"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.

"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 that 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, who gazed at her in an incurious appraisal that warmed briefly in the way a man will look at a woman, and then grew cautious.

Killashandra looked away first, oddly disturbed by the blue eyes, somehow familiar but not the same, and disappointed. This one 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, Orric Thursday, ma'am," the redbeard said.

"Killashandra Ree is my name," she replied, and extended her hand.

He couldn't have guessed her profession by her grip, but she could see that the strength of it surprised him. Killashandra was not a tall or heavily boned woman: cutting crystal does not need mass, only controlled energy, and that could be developed in any arm.

Thursday gestured to the blond. "This is my good friend, Shad Tucker."

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 Od Nell." Orric Thursday motioned to the blackbeard, who also contented himself with a nod and a grin at her. "You'd be here for a rest, Killashandra?" Thursday asked. And when she nodded, he went on. "Now, why would you pick such a dull fisherman's world as Armagh if you'd the galaxy to choose from?"

Killashandra had heard that sort of question before, how many times she couldn't remember. She had also heard the same charming invitation for confidences.

"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 had trimmed the hairs from his throat, leaving a narrow band of white flesh that never saw sun. His two friends 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." Orric looked at her questioningly. "Then water skating? Submarining? Dolphin swimming? What is your pleasure, Killashandra Ree?"

"Rest! I'm tired!"

"Oh, I'd never think you'd ever known fatigue." The expression in his eyes invited her to edify him.

"For someone unfamiliar with the condition, how would you know it?"

Tir Od Nell roared.

"She's got you there, Orr," he said, 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.

Orric 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 diversions," Orric said, but he, Tir Od Nell, and Shad Tucker merely settled stools around Killashandra and continued to drink.

She matched them, paid her rounds, and enjoyed Orric's attempts to pry personal information from her.

He was not, she discovered, easily put off, nor shy of giving facts about himself and his friends. They had all worked the same fishing boat five seasons back, leaving the sea as bad fishing turned them off temporarily. Orric had an interest in computers and often did wharfman's chores if the regular men were away when the ships came in. Tir Od Nell was working the lunk season to earn some ready credit, 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," Orric told Killashandra, "and no sign of applying for a ticket-off."

Tucker only smiled, the slight, tolerant smile playing at the corner of his mouth, as if he were chary of admitting even that much about himself.

"Don't let Shad's reticence mislead you, Killashandra Ree," Orric went on, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "He's accredited for more than a lunk fisher. Indeed he is." Killashandra felt yet another tweak of pain that she masked with a smile for Orric. "Shad's got first mate's tickets on four water worlds that make sailing Armagh look like tank bathing. Came here with a submarine 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 conservative here on Armagh," Tucker said, his accent a nice change, soft after Orric's near-bellow. She almost had to sharpen her hearing to catch what he said.

"How so?" she asked Shad.

"They feel there is one good way to catch lunk when it's in oil. By long line. That way you don't bruise the flesh so much and the lunk doesn't struggle the way it does in a net and sour the oil. The captains, they've a sense of location that doesn't need sonic gear. I've sailed with five, six of the best and they always know when and where lunk are running. And how many they can bring from that deep."

And, thought Killashandra, bemused by Shad's soft accent, you'd give your arm to develop that sense.

"You've fished on other worlds," she said out loud.