Copyright © 1986 by Jayne Krentz
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SWEET STARFIRE
by
Jayne Ann Krentz
ONE
The tavern was awash with blood. Cidra Rainforest saw splashes of crimson everywhere—seeping from a gash in a man’s forehead, staining the front of another’s shirt, trickling from still another’s mouth. Glancing down, she saw that there was even a spatter of blood on the hem of her early-evening surplice robes. To Cidra the delicate yellow-gold fabric spun of the finest crystal moss was not just soiled but frighteningly scarred.
She was surrounded by a scene she had never before experienced, never even been able to imagine, and she found herself incapable of coping with it. It wasn’t just the sight of so much blood that held Cidra immobilized with shock. All around her the vicious fighting continued unabated, even though Cidra knew that by now the combatants must be experiencing unutterable pain. Yet they raged on. The violence of it horrified her.
Grunts, obscene oaths, and desperate shouts filled the long, low tavern hall. One man had been knocked unconscious by a deftly swung tankard of Renaissance Ross ale, but no one paused to help him. Rather, everyone was participating in the free-for-all with an air of what Cidra could only describe as lusty enthusiasm. No one was lying in a fetal huddle, whimpering on the edge of insanity, as Cidra would have expected, as indeed she herself would be doing had she not been using every ounce of her disciplined training to control herself. The scene around her was incredible. It was, she thought, just as the novels had described it.
A large, scarred, brutally strong hand clamped around Cidra’s arm, shocking her out of her stupor.
“Come on, lady, unless you want to explain your presence to the guards. Let’s get out of here.”
In a daze Cidra turned to the hard face of the man she had met only moments earlier, the man she had come to this rough tavern to find. Teague Severance hadn’t been quite what she had expected, and Cidra had been trying to adjust to that fact.
“The guards?” she asked, clinging to the look of strength she saw in the man’s gray eyes.
“Port Valentine’s safeguards enjoy breaking up this kind of thing. Thrive on it, in fact. And they’ll be here any minute. Let’s get going. I think we can make it out through the back.”
Cidra didn’t argue. The stunning violence going on around her had not only disrupted her ability to think coherently but also seemed to be playing havoc with her normally excellent sense of balance. When her escort yanked Cidra toward the door and out of the way of a falling mountain dressed in a miner’s kirtle, she stumbled and fell to her knees. Teague Severance’s hold on her arm was broken, and he was whisked away by two men in a fist fight who suddenly saw him as a preferable target.
But Cidra barely noticed. The huge man who had just fallen lay beside her feet, blinking groggily as he rubbed a bleeding jaw. Instinctively Cidra turned to comfort him, murmuring words of hypnotic comfort.
“Focus, my friend. Focus, focus. The pain is receding. See how it fades. Focus on it. The oblivo is being brought to you. Soon all will be serene. All will fade. All will fade. You must relax and let it flow away from you, let it flow—” Her soothing words ended abruptly as Cidra was hauled to her feet. Severance’s scarred hand was once again clamped tightly around her arm; part of her had a moment to wonder how he had come by the odd lacing of scars.
“What in renegade’s hell do you think you’re doing? Get up off the floor, woman. We’ve got to get out of here. The Wolves are howling tonight, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Cidra’s escort pulled her unceremoniously around a writhing mass of human beings and continued to forge a path toward the tavern’s kitchen.
“But that man was in such pain . . .” she murmured, feeling more lost than ever.
“Don’t worry, he won’t feel a thing until morning.”
A hulking figure rose in front of Cidra, all bloody grin and glazed eyes. It wore a ship suit not unlike Severance’s, but the diagonally slung utility loop was of a cheap, functional synthetic, not fine rantgan leather. Cidra noticed long before two hands that, to her startled gaze, resembled grappling hooks reached for her.
“Don’t run off, little lady. You and I can go somewhere peaceful for some special handling. How does that sound?”
Before Cidra could sort through her list of appropriate responses to a question she had never before encountered, her impatient escort dealt with the grisly man before her.
“Don’t touch her, you renegade idiot. Are you so drunk that you can’t tell she’s from Clementia? What’s more, she’s a patron. My patron.”
The glassy-eyed man blinked, frantically trying to focus his eyes. “I’m sorry, lady—I mean, Otanna. Didn’t mean nothin’, uh, rude. Had no idea what I was doing. No offense intended, I swear to Saints.”
Cidra hurried to respond to the man’s apology. She realized that he was under a misapprehension, thanks to her escort’s comments. “Do not concern yourself. All is serene. And you have inflicted no real pain. I am—” But again she was not allowed to finish her sentence. With a dazed sense of surprise she realized that the hulk with the grappling-hook hands wasn’t listening to her at all. He had turned to Teague Severance and was apologizing to him.
“Sorry about that, Severance. Never meant to interfere between you and a patron. Just a little misunderstanding. Better get her outa here, though. She’ll probably go crazy any second.”
“I’m working the problem. Unfortunately she’s not exactly cooperating.”
Cidra felt a rush of emotion that was decidedly akin to annoyance. She responded to the accusation in a tone of voice that was neither properly modulated nor serene. “I am trying to cooperate, Otan Severance. But circumstances are making it difficult.”
“Just close your eyes and stop digging in your heels every time one of these Wolves gets in your way.” And with that, the man called Severance once again hauled Cidra toward the tavern’s back door.
Once inside the relative safety of the small kitchen, which was protected by a makeshift barricade of hastily arranged food heaters and ale dispensers, Cidra and her escort found the tavern’s owner and his employees sitting around a table, playing a game of Free Market. The stacks of gleaming sardite chips in the center of the table indicated the seriousness of the stakes involved. Several bottles of ale resided at the players’ elbows. The balding proprietor glanced up with a frown as Cidra and her companion burst into the room.
“Now, look here, kitchen’s off-limits. You know that,” the owner growled.
“We’re not participating,” Severance assured him, not bothering to slow down as he headed toward the rear door. “Just looking for a way out.”
But by now the owner had noticed Cidra’s appearance. Everything from the expensive comb of fireberyl in her carefully braided hair to the slippers embroidered with genuine emerald floss spoke of Harmonic wealth and refinement. “What do you think you’re doing bringing her here? She looks like she’s from Clementia.”
“She is.”
“Sweet Harmony, get her outa here.”
“I’m trying,” Severance said, his hands on the door latch. “Saints know I’m trying.”
“There seems to be some misunderstanding,” Cidra began hurriedly as she glanced back at the scowling tavern proprietor. “I’m from Clementia, but I’m not a . . . a Harmonic.”
/> “Forget it. We’ll straighten everything out later.” Severance had her outside on the gently glowing fluoroquartz pavement. Maintaining his grip on her arm, he broke into an easy, loping stride and forced Cidra to match his pace.
In the distance the arrogant shriek of a safeguard runner sliced through the balmy night air. Cidra was suddenly very grateful that she wouldn’t have to endure the indignity of being questioned. Kyrene, her mentor, would have been shocked, to say nothing of her parents’ reaction.
The glowing bands of fluoroquartz supplied all the light they needed to follow the path easily in the warm darkness. The pavement was still wet from a recent rain, and drops of water, illuminated by the natural light of the fluoroquartz, glittered like jewels. Cidra wanted to stop and examine the prismatic effect. Such naturally occurring phenomena, so close to artifice in their beauty, were meant to be appreciated. But her escort clearly had no intention of slowing down, and Cidra felt it was an inauspicious moment to debate the issue.
But as she raced along beside Teague Severance, she found herself instead savoring the rich assortment of fragrances that floated on the damp, balmy breeze. Clementia was a subtly perfumed delight, it’s odors carefully generated by exotic, hybrid flowers to complement the delicate noses of its inhabitants. But here in Port Valentine, Cidra’s olfactory senses were bombarded by new sensations, causing her to alternately wrinkle her nose or inhale sharply. Here, Cidra had discovered the faint scent of the sea at low tide, complete with a hint of rotting vegetation, and the sour odor that could only be from some tavern’s garbage bin mingling with the rich smell of the recent rain. She thought she detected a waft of fernweed smoke as Severance urged her past a dark doorway. Cidra wanted to stop and find out why anyone would actually smoke the dangerous substance when everyone knew how bad it was for the body, but Severance gave her no chance.
Two blocks later Severance finally slowed to a brisk walk. “All right, I think we’re clear. The guards will be concentrating their attention on the ones inside the tavern. They won’t be looking for a few who had the sense to leave. You okay?”
Cidra, her breath coming quickly even though she’d had no real trouble maintaining the pace of the last two blocks, nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m fine. Thank you for inquiring.” For Cidra, such polite inquiries had always been expressed in the formal, ceremonial form, but remembering where she was, she tried to use her companion’s colloquial style. “And you? Are you, er, okay?”
“Sure. Let’s get off the street. There’s another tavern up ahead. One that’s usually quieter. We can get something to eat. I haven’t had dinner yet, have you?”
“Well, no,” Cidra said. “It’s only two hours past the evening change, and I eat at three past.”
“Is that so? Me, I’m starved. Nothing like pulling patrons out of tavern brawls to work up a postman’s appetite.” He gave her a roguish smile that made her strangely uncomfortable. “You can sip nectar or whatever it is you folks normally drink.”
Cidra contemplated the situation. “Actually I am rather hungry. Perhaps the unplanned exercise is responsible.”
Severance grinned down at her, his strong, white teeth gleaming, although the glow of the pavement lighting cast his fog-gray eyes into pools of shadow. The rest of his hard features complimented the carnivorous impression. “Perhaps.”
Cidra watched as the quick, feral grin disappeared, and wondered how an expression normally intended to convey laughter and humor could be so totally devoid of either. She shivered mentally. No wonder they called them Wolves, she thought fleetingly. “As a point of general information, I’d like to inform you that we don’t sip nectar in Clementia.”
“Another illusion shattered.”
But Severance seemed philosophical about the matter as he led his patron into a different tavern. According to the illuminated sign over the entrance, this one was called The Valentine; presumably a name coined in honor of the surrounding sprawl of Lovelady’s chief port town. A heart-shaped logo enclosed the words.
Once inside, Cidra glanced around with interest. The room was gently lit with a glowing pink light and was much quieter and far more refined than the first tavern had been. Here a mixed crowd of diners and drinkers occupied booths and a dispenser bar that lined the back of the room. The atmosphere was warm and comfortable and reasonably clean. Humans, both Wolves and Harmonics, still preferred to be served by humans, and the dining room was not automated.
“I take it this meets with your approval?” Severance was watching her expression as they stood in the doorway.
Cidra flushed, sensing his sarcasm. “This will be fine. All I need is a chance to discuss my business with you.”
“Wait’ll I order my food. I prefer to talk business over a good steak.” Severance pinned a nearby member of The Valentine’s staff with a steady gaze that eventually got the woman’s attention. She glanced at him and then at Cidra. As soon as she took in the sight of Cidra’s formal clothing and quietly regal bearing, she moved forward in an apologetic rush.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Otanna. I have a very pleasant booth available across the room. It’s out of the way. Quite peaceful.”
Cidra inclined her head in polite acknowledgment. “You are very kind.” A moment later she was seated. A waiter materialized out of nowhere, bowing a little awkwardly as he set out utensils.
“I have to admit that you’ve got your uses,” Severance said as he slid into the booth across from Cidra. “I don’t usually get such good service.” He glanced at the holotape menu card only briefly before coming to a quick decision. “I’m going to order the torla steak. Maybe with you here they’ll make sure it’s cooked the way I order it. What suits you?”
Frantically Cidra scanned the menu, looking for an item that didn’t contain meat. Finally she spotted the holotape images of a familiar Lovelady tuber and something that appeared to be a pile of greens. Politely she gave her order to the waiter, who was so interested in getting it right, she finally had to ask him to listen to Severance’s demands.
“I want the steak. Large size. And I want it cooked on the grill, not in a heater, understand? And when it gets to the table, I want it rare. Bloody in the middle. Rare.”
Cidra hid her dismay behind a serene expression. Severance went on to order two mugs of expensive Renaissance Rose ale before she could explain that she never drank it. Cidra knew that the distinctly dark and potent brew was distilled from the thorn of a flower that was lethal, and too much of the ale was also considered dangerous. She managed to maintain a look of contentment as the waiter bustled away, but once he was gone, she sighed.
“Feeling like a fraud?” Severance leaned back in the booth and stretched his booted feet out under the table.
He had been sprawling with the sane rangy casualness when she had first seen him. Conscious of her own gracefully correct posture, Cidra wondered if Severance ever really sat properly in a chair. The close-fitting gray ship suit pulled taut across his shoulders, emphasizing his broad, hard chest. The suit itself was a standard pilot’s outfit, cut in a severe style with functional collar and cuffs that could be worn open for comfort or neatly clipped closed for a more formal look. Severance wore both open, the cuffs pushed up on his sinewy forearms. The trousers followed his long legs neatly and disappeared into the tops of his boots. Severance was built along lean, tight lines but had a sense of solid weight that strangely disturbed yet comforted Cidra. His black hair had recently received a short no-nonsense cut, and she guessed he’d had it trimmed as soon as he’d hit port after the long trip from Renaissance. In the soft light of the fluoroquartz lamp Cidra could see that the rantgan leather utility belt he wore had been handwrought with an eye for exquisite detail. She wondered whether Severance had carved the tough leather himself and then shook herself out of her reverie and considered his question.
“Yes, I am feeling a fraud. Everyone seems to be jumping to the conclusion that I’m a Harmonic.”
“Let ‘em jump. It g
ets action, doesn’t it?”
“So it seems.” Cidra studied him a moment. “You knew right away I wasn’t a Harmonic, though, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t drunk when you approached me, and I had a chance to get a good look at your eyes before that brawl broke out. I’ll admit that I haven’t met many, but there’s something about a Saint’s eyes . . . something different.”
Cidra nodded. “I know.” She paused. “Harmonics hate that nickname, you know.”
Severance’s quick, humorless grin flashed, then faded. “Saints? Impossible. Harmonics are constitutionally incapable of hating anything, least of all something as unimportant as a nickname.”
“You’re right, of course. I should have said that they prefer not to be called Saints.”
“Then they shouldn’t be so damned perfect,” Severance told her blandly. He held up a hand as Cidra started to protest. “All right, all right, I withdraw the comment. I don’t want to argue with you. Not if you’re from Clementia and not if you’re serious about doing business.” He paused then for a minute, a strange look coming into his eyes. “You are from Clementia, aren’t you? Not just an actress or something?”
“I was born there,” Cidra stated, and immediately regretted the show of pride. A true Harmonic was above pride. “My parents are Harmonics,” she finished more quietly.
Severance eyed her with what could have been casual interest if not for the flicker of cold assessment in his gaze. “An aptitude for the Way is supposed to be hereditary.”
“There are exceptions to most things, Otan Severance. I’m afraid I’m one.”
“Obviously. If you weren’t, you would have fainted when some drunk miner got blood on your fancy dress.” Cidra cringed at the truth of his words. She had wanted to believe that she had remained relatively coherent because of her training but had to admit now that even the most rigorous discipline wouldn’t have protected a true Harmonic from the violence she had seen. “So,” Severance continued, “you’re an exception, but you are from Clementia. And you want to do business.”
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