To Fire Called (A Seeker's Tale From The Golden Age Of The Solar Clipper Book 2)

by Nathan Lowell

  “There are some galleries just off the plaza,” Pip said. “We saw them last night, but they were closed.”

  “Is that why you wanted me to come along?” Al asked, looking at me.

  “You’ve an eye for art.” I looked up at her. “You were the one who said I needed to make the cabin my home, as I remember.”

  Her lips twitched a couple of times before she smiled. “True. What are you thinking? Painting on velvet?”

  Pip snorted.

  “I was thinking maybe something with a little color to stand out from the dark green bulkheads and the gray decking.”

  “The bulkheads aren’t gray?” Pip asked.

  “Dark green,” I said. “Except for the bulkhead by the door.”

  “Almost gray,” Al said. “But green.”

  I pulled out my tablet and showed Pip the digitals I took of the colors.

  He hmphed. “I never noticed. I guess I was so used to seeing them as gray.”

  “What color is your stateroom?” I asked.

  “We painted all the staterooms an eggshell white,” he said. “Chalk white overhead and ran a textured brown and gray across the decks.”

  I looked at Al who nodded back.

  “Was I in that meeting?” I asked.

  Al and Pip both shrugged.

  “Why didn’t we paint the cabin the same color?”

  Al snorted. “You didn’t even have bulkheads until three days before we left the yard. The staterooms had been painted for weeks by that time.”

  “I figured you’d do something special when you figured out what you wanted,” Pip said.

  Al nudged me with an elbow.

  “And I lived up to your expectations eventually,” I said.

  We made the turn into the plaza and I took one of the more direct paths toward the gallery row we’d seen the night before. Some floral scent wafted through the air. It took me a few heartbeats to spot the planters tucked away near the path.

  The plaza itself had a steady parade of people wandering through. Some seemed to be on their way someplace but more of them looked like they just wanted to stroll.

  The shops had their lights on and the doors open. The passersby drifted in and out all up and down the passage. It could have been any street in the touristy district of Port Newmar if not for the lack of sky above.

  The first shop we came to featured digital images. Space-scapes, some near a single planet with a primary peeking around it, some at a distance from a ringed planet. A spectacular shot showed a Barbell backlit by a pale green gas giant. We drifted through without finding anything I had to have. Pip stopped to examine a few, but Al wandered freely without being called to. With a nod to the gallery worker, we left and moved down the street.

  Three shops along we came to an artists supply store. Pip started to go past but I headed in.

  “You going to paint your own pictures,” Pip asked with a grin.

  “Never know,” I said and continued on into the shop.

  Al followed but her face, normally smiling and open, closed down. She glanced at me once we cleared the door but drifted at her own pace around the crowded interior. Where the other shops had been set up with open sight lines and art on display, this store had narrow aisles, racks of supplies that I couldn’t imagine what they might be used for, and rainbows of colors in more media than I knew existed. The smell permeated the whole space—a soft, oily scent like a perfume. I found the whole shop enchanting, even though I had no idea what to do with any of the stuff in it.

  I found myself looking at bound pads of paper. I couldn’t remember seeing that much paper in one place since I’d left Neris.

  “Are you an artist?”

  I looked to my right where an older man in a smock with the store logo stood smiling at me. “Uh. No. I was just marveling at the amount of paper.”

  He chuckled low in his chest. “It’s one of the old crafts. We make our own here on station.”

  Al stepped up beside us and the kindly gent smiled and nodded to her. “You make your own paper?” she asked.

  “Indeed. Mostly fabric scraps, but even here there’s a fair amount of waste paper.” He pulled one of the bound pads out of the rack and lifted the cover.

  Al reached out and touched the corner of the surface. “Watercolor paper?”

  He nodded. “Finest we make. Three hundred grams per square meter. Machine-pressed and air-dried. Twenty sheets per pad.” He tilted his head. “You’re the artist, aren’t you.”

  Al might have blushed but I nodded. “She’s the artist.”

  He glanced at me and nodded to her again. “How can I help you?”

  Al started to step back and shook her head. “I’m not really—”

  “Al,” I said. “What do you need?”

  She looked at me and back at the pad of paper. “I don’t need anything.”

  “You left all your supplies behind,” I said. “What do you need?”

  She took a deep breath and pressed her lips together. Her nostrils flared and her hands formed ham-like fists at her sides. I occasionally forgot how massive she was, but in that moment she made me very aware of it.

  “What would Christine want to see?” I asked.

  The shop attendant stepped back and closed the cover on the pad of paper. He smiled at me and winked, then looked at Al, waiting.

  “I don’t have room for paint and canvas,” Al said.

  “Al?” I said, angling my head to look up into her face. “You’re allowed to live.”

  She snorted, clearly recognizing her own words being used on her.

  “What do you have room for?”

  She looked at the deck and shook her head as if trying to deny me.

  I looked at the shop man. “All right. She’s an artist. She didn’t bring her stuff with her on this trip. What does she need?”

  “Well,” he said, pursing his lips in thought. “A couple of notebooks. Some drawing pencils.” He looked at Al, taking her in from her shaved scalp past the piercings and tattoos down to her boots. “Perhaps a few watercolors and brushes.”

  Al turned her head to look at him, her eyes hard.

  He gave her a small grin in return that crinkled up the right side of his face. “What? You think I can’t see you?” he asked.

  “Pen and ink,” she said. “Black, red, blue, green.”

  “Point sizes?” he asked.

  “Three aught, aught, one, and four.”

  He nodded. “What else?”

  Her gaze flicked to the paper tablet still in the man’s hands. “Watercolors?”

  “You want a set?”

  “Field kit?” she asked.

  “Of course. What do you prefer? Tube or solid?”

  “Solid,” she said.

  “I’ve a nice double pan of twenty-four.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll throw in a refill set in case you don’t get back for a while. Brushes?”

  “Got a utility pack of fans, riggers, and filberts? A couple of combers and flats?”

  “Angular?” he asked.

  “No, but I’ll need a couple of mops.”

  “Of course. I can make up a pack for you. Various sizes?” he asked.

  “Nothing too big,” she said.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  Pip stepped out from behind a rack and held up an oversized digital tablet. “One of these.”

  “What is that?” I asked, almost by reflex.

  “Drawing tablet. You can draw on it, paint with it, and it saves your pictures for you,” the shop keeper said. “Great tool for beginners. Not as responsive as paper and pencil, but good enough to learn the basics.”

  I glanced up in time to see Al’s grin before she schooled her features into a scowl. Judging from the satisfied smile on the shopkeeper’s face, he’d seen it too.

  “Would you like a drawing basics course book to go with that?” he asked Pip.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “If you’ll excus
e me one moment, I’ll just grab those items.” He disappeared around the racks and reappeared a few moments later behind the counter. He plopped an armload of materials onto the surface and started scanning codes into his hand-held. “One thing,” he said, looking at Al. “The pens come in a set from three-aught up to four. It’s cheaper to buy the set of seven than the four individuals.”

  “Set, then,” she said.

  He nodded and continued scanning. After a few moments he looked up.

  “Anything else?” he asked again.

  “Is one pad enough?” I asked.

  “Buy two, get one half-off,” the shopkeeper said with a wink.

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  He slapped two more pads onto the pile and held out the tab for me to thumb.

  “Did you get Pip’s drawing tablet?” I asked, looking around for Pip.

  “Oh, no, I didn’t.”

  Pip held up the device. Beep.

  I thumbed the tab before Al could get her hand up.

  “You didn’t need to do that, Captain.”

  “I owe you, Al,” I said. “This is just credits.”

  The shopkeeper looked at the tab and his eyebrows rose. “You’re the captain of the Chernyakova?”

  “Is that a problem?” I asked.

  He expression softened and he shook his head. “No. Thank you for bringing her home.”

  My breath caught in my chest for a moment. “I couldn’t help the crew.”

  He shrugged. “Nobody could.” He busied himself bundling up the package for Al and said no more.

  “What you getting, Ishmael?” Pip asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  The old man handed the package to Al. “Something specific, Captain? I know most of the artists along the row.”

  “I need some décor for the ship’s cabin. Perhaps some fiber art or a carpet.”

  He glanced at Al then at Pip before looking back at me. “About four doors down to the right, my friend Dan Absalonson has a carpet shop. Look for Dan-Dan the Art Man. His wife does knotwork hangings and mobiles and the like. He might have something you’d be interested in.”

  “Prints? Paintings? Bright colors, lots of motion?” I asked, thinking about what Dierdre had said.

  “Right across the passage from Dan’s shop. You’ll see it.” He grinned. “Can’t miss it. Really.”

  We thanked him and trooped out onto the plaza again, turning right and sauntering along. Pip seemed fascinated by his sketch pad. Al had her bag of goodies hooked into one paw and scowled at people going by as if to dare them to say something.

  I counted the shops as we passed—a digital arts studio followed by a digital arts gallery. I stopped after that because across the way I saw what the old guy had meant. The entire storefront from deck up to about three stories had been painted with giant, brightly colored characters. Masks and capes, tights and strange logos on their chests, swirled and danced—or perhaps, battled—above the heads of the passersby.

  Al chuckled in her chest. “He wasn’t kidding.”

  “What?” Pip looked up from whatever he was doing on the tablet. He knew the moment he spotted the facade. He stopped walking. “Mighty Aphrodite,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “The carpet shop should be across from it,” Al said. She put a hand on Pip’s shoulder to get him started again and we found an oversized storefront with the unlikely sign “Carpet Diem” hung on a stanchion over the door.

  “Your rug merchant appears to have a pun-ish streak,” Al said with a nod at the sign. “Why do you want a rug anyway?”

  “If he has what I’m looking for, you’ll see,” I said.

  She and Pip shared a glance and I stepped through the open door into a dimly lit room. It ran a good five meters up and at least twenty meters deep. The deck had some intricately patterned rugs scattered around in what looked like a haphazard arrangement, but my eye insisted some pattern existed there. The far wall held odd racks with various sized carpets hanging from the arms.

  “Welcome to Carpet Diem.” A slightly built guy appeared from the back of the store. He stood a few centimeters taller than me but had shoulders and arms to give Al a run for her money. “What can I sell you today?”

  “I’m looking for some luggage,” I said.

  He stopped dead in his tracks about two meters away and tilted his head to one side for a moment before his face lit up and he cracked open a grin. “What did you have in mind?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a bare deck and could use some wall hangings to help deaden the sound.”

  “Shipboard?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Any idea of color? Pattern?”

  I pulled up my tablet and opened the images. “This is my palette. I’m looking for something that would give me a bit of color.”

  He angled his head to look at the tablet. “Yeah. I can see why.”

  Al snickered.

  “No offense,” he said.

  “None taken. That’s why I need some color. The deck could use a treatment but most of the bulkheads are bare.”

  He ran a hand over his chin and frowned. “So, red? Yellow?”

  “Possibly. The overhead is this pale blue color. If the carpet pulled some of that down to the floor ... ?”

  He bit his bottom lip and his head started bobbing. “Then smaller, bright pieces on the bulkheads. Could work.” He nodded a couple more times. “How big?”

  “The open deck space is pretty small. Maybe three by four meters?” I looked at Al. “You don’t happen to know off-hand?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Three-and-a-half by five,” Pip said and held up his new tablet. It showed a passably accurate rendition of the floor plan of the cabin.

  “How accurate is that?” I asked.

  He held up his ship’s tablet in the other hand. “Downloaded from the yard blueprints. Probably within a few millimeters.”

  Al slapped him on the back. “I always wondered why he kept you around.”

  Pip drew himself up and said, “You have it backward, Ms. Ross. I keep him around and only because I need somebody to drive my ship.”

  Al laughed and Pip shrugged.

  “Our ship,” I said.

  He screwed up his mouth in a grimace. “Well, if we’re going to split hairs, the stockholders’ ship, but we’re keeping this good merchant from his labor with this digression.”

  The man, presumably Dan, asked, “Does he always talk like that?”

  “No,” I said. “Usually I talk like that. I think I’m starting to rub off on him.”

  He looked back and forth between the two of us with a side trip to Al, blinked a couple of times, and then held out a hand toward Pip. “Could I see that?”

  Pip handed him the drawing tablet and put his ship’s tablet back into its holster.

  “Captain’s cabin?” he asked, glancing up at me.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Where do you want to put carpets?”

  I pointed out the open rectangle between the door and my desk. “Here. And perhaps a smaller one there.” I pointed to the bunk room.

  “This door swings open?” Dan asked, pointing to the main door in the cabin.

  “Yeah. Swings in.”

  “Clearance?”

  “Maybe a couple of centimeters. There’s soft lip on the bottom to seal it against air flow when it’s closed.”

  He nodded. “I know the type.” He lifted his head as if sniffing the air and looked at the rugs hanging on the wall. “Yes,” he said after a few moments. “I think so.” He crossed to a rack deeper in the store and started flipping through rugs, flapping them on their racks like pages in book. I only glimpsed them as he flipped but the patterns seemed too complex for carpets and the colors fairly gleamed in the dim light of the store. He stopped on one and stood back.

  Al said, “Wow.”

  The rug looked like some picture I�
�d imagined from Arabian Nights. The base color matched the pale blue of the cabin’s overhead, but there the color similarity stopped. Lines of tan formed a wide border around the four sides while in the center bloomed an oval mandala of flowers in shades of dark blue.

  I stepped up to it and started to reach out for it before looking to Dan for permission.

  He grinned and nodded. “You can’t hurt it. Go ahead.”

  I let my fingers brush across the fabric. It felt like some kind of animal fur. When I pressed my hand into it, it gave slightly. “This is amazing.”

  “Nain-style Persian knotted rug. A hundred knots per centimeter.” He brushed his palm across the surface. “Very nice work.”

  “You didn’t make it?” Pip asked.

  Dan shook his head with a laugh. “I don’t have the skill, talent, or patience.”

  Al raised an eyebrow. “Handmade?”

  “Machine-knotted. I was talking about programming the machines. I can’t imagine how they used to do these when all they had was yarn and fingers.”

  “Lots of time, I suspect,” Pip said, stepping forward to run a hand across the surface. “Will they slide on the decking?”

  “Depends on the decking material. They’re pretty solid because they’re not smooth on the bottom.” He pulled a corner up to show us the back. “I also have some velcro you can use to tack them down. Most shipboards want them secured against zero-g. Nothing worse than trying to swim through one of these things.” His chuckle made me think he knew this from personal experience.

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “We can bring it over and install the velcro for you, if you like,” Dan said.

  I eyed the size and hefted the corner. “This weighs a ton.”

  “You’ve got the mass allotment for it,” Al said with a cheeky grin.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of trying to carry it ourselves.” I looked at Dan. “Delivery and installation would be a good idea, I think.”

  “Good choice,” he said. “You want another for the bedroom?”

  “You have one?”

  He led the way down to the next rack that held smaller carpets. He paged through until he found the mate. “Two by three. Same maker. Same quality. Pattern’s just a little different to account for the difference in size. Should fit in that open space at the foot of your bunk.”

  “I’ll take them both,” I said. “Hangings?”