She entered the room where she had changed to sea dress and heard Orric’s footsteps right behind her. She didn’t bother closing the door. He did, and had her in his arms the next instant. She made no resistance to his advance nor did she respond. He held her from him, surprised, a question in his eyes.
“I’m not susceptible to euphorics, Orric,” she told him.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, gray eyes wide with innocence.
“And I’ve submarined on more worlds than Shad has sailed.”
“Is it Tucker you’re after?” He didn’t seem jealous, merely curious.
“Shad’s …” She shrugged, unwilling to place the young man in any category.
“But you don’t fancy me?” He did not seem aggrieved—again, merely curious.
She looked at him a long moment. “I think …” She paused then voiced an opinion that had been subconscious till that moment. “You remind me too much of someone I’ve been trying to forget.”
“Oh, just remind you?” Orric’s voice was soft and coaxing, almost like Tucker’s. She put that young man firmly out of her mind.
“No offense intended, Orric. The resemblance is purely superficial.”
His eyes twinkled merrily, and Killashandra realized that the resemblance was not purely superficial, for the other man would have responded in just the same way, amused with her and taking no offense. Perversely that annoyed her more.
“So, dark and mysterious lady, when you get to know me better …”
“Let me get to know you better first.”
They flitted back to Trefoil, circling over quays empty of any fishing craft.
“Lunk is moving offshore,” Orric said. “Season’s about over, I’d say.”
“Does Tucker really have enough for a ticket-off?”
“Probably.” Orric was busy setting the little craft down in dim light. “But Tir needs one more good haul. And so, I suspect, does Skipper Garnish. They’ll track school as far as there’s trace before they head in.”
Which was the substance of the message left for Orric at the Golden Dolphin. So Killashandra, Orric, and Biyanco talked most of the evening with a few other drinkers at the bar.
That was why Killashandra got an invitation to go with Biyanco fruit-harvesting. “Land fruit for harmat,” Biyanco said with an odd shudder.
Orric laughed and called him an incorrigible lubber. “Biyanco swears he’s never touched sea fruit in his life.”
“Never been that poor,” Biyanco said with some dignity.
The brewman roused her before dawn, his tractor-float purring outside her veranda. She dressed in the overall he had advised and the combi-boots, and braided her hair tightly to her skull. On the outward leg of their trip, Trefoil nestled on the curved sands of a giant horseshoe bay, foothills at its back. Rain forests that were all but impenetrable swept up the hills, sending rank streamers across the acid road in vain attempts to cover that man-made tunnel to the drier interior.
Biyanco was amiable company, quiet at times, garrulous but interesting at others. He stopped off on the far side of the first range of foothills for lorries and climbers. None of the small boys and girls waiting there looked old enough to be absent from schooling, Killashandra thought. All carried knives half again as long as their legs from sheaths thong-tied to their backs. All wore the coveralls and combi-boots with spurred clamp-ons for tree-climbing.
They chattered and sang, dangling their legs from the lorries as the tractor hovered above the acid road. Occasionally one of them would wield a knife, chopping an impertinent streamer that had clasped itself to a lorry.
Biyanco climbed farther above sea level by the winding acid road until he finally slowed down, peering at the roadside. Five kilometers later he let out an exclamation and veered the tract-float to the left, his hands busy with dials and switches. A warning hoot brought every climber’s legs back into the lorries. Flanges, tilting downward, appeared along the lorry load beds, and acid began to drop from them. It sprayed out, arcing well past the tract-float’s leading edge, dissolving vegetation. Suddenly the float halted, as if trying to push against an impenetrable barrier. Biyanco pushed a few toggles, closed a switch, and suddenly the tract-float moved smoothly in a new direction.
“Own this side of the mountain, you know,” Biyanco said, glancing at Killashandra to see the effect of his announcement. “Ah, you thought I was only a bar brewman, didn’t you? Surprised you, didn’t I? Ha!” The little man was pleased.
“You did.”
“I’ll surprise you more before the day is out.”
At last they reached their destination, a permaformed clearing with acid-proofed buildings that housed his processing unit and temporary living quarters. The climbers he had escorted went farther on, sending the lorries off on automated tracks, six climbers to each lorry. They had evidently climbed for him before and in the same teams, for he gave a minimum of instruction before dismissing them to pick.
Then he showed Killashandra into the processing plant and explained the works succinctly.
Each of the teams worked a different fruit, he told her. The secret of good harmat lay in the careful proportions and the blending of dead ripe fruit. There were as many blends of harmat as there were fish in the sea. His had made the Golden Dolphin famous; that’s why so many Armaghans patronized the hostelry. No vapid, innocuous stuff came from his stills. Harmat took months to bring to perfection: the fruit he’d process today would be fermented for nine months and would not be offered for sale for six years. Then he took her below ground, to the cool dark storage area, deep in the permaform. He showed her the automatic alarms that would go off if the vicious digger roots of the jungle ever penetrated the permaform. He wore a bleeper on his belt at all times (he never did remove the belt, but it was made of soft, tough fiber). He let her sample the brews, and it amused her that he would sip abstemiously while filling her cup full. Because she liked him and she learned about harmat from him, she gradually imitated drunk.
And Biyanco did indeed surprise her, sprier than she had ever thought him and elated with his success. She was glad for his sake and somewhat puzzled on her own account. He was adept enough that she ought to have enjoyed it, too. He had tried his damnedest to bring her to pitch but the frequency was wrong, as it had been with Tir, would have been with Orric, and this badly puzzled Killashandra. She ought not to have such trouble off-world. Was there crystal in her soul, after all? Was she too old to love?
While Biyanco slept, before the full lorries glided back to the clearing, she probed her patchy memory again and again, stopped each time by the Guild Master’s cynical laugh. Damn the man! He was haunting her even on Armagh. He had no right to taint everything she touched, every association she tried to enjoy. She could remember, too, enough snatches to know that her previous break had been as disastrous. Probably other journeys, too. In the quiet cool dark of the sleeping room, Biyanco motionless with exhaustion beside her, Killashandra bleakly cursed Lars Dahl. Why was it she found so little fulfillment with other lovers? How could he have spoiled her for everyone else when she could barely remember him or his lovemaking? She had refused to stay with him, sure then of herself where she was completely unsure now. Crystal in her soul?
Experimentally, she ran her hand down her bare body, to the hard flesh of her thighs, the softness of her belly, her firm breasts. A woman never conceived once she had sung crystal. Small loss, she thought, and then, suddenly, wasn’t sure.
Damn! Damn! Damn Lars Dahl. How could he have left her? What was rank to singing black crystal? They had been the most productive duo ever paired in the annals of the Heptite Guild. And he had given that up for power. What good did power do him now? It did her none whatsoever. Without him, black eluded her.
The sound of the returning lorries and the singing of the climbers roused Biyanco. He blinked at her, having forgotten in his sleeping that he had taken a woman again. With solemn courtesy, he thanked her for their intercourse and, h
aving dressed, excused himself with grave ceremony. At least a man had found pleasure in her body, she thought.
She bathed, dressed, and joined him as the full fruit bins began spilling their colorful contents into the washing pool. Biyanco was seated at the controls, his nimble fingers darting here and there as he weighed each bin, computed the price, and awarded each chief his crew’s chit. It was evidently a good pick, judging by the grins on every face, including Biyanco’s.
As each lorry emptied, it swiveled around and joined the line on the tract-float that was also headed homeward. All were shortly in place, and the second part of the processing began. The climbers took themselves off under the shade of the encroaching jungle and ate their lunches.
Abruptly, noise pierced Killashandra’s ears. She let out a scream, stifling a repetition against her hand but not soon enough to escape Biyanco’s notice. The noise ceased. Trembling with relief, Killashandra looked around, astonished that no one else seemed affected by that appalling shriek.
“You are a crystal singer, then, aren’t you?” Biyanco asked, steadying her as she rocked on her feet. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure you were, and I’ve not such good pitch myself that I’d hear if the drive crystals were off. Honest, or I’d have warned you.” He was embarrassed and earnest.
“You should have them balanced,” Killashandra replied angrily, and immediately apologized. “What made you think I might be a crystal singer?”
Biyanco looked away from her now. “Things I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?”
He looked at her then, his black eyes steady. “That a crystal singer can sound notes that’ll drive a man mad. That they lure men to them, seduce them, and then kidnap ’em away to Ballybran, and they never come back.”
Killashandra smiled, a little weakly because her ears still ached. “What made you think I wasn’t?”
“Me!” He jabbed at his chest with a juice-stained finger. “You slept with me!”
She reached out and touched his cheek gently. “You are a good man, Biyanco, besides being the best brewman on Armagh. And I like you. But you should get those crystals balanced before they splinter on you.”
Biyanco glanced over at the offending machinery and grimaced. “The tuner’s got a waiting list as long as Murtagh River,” he said. “You look pale. How about a drink? Harmat’ll help—oh, you are a witch,” he added, chuckling as he realized that she could not have been as drunk as she had acted. Then a smile tugged at his lips. “Oh-ho, you are a something, Killashandra of Ballybran. I should’ve spotted your phony drunk, and me a barman all these decades.” He chuckled again. “Well, harmat’ll help your nerves.” He clicked his fingers at one of the climber chiefs, and the boy scampered into the living quarters, returning with glasses and a flask of chilled harmat.
She drank eagerly, both hands on the glass because she was still shaky. The cool tartness was soothing, though, and she wordlessly held the glass out for a refill. Biyanco’s eyes were kind and somewhat anxious. Somehow he could appreciate what unbalanced crystalline shrieks could do to sensitive nerves.
“You’ve not been harmed by it, have you?”
“No. No, Biyanco. We’re tougher than that. It was the surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to have crystal-driven equipment …”
He grinned slyly. “We’re not backward on Armagh, for all we’re quiet and peaceful.” He leaned back from her, regarding her with fresh interest. “Is it true that crystal singers don’t grow old?”
“There’re disadvantages to that, my friend.”
He raised his eyebrows in polite contradiction. But she only smiled as she steadily sipped the harmat until all trace of pain had eased.
“You told me you’ve only a certain time to process ripe fruit. If you’ll let me take the tractor down the rails past the first turn—No …” She vetoed her own suggestion, arriving at an impulsive alternative. “How long do you have left before the pick sours?”
“Three hours.” And in Biyanco’s widening eyes she saw incredulous gratitude as he understood her intention. “You wouldn’t?” he asked in a voiceless whisper.
“I could and I would. That is, if you’ve the tools I need.”
“I’ve tools.” As if afraid she would renege, he propelled her toward the machine shed.
He had what she needed, but the bare minimum. Fortunately, the all-important crystal saw was still very sharp and true. With two pairs of knowledgeable hands—Biyanco, he told her, had put the driver together himself when he had updated the plant’s machinery thirty years before—it was no trick at all to get down to the crystals.
“They’re in thirds,” he told her needlessly.
“Pitch?”
“B-flat minor.”
“Minor? For heavy work like this?”
“Minor because it isn’t that continuous a load and minors don’t cost what majors do,” Biyanco replied crisply.
Killashandra nodded. Majors would be far too expensive for a brewman, however successful, on a tertiary fishing world. She hit the B-flat, and that piece of crystal hummed sweetly in tune. So did the D. It was the E that was sour—off by a halftone. She cut off the resonance before the sound did more than ruffle her nerves. With Biyanco carefully assisting her, she freed the crystal of its brackets, cradling it tenderly in her hands. It was a blue, from the Ghanghe Range, more than likely, and old, because the blues were worked out there now.
“The break’s in the top of the prism, here,” she said, tracing the flaw. “The bracket may have shifted with vibration.”
“G’delpme, I weighed those brackets and felted them proper …”
“No blame to you, Biyanco. Probably the expansion coefficient differs in this rain forest enough to make even properly set felt slip. Thirty years they’ve been in? You worked well. Wish more people would take such good care of their crystal.”
“That’d mean less call for crystal, bring the price down, wouldn’t it?”
Killa laughed, shaking her head. “The Guild keeps finding new ways to use crystal. Singers’ll never be out of work.”
They decided to shift the pitch down, which meant she had to recut all three crystals, but that way he would have a major triad. Because she trusted him, she let him watch as she cut and tuned. She had to sustain pitch with her voice after she had warmed them enough to sing, but she could hold a true pitch long enough to place the initial, and all-important, cuts.
It was wringing-wet work, even with the best of equipment and in a moderate climate. She was exhausted by the time they reset the felted brackets. In fact, Biyanco elbowed her out of the way when he saw how her hands were trembling.
“Just check me,” he said, but she didn’t need to. He was spry in more than one way. She was glad she had tuned the crystals for him. But he was too old for her.
She felt better when he started the processor again and there was no crystal torment.
“You get some rest, Killashandra. This’ll take a couple more hours. Why don’t you stretch out on the tractor van seat? It’s wide enough. That way you can rest all the way back to Trefoil.”
“And yourself, Biyanco?”
He grinned like the old black imp he was. “I’m maybe a shade younger than you, Crystal Singer Killashandra. But we’ll never know, will we?”
She slept, enervated by the pitching and cutting, but she woke when Biyanco opened the float door. The hinge squeaked in C-sharp.
“Good press,” he said when he saw she was awake. Behind, in the lorries, the weary climbers chanted to themselves. One was a monotone. Fortunately they reached the village before the sound could get on her nerves. The lorries were detached, and the climbers melted into the darkness. Biyanco and Killashandra continued on the acid road back to Trefoil.
It was close to dawn before they pulled up at the Golden Dolphin.
“Killashandra?”
“Yes, Biyanco?”
“I’m in your debt.”
“No, for we exchanged favors.”
He made a rude noise. And she smiled at him. “We did. But, if you need a price, Biyanco, then it’s your silence on the subject of crystal singers.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m human, no matter what you’ve heard of us. And I must have that humanity on equal terms or I’ll shatter one day among the crystal. It’s why we have to go off-world.”
“You don’t lure men back to Ballybran?”
“Would you come with me to Ballybran?”
He snorted. “You can’t make harmat on Ballybran.”
She laughed, for he had given the right answer to ease his own mind. As the tract-float moved off slowly, she wondered if he had ever heard of Yarran beer. A chilled one would go down a treat right now.
She slept the sun around and woke the second dawn refreshed. She lazed in the water, having been told by the pug-nosed host that the lunk ships were still out. Biyanco greeted her that noonday with pleasantries and no references to favors past, present, or future. He was old enough, that brewman, she thought, to know what not to say.
She wondered if she should leave Trefoil and flit around the planet. There would be other ports to visit, other fishermen to snare in the net of her attraction. One of them might be strong enough—must be strong enough—to melt the crystal in her. But she tarried and drank harmat all afternoon until Biyanco made her go eat something.
She knew the lunk boats were in even before the parched seamen came thronging up the beach road, chanting their need. She helped Biyanco draw glasses against their demand, laughing at their surprise to see her working behind the bar. Only Shad Tucker seemed unamazed.
Orric was there, too, with Tir Od Nell, teasing her as men have teased barmaids for centuries. Tucker sat on a stool in the corner of the bar and watched her, though he drank a good deal of harmat to “unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.”
Biyanco made them all stop drinking for a meal, to lay a foundation for more harmat, he said. And when they came back, they brought a squeeze box, a fiddle, two guitars, and a flute. The tables were stacked against the wall, and the music and dancing began.
Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line Page 16