"Elizabeth Lynn - The Sardonyx Net" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lynn Elizabeth A)

Ikoro smiled as the music wove its melody around him. His young, rather stern face relaxed. His
dark eyes lost their angry gleam. Lamonica had a start on him, but it would take her at least a day to fly
from the wilds of Chabad to Abanat. He tapped his fingers to the complex, familiar tune. Even if the
Hype cops boarded him, which they might not do, since he had only a minor reputation, even if they did,
they would have only a shred of evidence on which to hold him.

"To Domna Rhani Yago, from..."

Rhani Yago sat in the alcove of her bedroom, sifting through her mail. The hot, bright light of
Chabad's sun drove through the panes of glass, reflecting sharply off the papers and lightening the color
of the deep blue walls. A few elegantly calligraphed missives dignified the day's scattering of
computer-printed reports. The topmost letter was from the manager of the Yago-owned kerit farm in
Sovka. Respectfully hysterical, he informed her that kits from the last four litters of Prime Strain kerits
had been found dead in their cages, apparently from massive internal hemorrhage. He enclosed the
post-mortem analyses from the Sovka laboratory. Rhani examined them: translated from their jargon,
they said: "_Sorry, we don't know what this is_."

The next letter was from Sherrix Esbah, Family Yago's principal drug dealer in Abanat. Apologizing,
Sherrix stated firmly that she could not possibly supply her usual quarterly shipment of dorazine. The drug
runners were bringing in comine, nightshade, tabac, zimweed, but the pressure was on in Sector
Sardonyx, and no one was carrying dorazine.

The next letter was grimy. Rhani opened it with care, read the ugly threat within, and put it away.
Beneath it was her house steward's report. She laid that aside too, for later. She had no doubt that it
would be accurate; Cara Morro had run the Yago estate for twelve years, since before the death of
Rhani's mother Isobel, and her reports were unfailingly accurate. The last letter lay sealed. It bore the Dur
crest: a stone axe, raised to strike. "_From Ferris Dur_," read the superscription, "_to Domna Rhani
Yago_." Rhani touched the beautifully textured paper with her fingertips. Paper was one of the few things
that could be manufactured out of the tough, orange, thumbsized grass of Chabad. A month ago the
lettering would have read, "_From Domna Samantha Dur_." But Domna Sam was dead. Half of Abanat,
it had seemed, had joined the twilight procession that had taken her coffin to its grave. It would be hard
for Ferris to succeed her. He was waiting out the forty days of respect before he took the title Domni.
Family Dur was the First Family of Chabad and they never let you forget it; everything they did or said or
owned had style. At least, it had been so when Domna Sam was alive.

Rhani broke the seal on the letter. She read it in growing puzzlement. "...Demand to speak to you on
business of import to Chabad ... reply without fail ... hope this will be convenient for you..." Such phrases
did not belong in a letter from the head of one Family to another. This was how she might write to the
manager of the kerit farm. She controlled her annoyance and laid this communication, too, aside. She
turned in her chair to look at Binkie, her secretary. "Do I have to go on?"

"You might want to look at the PIN reports."

PIN stood for Public Information and News, Chabad's wonderfully redundant news system. It
catered mostly to the tourists. Rhani glanced at the headlines. "WHAT TO DO AND SEE AT THE
AUCTION." "Feh," she said disdainfully. "THE LIFE-CYCLE OF A KERIT." "They only print what we
give them." She touched the threatening letter. "There have been more of these lately than usual, haven't
there? Some steps should be taken to find their source."
 "I'll see to it."