"Mercedes Lackey - Tregarde 2 - Burning Water" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

plunging prices of oil had brought as much economic disaster to Mexico's economy as to TexasтАФmore so,
in some ways. The earthquake had just been the mud-frosting on a rock-cake. Recovery was going to be
painfully slowтАФ
"RobertтАФ" she tugged at his arm, bringing him out of his reverie. "Over thereтАФquickтАФ"
"Over there," in a courtyard complete with the week's washing hanging out to dry in the hot sun,
was a group of eight or ten kids dancing. For the moment, if you couldn't hear the rock beat coming from
the ghetto blaster (fortuitously just on the edge of the group), you'd swear they were performing some
quaint native dance. For a wonder the girls were in skirts instead of jeans. Granted, they were cheap Cyndi
Lauper imitations, but they were also colorful, borderline folky, and rather cute. Robert got half a dozen
shots before one of the boys started moonwalking.
"Good eye, Sunshine," he applauded as he waved down a cab. "I'll have to crop the radio out, but
that was nice composition."
She couldn't help herself, no matter that he'd probably be snarling at her before another hour was
over. For now, she had his approval, and she glowed.
***
Robert stared at the ruined pyramid as if it had personally offended him, and Sherry sighed. There
was no shade out here; the sun was bearing down on both of them mercilessly, but Robert showed no
signs of wanting to move on. She squinted into the glare; sunglasses weren't helping much. She wanted a
margarita and a cool place to sit, badly.
She knew what his reaction would be to her suggestion that they come back laterтАФa sullen snarl.
He had taken these old ruins as a personal challenge. He was obviously bound and determined to make
something interesting out of them, or die in the attempt.
She shifted uncomfortably on the crumbling stone step, and scanned the few other people she
could see, hoping for something interesting. Unfortunately they seemed equally divided between earnest
and impoverished college students and pudgy middle-aged American tourists, all of them squinting
against the sunlight reflecting off the white stone pavement.
The Ugly American lives, she thought wryly, wondering for the thousandth time why it was that
the skinny students wore the jeans, and the pasty, middle-aged monuments to cellulite exposed their thighs
for all the universe to gawk at.
She fanned herself with her hat, wishing she could somehow capture the incredible blue of the sky
in a dye-lot that didn't look garish. White stone, green vegetation, blue skyтАФsun so bright it had no color
at all, and not a cloud to be seen. It was gorgeous, and looked as if it would make a perfect photo. But that
brilliant sun was the problem; any pictures taken now would look washed-out by the bright light.
Besides, they'd look like a thousand other pictures of these ruins. What Robert needed was a setup
that would convey the age and awe-inspiring quality these ruins had, without looking contrived or like
every other picture of an Aztec ruin. Or worse, come off a poor second to the latest round of adventure-
movie stills.
Too bad I can't convince some Aztec ghosts to show up and pose for him, she thought idly,
brushing damp hair off of her forehead. It would be just what heтАФ
She started as a girl came around the corner of the pyramid she sat on.
My GodтАФ
For a moment, she thought the girl was a ghost. The features, the profileтАФshe could have posed
for any of a hundred paintings and carvings back in the museum. Hair so black that it held turquoise-blue
highlights, smoldering eyes that took up most of the upper half of her face, a complexion like gourmet
coffee lightened with the smoothest and finest of cream. And her costumeтАФ
My God, it looks like she copied it from that painting of Smoking Mirror and his priestessesтАФ
The colorful, elaborately brocaded huiple and wrap-skirt were perfect replicas of those in the
painting, so far as Sherry could remember. And the workmanship of both made the blouse she carried in
her bag seem like the rumblings of an amateur weaver.
The girl moved as gracefully as a hunting cat, carrying herself with a dignity that was totally