Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [15]
“That’s the hope, yes. And remember,” she added, as they made their way to the bar, “let me do the talking.”
“The floor,” he assured her, “is all yours.”
Satisfied, she slung herself into a short-backed stool. Riker took the one beside it, eliciting a shrill creak as he sat down. Imprimans tended to be long and wiry, and the stool obviously wasn’t built to accommodate someone of his bulk, even though there were plenty of non-Imprimans in the crowd.
He’d half expected to see Ferengi here as well. But of course there weren’t any. The madraggi had long ago decided that if they had an agreement with the Federation, they didn’t want Ferengi around to undermine it. The same had been true for Federation personnel during the years the Ferengi held exclusive trade rights.
What’s more, this rule was backed up by some pretty severe penalties, not only for offworlders in violation but for any madraga found to be involved as well. Occasionally there were exceptions, but the last one had been made five years ago, and he and Teller had been the beneficiaries of it.
The bartender came over when he saw them sitting there. His eyes sought out Riker’s beneath the hood. “What can I get you?” he asked.
Riker looked at Lyneea.
“Korsch,” she said crisply. “Two.”
The bartender moved down the bar, found a ruby-colored bottle and poured. The liquid caught a light from somewhere and reveled in it.
Clunk. And again, clunk, as the second of two ceramic mugs met the bar in front of them. The bartender raised his eyebrows, a reminder that the drinks weren’t free.
Riker reached into his tunic and took out a couple of the plastic chits that served as money on Imprima. They were yellow, and stamped with the crest of Madraga Alionis, half a world away; there was no point in giving away their association with Criathis by paying with Criathan money.
Without a word the Impriman swept up the chits and placed them in an open stoneware trough suspended from the wall in back of him. In the places Riker had visited during his first sojourn on this planet, the troughs had been elaborately decorated, sometimes rendered in the shape of a fanciful bird or beast. Here it was simply a trough, and not a very clean one at that.
Lyneea picked up her korsch and tossed her head back, downing half the mug’s contents at a swallow. The human flinched inwardly at the quantity of warm red liquid in his own mug, sniffed at the pungent scent of it.
He had never been very fond of the stuff, even in delicate little snifters. To him it tasted like vinegar straight up.
Oh, well, he told himself. When in Rome …
The korsch was just as strong as he remembered. Taken half a mug at a shot, it was comparable to a small landslide.
Eyes smarting, throat closing so that he could barely breathe, Riker replaced the mug on the bar. His head swam dangerously, but he weathered the storm until his senses reestablished themselves.
Whew. Synthehol, it was not.
His ears having relented in their ringing, the human was able to detect the beginnings of a conversation that Lyneea had apparently managed to strike up with the bartender.
“Too bad,” she said.
“What is?” asked the one behind the bar. “We were looking for a friend, but I don’t see him.” “You were supposed to meet him here?”
Lyneea shook her head. “Not exactly. He didn’t know we were coming. But I’m sure he’d have been glad to see US.”
The cries in the back of the room rose in a sudden crescendo and died just as quickly. The bartender glanced in that direction, and a slow smile took charge of his mouth.
“Why’s that?” he asked absently.
Lyneea shrugged—a small, economical gesture. “Business,” she said.
That seemed to get the bartender’s attention again. His eyes—as green as Lyneea’s—were now riveted to her, though his sideways-leaning stance remained casual.
“This friend,” he said. “How well do you know him?”
Another shrug—a little broader. “Not well at all, actually.”
The bartender regarded her. “Know his name?” “Teller Conlon.