"Ann Maxwell - Fire Dancer 1 - Fire Dancer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxwell Ann)

One Senyas, one Bre’n; one galaxy of strangers.

With an effort, she shut away the searing memory of extinction. She and Kirtn had survived.
Surely others must also have survived. Somehow. Somewhere. She would find them, one by one,
if it took all the centuries of her life.

Rheba dove into the gamblers congealed in masses around their games, blocking aisles and
passageways with their single-minded focus on gain and loss. When courtesy, strength and
flexibility were not enough, she gave discreet shocks to the people who barred her way. Soon she
was beneath the glitter-blue pulsing galaxy that marked the game known as Chaos.

There were eight tables, six pits, three circles and a ziggurat gathered beneath the galaxy. At each
station, humanoids won and lost at games whose rules were subject to change upon agreement of
a majority of players or upon one player’s payment of ten times the pot. There was only one
inflexible rule: If a gambler could not pay he could not play. On Onan, penury was the only
unforgivable sin.

Cheating was not only expected in Chaos, it was required merely to stay in the game. Inspired
cheating was required to win. If a player was so inept as to be caught at it, however, that player
had to match the pot in order to remain in the game. As the anteroom guard had mentioned,
Chaos was not a game for innocents. But then, Rheba was an innocent only by default of funds.

She peered at the closer gambling stations, trying to find a man with blue hair, pale-blue skin, and
a lightning-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. She saw various scars, as well as skin and
hair of every hue, but none of the scars and skin tones made the correct combination. Impatiently,
she turned and headed toward the third pit.

“Game?” asked a contralto voice at her elbow.
Rheba turned and saw a tiny, beautiful woman with satin-black skin, eyes and hair. She wore a
metallic silver body sheath that covered enough for most planetary customs and not a millimeter
more. A silver circle nestled between her perfect breasts.

“I’m innocent,” said Rheba, smiling, “but I’m not stupid. No game, Silver Circle. No thanks.”

The woman smiled and resumed playing with a pile of multicolored gems, arranging and
rearranging them in complex patterns, waiting for a player whose eyes would be blinded by the
rainbow wealth of jewels.

As Rheba turned away, a blur of blue-on-blue caught her attention. She stood on tiptoe and stared
toward the top of the crystal ziggurat. A man was climbing into the kingseat, the only seat on the
seventh level of the ziggurat. His skin was blue, his hair a darker blue, almost black. As he settled
his outer robe into place, she spotted the pale flash of a jagged scar from his wrist to his
fingertips. Even more arresting to her than the scar was the superb ivory carving he wore around
his neck. The carving’s fluid, evocative lines were as Bre’n as Kirtn’s gold mask.

“Trader Jal!” called Rheba.

The man looked down. His expression of disdain could have been caused by genes or
temperament; either way, it was irritating.