"Ann Maxwell - Concord 3 - Name of a Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxwell Ann)

of his bright blue robe between his palms, “I believe Malians usually ignore off-worlders so long as they
are wholly discreet.”
“Usually,” murmured Ryth, “is hardly comforting, given Malians’ reputation as assassins. Did you
know Carifil Cryl?”
Kayle’s face tightened into bleak lines. “Yes. I warned him. The Carifil still don’t know how he got
on the planet.”
“The same way we did,” said Ryth. “No other possibility fits.”
“He was obsessed by Malia’s crystal music,” said Kayle.
“And Maran’s Song?” asked Ryth softly.
“And Maran’s Song,” agreed Kayle, his voice heavy. “He had a theory about Malian culture that
depended on a certain interpretation of Maran’s Song. Until he heard that song played on the Sandoliki
sarsa, he could not test his idea.”
“Yes,” said Ryth. “Concepts can only be tested at their sources.”
“Cryl died at the hands of k’m’n Sandoliki Lekel.”
“Did he hear Maran’s Song before he died?” asked Ryth, his silver-green eyes suddenly hard with
intensity. But Kayle did not notice, for he was remembering a dead Carifil.
“No.”
“Are you sure?” demanded Ryth.
“Does it matter, pattern-man?” said Kayle irritably.
Ryth waited with the intense patience of a predator.
“Yes,” Kayle said, voice rasping in the empty shuttle. “I’m sure he died without hearing Maran’s
Song. The death-cry of his mind was singularly unfulfilled.”
Ryth sat back and resumed his meticulous visual inspection of each aspect of the shuttle. Kayle
watched, then probed lightly at the edges of Ryth’s mind. A cataract of savage energy nearly stunned the
Nendleti. He withdrew, and only then did he realize that the Sharnn was using the shuttle, and whatever
other facts/theories/ guesses he had garnered, to analyze, correlate and extrapolate patterns of Malian
culture.
For the first time, Kayle began to believe that the Sharnn might have a truly extraordinary gift, worthy
of Carifil interest. Kayle watched covertly, fascinated, all through the long fall to Malia’s surface. When
the shuttle bounced and sideslipped on entering Malia’s atmosphere, Ryth finally became aware of
Kayle’s concentrated interest.
“Nendleti philosophers,” Kayle said quietly, “believe that the past, present, and future of a culture can
be intuited from a single object.” He smiled slightly. “Do you find this shuttle educational, sri Ryth?”
Ryth noted the Nendleti honorific “sri,” but said only, “The shuttle is overwhelming. The lights alone,”
he gestured to an instrument panel whose information was displayed in colors rather than numbers, “tell
me as much as the First Contact tapes.”
Kayle eyed the panel, but saw only a rainbow of colors. To him, the panel was beautiful but
essentially meaningless. To the Sharnn it was a revelation.
“Teach me,” said Kayle.
Ryth’s hands spread in a gesture of helplessness, but after a long silence, he spoke.
“I’ll try.” His words were slow as he picked his way through the limitations and pitfalls of the Galactic
language. “How many colors do you see?”
“Perhaps fifty.”
“How many colors are repeated? A few? Many? All?”
Kayle looked at the panel carefully. “Almost all. Especially the lighter colors.”
“None are repeated,” said Ryth softly.
Kayle started to protest, then decided against it. “Go on, Sharnn. I asked to be taught.”
“I see what might be a few repeats, but the pattern tells me that my eyes are at fault. Otherwise, the
instrument readouts would be repetitious or useless or both. So Malian eyes must see distinct color
separations, receive distinct information. Therefore Malian eyes are capable of exquisite discrimination