The landing field wasn't that far from one of the longer wharves, where a huge two-master was moving, with graceful and competent ease, to a berth along the port side.That term also came unbidden to her mind.As much because she would not give in to the emotion of the recall as because the ship excited her, she swung the carisak to her shoulder and sauntered down to the wharf.The crew was busy in the yards, reefing the last of the square sails used to make port, and more were bustling about the deck, which glinted with an almost crystalline sheen.
"What makes the decks shine?" she asked another observer.
"Fish oils" was the somewhat terse reply, and then the man, a red-bearded giant, took a second look.Men usually looked twice at Killashandra."First time on Armagh?"
Killashandra nodded, her eyes intent on the schooner.
"Been here long?"
"Just arrived."
"Got a pad?"
"No."
"Try the Golden Dolphin.Best food in town and best brewman."
Killashandra turned to look at him then."You pad there?"
"How else could I judge?" the man replied with charming candor.
Killashandra smiled back at him, neither coldly nor invitingly.Neutral.He reminded her of someone.They both turned back to watch the docking ship.
Killashandra found the process fascinating and reminiscent, but she forced memory out and concentrated on the landing, silently applauding the well-drilled crew.Each man seemed to perform his set task without apparent instruction from the captain in the bridge house.The big hull drifted slowly sideways toward the wharf.The last of the sails had now been fastened along the spars.Two crewmen flung lines ashore, fore and aft, then leaped after them when the distance closed, flipping the heavy lines deftly around the bollards and snubbing the ship securely.
Armagh men ran to height, tanned skins, and strong backs, Killashandra noticed approvingly.Redbeard was watching her out of the corner of his eye.He was interested in her all right.Just then, the nearest sailor turned landside and waved in her direction.His teeth were startlingly white against the mahogany of his skin.He tossed back a streaked blond curly mane of hair and waved again.He wore the long oil-shiny pants of his profession and an oddly fashioned vest, which left chest and arms bare and seemed stiff with double hide along the ribs.He looked incredibly muscular.
Why was he waving at her?No, the greeting was for Redbeard beside her, who now walked forward to meet his friend.A third man, black-bearded and tangle-maned, joined them and was embraced by Redbeard.The trio stood facing the ship and talking among themselves until a fearsome machine glided along the rails to their side of the dock.It extruded a ramp out and down and into the deck of the boat, where it hovered expectantly.The two sailors had jumped back aboard, the blond man moving with the instinctive grace of the natural athlete.In comparison, the black-haired man looked clumsy.As a team, they heaved open the hatch.The hesitant ramp extruded clamps that fastened to the deck and the lip of the opened hold. More ramp disappeared into the maw of the ship.Moments later the ramp belt moved upward and Killashandra saw her first lunk, the great oil fish of Armagh, borne away on its last journey.
She became absorbed in the unloading process, which, for all the automated assistance of the machine, still required a human element.The oil scales of the huge fish did not always stay on the rough surface of the ramp belt and had to be forced back on manually.The blonde used an enormous barbed hook, planting it deep in what was actually the very tough hide of the elusive fish and deftly flipping the body into place again.Redbeard seemed to have some official position, for he made notes of the machine's dials, used the throat mike often, and seemed to have forgotten her existence entirely.Killashandra approved.A man should get on with his work.
Yes, especially when he worked with such laudable economy of motion and effort.Like the young blonde.
In fact, Killashandra was rather surprised when the ramp suddenly retracted and the machine slid sideways to the next hold.A small barefoot rascal of a lad slipped up to the crewmen, a tray of hot pies balanced on his head.The aroma was tantalizing, and Killashandra realized that she had not eaten since leaving the freighter that morning.Before she could signal the rascal to her, his merchandise had been bought up by the seamen.Irritated, Killashandra looked landward.The docks couldn't be dependent on the services of small boys.There must be other eating facilities nearby.With a backward glance at her blond sailor, contentedly munching from a pie in each hand, she left the wharf.
As it happened the eating house she chose displayed a placard advertising the Golden Dolphin.The hostelry was up the beach, set back amid a grove of frond-leaved trees, which also reminded her of something and excited an irritation in her.She wouldn't give in to it.The inn was set far enough around a headland from the town and the wharf so that commercial noise was muted.She took a room with a veranda looking out over the water.She changed into native clothing and retraced her steps along the quiet corridor to the public room.
"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?"
"Hmmmm… 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, narcotic, or excess alcohol.A blessing-curse.Particularly if she were injured off-world, with no crystal around to draw the noise of accidental pain from her bones and muscles.Quietly cursing to herself, she knew she had enough crystal resonance still in her to reduce even an amputation to minimal discomfort.
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," she commented."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 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 of harmat and 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, tanned 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 thirty or so people who spared her no glance until they had finished the first glass and were bawling for a refill.Then she was, rather casually, she felt, dismissed as the fisherfolk laughed among themselves and talked trade.
"You'd best watch that stuff," said a voice in her ear, and she saw Redbeard.