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

“I loathe yellow-haired licensed innocents,” said Trader Jal, dismissing Rheba. He sat back,
taking care that his silver circle was revealed. The gesture carried both pride and warning.

“That’s two things we have in common,” said Rheba clearly.

“Two?” Jal leaned forward, surprised by the innocent who had disregarded his warning.

“Mutual loathing. An interest in Bre’n artifacts.”

One side of Jal’s mouth twitched, anger or amusement, ‘Bre’n artifacts ...?”

Rheba pushed back her mass of yellow hair, revealing a large carved earring. Like the pendant
worn by Jal, Rheba’s earring evoked a Bre’n face. Kirtn had never told her whose face it was.
After the first time, she had not asked again.

“Recognize this?” she asked, lifting her chin to show the carving’s fluid lines.

Jal smoothed his robes, a movement meant to disguise the sudden tension of interest in the
muscles around his black eyes. “Where did you get it?”

“Three things in common,” said Rheba. “That’s the same question I would ask of you.
Information is a commodity. Shall we trade?” As she spoke, her right hand closed around a
packet of gems in her robe pocket The stones were all the wealth she and Kirtn had. She hoped it
would be enough to buy the answer to the question that consumed her: Bre’ns and Senyasi; did
any others survive?

Before Jal could answer, a fifth-level player called out in a language Rheba had never heard. Jal
answered, his voice like a whip. His purple nails danced across his game computer. Inside the
crystal ziggurat, colors and shapes and sequences changed. Sighs and shouts welcomed the
permutations. A new cycle of Chaos had begun.

Rheba called out to Jal. The trader ignored her. She did not need a computer to tell her that until
this round had ended, Jal was lost to her. She looked at the man standing on her left, a dilettante’s
circlet whispering into his ear.

“How long did the last cycle take?” she asked.

The man looked at his thumbnail, where symbols glowed discreetly. “Seventeen hours.”

Rheba groaned. Every minute their ship was in its berth at the spaceport, her Onan Value
Account—OVA—was reduced by twenty three credits. She could not afford to wait until Jal won
or lost or tired of gambling. She would have to find a way to end the cycle quickly.

Rheba wriggled into the dilettantes’ circle, placed a circlet over her ear, and listened while the
game computer’s sibilant voice told her the rules of the present cycle of Chaos. Even as she
listened, a rule changed, modifying the game like moonrise modifying night She pressed the
repeat segment and listened again.

At core, the present cycle was a simple progression based on complementary colors, prime