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

kingseat. “Ear decorations are not considered clothing.”

Without hesitating, Jal tapped his console and matched the pot ten times over, allowing him to
change the rules without recourse to the rest of the players. The crowd quivered and cried out in
pleasure, a single organism focused on the credits glittering inside the clear ziggurat. Rheba’s
circlet chimed and explained the new rule: All decorations must be removed by player number 7.

She reached up to the intricate fastenings of her Bre’n earring. It pierced her ear in seven places,
both as decoration and as surety that she would not lose the carved Face depending from the lobe
of her ear. The Face swayed, turning. No matter which angle of view, there was always someone
in the carving, aloof and haunting and most of all sensually alive.
Before she turned over the earring to the casino employee, she punched another query into her
computer. The OVA figure by her number plummeted as the game console spat a closed silver
circle into her hand. She fastened the circle into her hair. Licensed to kill, she faced the casino
employee once more. The earring dangled hypnotically between her fingers.

“I value this. Don’t damage it.”

The employee carefully took the earring, scanned it with exquisite machinery, and found only the
molecular patterns associated with fossilized bone.

“Nothing, Trader Jal,” said the employee.

“Satin?” snapped Jal to someone behind Rheba.

Rheba turned around and was startled to find the tiny black woman standing as close to Rheba’s
feet as she could get.

“Psi, almost certainly,” said Satin with a graceful, dismissing gesture, “Yet none of the psi blocks
have been bribed.” She looked up. “Where do you come from, smooth child?”

“A planet called Luck.”

Satin laughed, a sound as sleek and cold as polished steel. She turned back toward Jal and waited
in amused silence. Jal stared hard at Rheba.

“It would have been cheaper to talk to me while I was still innocent,” observed Rheba, “Forfeit,
Trader Jal? I’ll settle for what I came for—information, not money.”

“Your tongue needs trimming, bitch.”

“That’s four things we have in common—yours does too. Do you accept my offer?”

“Forfeit?” Jal made a harsh sound. “No, smooth blond cheater. Never.”

“A side bet, then,” she said, curbing her temper.

Jal looked interested. “What are you wagering?”

“Answers.”