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

“Too vague. Three weeks bonding.”

Rheba blinked. If she won, Jal would be bonded to her for three weeks, virtually her slave. If he
won, she would be bonded to him.

She would have to be very sure not to lose.
“Three days will be enough for my purposes,” she said, not bothering to conceal her distaste for
the man in the kingseat.

“But not enough for mine.” He leaned down toward her, smiling unpleasantly. “Three weeks.”

For an instant, she wanted to flee from those dark eyes boring into her. She desperately wished
Kirtn were near, a solid strength at her back. Then she remembered why she had come to Onan.
The need to find others of her kind had not changed. And Jal wore a Bre’n carving.

“Done,” whispered Rheba.

Even as she spoke, the pot increased ten times over and the rules changed for a third time. Colors
vanished from the markers. As the colors faded, so did Rheba’s means of winning the game.

II
Rheba looked at her OVA reading. She had just enough to match the pot ten times over and
thereby change the rules. Unfortunately, Jal had enough credits in his OVA to match even that
pot ten times over and still buy drugs for everyone in the casino. Whatever rule she made, Jal
could afford to unmake.

Credits drained suddenly from her OVA. Jal had programmed a matching series of threes and
circles so quickly that no one had time to intervene. Before he could repeat the coup, a sixth-level
player programmed counterinstructions. Jal’s progression of shapes and numbers was
irretrievably scrambled by the shrewd attack, but the damage to Rheba was done.

Silently, she dropped from fifth to fourth level. She ignored the cold wash of fear that made her
skin prickle and concentrated on discovering a way to beat Jal’s game. Making and holding black
outlines was different—and more difficult—than merely changing the colors of existing shapes.
She needed time to adjust, to learn.

Before she had done much more than measure the extent of her weakness, her circlet chimed and
sweetly spoke of diminishing credits. She had to descend to the third level or leave the game.

“Forfeit?” inquired Jal in a bored voice.

Rheba stood between levels, staring into the ziggurat as though considering the offer. She
frowned and scratched the back of her left hand, wondering why it was so difficult for her to
make and hold outlines. She could do seven or eight at once, but it was difficult and dangerously
slow work.

“Forfeit,” urged Satin in her quiet voice. “Save what’s left of your OVA. Jal isn’t a pleasant
master, but he’s better than being broke in Nontondondo.”