“What’s the native brew?” she asked the barman, settling herself on the quaint high wooden stool.
“Depends on your capacity, m’dear,” the little black man told her, grinning a welcome.
“I’ve never disgraced myself.”
“Tart or sweet?”
“Hmmm. Tart, cool, and long.”
“There’s a concoction of fermented fruits, native to this globe, called ‘harmat.’ Powerful.”
“Keep an eye on me then, man. You call the limit.”
He nodded respectfully. He couldn’t know that a crystal singer had a metabolism that compensated for drug or narcotic or excess alcohol. A blessing-curse. Particularly if you were injured off-world, with no crystal around to draw the noise of accidental pain from your bones and muscles.
Harmat was tart, cool, and long, with a pleasant aftertaste that kept the mouth sweet and soothed the throat.
“A good drink for a sun world. And sailors.”
“Aye it is,” the barman said, his eyes twinkling. “And if it weren’t for them, we could export more.”
“I thought Armagh’s trade was fish oils and glue.”
The barman wrinkled his nose disdainfully. “It is. Harmat off-world commands a price, only trade rules say home consumption comes first.”
“Invent another drink.”
The barman frowned. “I try. Oh, I try. But they drink me dry of anything I brew.”
“You’re brewman as well?”
He drew himself up, straight and proud. “I gather the fruit from my own land, prepare it, press it, keg it, age it.”
She questioned him further, interested in another’s exacting trade, and thought if she weren’t a crystal singer, brewmaking would have been fun.
Biyanco, for that was the brewman’s name, chatted with her amiably—he was an amusing fellow—until the laughter and talk of a large crowd penetrated the quiet gloom of the public room.
“The fishermen,” he told her, busying himself by filling glass after glass after glass of harmat, lining them up along the bar.
He was none too soon, for the wide doors of the public room swung open and a horde of oil-trousered, vested men and women surged up to the bar, dark hands closing on the nearest glass, coins spinning and clicking to the wooden surface. Killashandra remained on her stool but she was pressed hard on both sides by thirsty people who spared her no glance until they’d finished the first and were bawling for a refill. Then she was rather casually, she felt, dismissed as the fisherfolk laughed and talked trade.
“You’d best watch that stuff,” said a voice in her ear and she saw Redbeard.
“I’ve been warned,” she answered, grinning.
“Biyanco makes the best harmat this side of the canal. It’s not a drink for the novice.”
“I’ve been warned,” she repeated, mildly amused at the half-insult. Of course, the man couldn’t know she was a crystal singer. So his warning had been kindly meant.
A huge bronzed fist brushed past her left breast. Startled, she looked up into the brilliant blue eyes of the blond sailor, received an incurious appraisal that warmed briefly in the way a man will look at a woman, and then grew cautious.
Killashandra looked away first, disturbed and disappointed. He was much too young for her. She turned back to Redbeard, who grinned as if he had watched the swift exchange of glances and was somehow amused by it.
“I’m Thursday, Shamus Thursday, ma’am,” the redbeard said.
“Killashandra is my name,” she replied and extended her hand.
He couldn’t have told her profession by her grip but the strength surprised him. She could see that. Killashandra was not a tall or heavily boned woman; crystal cutting does not need mass, only controlled energy and that could be developed in any arm.
“This is my good friend, Shad Tucker,” and Thursday gestured to the blond.
Thankful that the press of bodies made it impossible for her to do the courteous handshake, Killashandra nodded to Shad Tucker.
“And my old comrade of the wars, Tir Donnell,” Shamus Thursday motioned to the blackbeard, who also contented himself with a nod and grin at her. “You’d be here for a rest, Killashandra?” And when she nodded, “And why would you pick such a dull fisherman’s world as Armagh if you’d all the galaxy to choose from?”
Killashandra had heard that sort of question before, how many times she didn’t care to remember. She’d also heard the same charming invitation for confidence.
“Perhaps I like water sports,” she replied, smiling back at him, and not bothering to hide her appraisal.
To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. She could see where he’d trimmed the hairs from his throat, leaving a narrow band of white flesh that never saw sun. His two buddies said nothing but their eyes were on her.
“Perhaps you do, ma’am. And this is the place. Did you want the long wave ride? There’s a boat out every dawn.” Shamus looked at her questioningly. “Then water skating? Submarining? What is your pleasure, elusive Killashandra?”
“Rest. I’m tired.”
“Oh, I’d never think you’d ever known fatigue, ma’am!” The expression in his eyes invited her to confide.
“For someone unfamiliar with the signs, how would you know?”
“She’s got you there, Shamus,” said Tir Donnell, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Shad Tucker smiled, a sort of shy, amused smile, as if he hadn’t suspected her capable of caustic reply, and wasn’t sure he should enjoy it at his friend’s expense.
Shamus grinned, shrugged, and eyed Killashandra with respect. Then he bawled to Biyanco that his glass had a hole in it.
When the edge of their thirst had been satisfied, most of the fishermen left. “In search of other diversion,” Shamus said but he, Tir Donnell, and Shad Tucker merely settled stools around her and continued to drink.
She matched them, paid her rounds, and enjoyed Shamus’ attempts to pry information, any personal information, from her.
He was not, she discovered, easily put off, nor shy of giving facts about himself or his friends. They’d all worked the same fishing boat five seasons back, leaving the sea periodically as the monotony or bad fishing turned them off temporarily. Shamus had an interest in computers and often did wharfman’s chores if the regular men were away when ships came in. Tir Donnell needed some ready credit, was working the lunk season and would return to his regular job inland. Shad Tucker, the only off-worlder, had sailed the seas of four planets before he was landed on Armagh.
“Shad keeps saying he’ll move on, but he’s been here five years and more, and no sign of applying for a ticket-off,” Shamus told Killashandra.
Tucker only shrugged, the slight tolerant smile playing at the corner of his mouth, as if chary of admitting even that much about himself.
“Don’t let Shad’s reticence mislead you, ma’am,” Shamus went on, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s accredited for more than a lunk fisher. Indeed he is. Got mate’s tickets on four water worlds that make sailing Armagh look like tank bathing. Came here with a submariner rig one of the Anchorite companies was touting.” He shrugged, eloquently indicating that the company’s praise had fallen on deaf Armaghan ears.
“They’re tradition bound on Armagh,” Tucker said, his accent a nice change, soft on her ears. She had to sharpen her hearing to catch what he said. Shamus’ light baritone was almost harsh by contrast.
“How so?” she asked Shad, ignoring what Shamus started to say.