Sweet Starfire (Lost Colony #1)

Sweet Starfire (Lost Colony #1) Page 3

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 stretching his booted feet out under the table.

He had been sprawling with the same 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 hand wrought 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 gets 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.”

“That is correct.”

“Suits me.” His glance shifted to the expensive fireberyl comb in her hair. “You look like the kind who pays her postage, and I’m always looking for patrons….” He broke off as the rich, dark Renaissance Rose ale was placed in front of them. Taking a long, obviously satisfying swallow, he met Cidra’s steady gaze over the rim of the mug. “What is it you want delivered?”

Cidra cleared her throat. “Myself.”

Severance put down his mug. “You’ll have to try it again. A little more slowly this time. I’m just a Wolf, remember? I’m not intuitive or telepathic. I’m not even wildly good at guessing games.”

“It’s simple enough, Otan Severance.”

“Teague.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He made an impatient movement with his hand. “My birth name is Teague. Severance is my chosen name. Use either one you like, but skip the formality. No one in my line of work uses Otan.”

Cidra nodded with grave politeness. “You’ll have to forgive me, Teague Severance. In my world formality is everything.”

Severance’s mouth twisted wryly. “I know. I’m sure it works just great in Clementia. Out in the real universe it tends to be a waste of time. Why don’t you finish explaining your business before we get sidetracked by a philosophical discussion on the role of the formalities.”

A faint flicker of amusement touched Cidra’s expression. “Are you capable of being sidetracked by such an esoteric discussion?”

“Sidetracked or bored. One of the two.”

“I see.” She drew a breath and went back to business. “As I said, I wish to mail myself.”

He considered her intent face. “To where?”

“Wherever it is you happen to be going. I have no single destination in mind, although Renaissance is high on my list. Postmen are famous for their unorthodox schedules. According to what I have read about your profession, you’ll go almost anywhere in the Stanza Nine system to pick up a package. Nor are you particular about where you deliver your cargo.”