Lyra. “Or is public eating not a practice among your people?”
“We eat when and where we are hungry. Usually twice a day. I’m hungry now.”
“Ship food? Or did you bring your own?”