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

“May a simple Sharnn ask why you call the Malians secretive?”
“They’ve been Concord members for nine hundred years, yet we know nothing about them that the
First Contact team didn’t teach us.”
“Perhaps,” said Ryth blandly. “But a secretive culture would never have allowed Maran’s Song to be
heard by any but Malian ears.”
Kayle made a gesture of dismissal. “Maran’s Song is a great work of the mind, perhaps one of the
greatest the Concord knows. It is the summation of crystal music. Any race would be proud to display
such an achievement. And,” added Kayle dryly, “Malians are nothing if not proud. Arrogant beyond
belief.”
“Little is beyond a Sharnn’s belief.”
Kayle stared at the alien who sat so easily in the resilient sling. Ryth’s eyes shone greenly, lit by inner
knowledge or amusement or strength; Kayle did not know which. He did know that Sharn’s culture was
less primitive than it appeared, if Ryth was a product of it. And the Carifil had been so eager to study
Ryth that they had promised him what was denied to every person in the Concord—entry to Malia.
“Do all Sharnn have your ability to find patterns where others find only chaos?” asked Kayle
abruptly.
“Sometimes.”
“When? And how many?” demanded Kayle.
Ryth’s smile would have made anyone but a Nendleti uneasy. “A few,” said Ryth. “When they must.”
“There’s a saying in the Concord,” muttered Kayle. “As stupid as a Sharnn.”
Ryth’s smile increased until Kayle almost heard the Sharnn’s inner laughter.
“But the Carifil have a different saying,” continued Kayle. “As elusive as a Sharnn.”
“Are there similar phrases to describe Malians?” asked Ryth.
“You’re a hard man to insult,” said Kayle softly.
Ryth simply smiled like a Sharnn.
Kayle gestured in amused defeat. “The Carifil told me that you would ask seemingly random
questions, but that I should answer in spite of confusion.” Kayle frowned again, disliking the elliptical
conversation, sensing that the Sharnn was at least three questions—and answers—ahead of him. “The
First Contact team agreed that Malia was beautiful beyond imagining; that Malians as a race and Malian
aristocrats in particular had a primal allure that transcended cultural prejudices; that Malian culture was
obsessed with sensual experience.”
Kayle waited, but Ryth did not comment.
“The First Contact team,” continued Kayle, “also had a saying about Malians.” Kayle stopped,
apparently finished.
“And that was?” said Ryth softly.
“‘Trust a Malian to betray you.’” Kayle’s orange eyes brooded over the Sharnn’s muscular frame.
“Do you still want to go to Malia?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” said Kayle bluntly.
“Many reasons, none of which you would understand.”
Kayle’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose I earned that one, Sharnn. Now tell me why you want to go to
Malia.”
“I want to hear Maran’s Song played on the Sandoliki sarsa.”
“Impossible. That song is never played on Malia.”
Ryth became absolutely still, savagely intent; for an instant nothing existed but the ramifications of that
single fact, as his Sharnn instinct for patterns focused his mind. Then the moment passed and he was once
again just a tall man resting in a sling.
“Are you sure?” asked Ryth mildly.
Kayle’s fingers stroked the multi-textured surface of his robe as he tried to convince himself that no
man could be as dangerous as Ryth had appeared to be for a single instant.