"Brett, why didn't your parents buy your contract?" Twisp asked. "With your eyesight, it seems to me you'd have made a fine painter."
The dim silhouette in front of Twisp turned, a fuzzed outline against the lighter background of the mural.
"I never offered my contract for sale," Brett said.
Twisp looked away from Brett, oddly moved by the kid's response. It was as though they suddenly had become much closer friends. The unspoken revelations carried a kind of cement, which sealed all of their shared experiences out on the water ... out there where each depended on the other for survival.
He doesn't want me to sell his contract, Twisp thought. He kicked himself for being so dense. It wasn't just the fishing. Brett could get plenty of fishing after his apprenticeship with Queets Twisp. The contract had increased in value simply because of that apprenticeship. Twisp sighed. No ... the kid did not want to be separated from a friend.
"I still have credit at the Ace of Cups," Twisp said. "Let's go get some coffee and ... whatever ..."
Twisp waited, hearing the little shufflings of Brett's feet in the growing dark. The Island's rimlights began their nightly duty - homing beacons for the time between suns. The lights started with a blue-green phosphorescence of wave tops, bright because the night was warm, then grew even brighter as the organics ignited. Out of the corners of his eyes, Twisp saw Brett wipe his cheeks quickly as the lights came up.
"Hell, we're not breaking up a good team, yet," Twisp said. "Let's go get that coffee." He had never before invited the kid to share an evening at the Ace of Cups, although it was well-known as a fisherman's hangout. He stood and saw an encouraging lift to Brett's chin.
"I'd like that," Brett said.
They walked quietly down the gangway and along the passages with their bright blue phosphorescence to light the way. They entered the coffeehouse through the wool-lined arch and Twisp allowed Brett a moment to look around before pointing out the really fancy feature for which the Ace of Cups was known throughout the Islands - the rimside wall. From deck to ceiling, it was solid wool, a softly curling karakul of iridescent white.
"How do they feed it?" Brett whispered.
"There's a little passageway behind it that they use for storage. They roll the nutrient on from that side."
There were only a few other early drinkers and diners and these paid little attention to the newcomers. Brett ducked his head slightly into his shoulder blades, trying to see everything without appearing to look.
"Why did they choose wool?" Brett asked. He and Twisp threaded their way through the tables to the rimwall.
"Keeps out noise during storms," Twisp said. "We're pretty close to the rim."
They took chairs at a table against the wall - both table and chairs made of the same dried and stretched membrane as the coracles. Brett eased himself into a chair gingerly and Twisp remembered the kid's first time in the coracle.
"You don't like dead furniture," Twisp said.
Brett shrugged. "I'm just not used to it."
"Fishermen like it. It stays put and you don't have to feed it. What'll you have?"
Twisp waved a hand toward Gerard, the owner, who lifted head and shoulders from the raised well behind the bar, a questioning look on his enormous head. Tufts of black hair framed a smiling face.
"I hear they have real chocolate," Brett whispered.
"Gerard will slip a little boo in it if you ask."
"No ... no thanks."
Twisp lifted two fingers with the palm of his other hand over them - the house signal for chocolate - then he winked once for a dash of boo in his own. Presently, Gerard signaled back that the order was ready. All of the regulars knew Gerard's problem - his legs fused into a single column with two toeless feet. The proprietor of the Ace of Cups was confined to a Merman-made motorized chair, a sure sign of affluence. Twisp rose and went to the bar to collect their drinks.
"Who's the kid?" Gerard asked as he slid two cups across the bar. "Boo's in the blue." He tapped the blue cup for emphasis.
"My new contract," Twisp said. "Brett Norton."
"Oh, yeah? From downcenter?"
Twisp nodded.
"His folks are the shitpainters."
"How come everybody except me knew that?" Twisp asked.
"'Cause, you keep your head buried in a fish tote," Gerard said. His ridged forehead drew down and his green eyes twinkled in amusement.