Battle of the Ring (10 page)

The main business district was near the port, for the convenience of
the members of ship’s crew and for the rangers who came into port to sell
their wool. The main part of the shopping, district was the Mall, several
blocks of the port’s best shops and restaurants that had been enclosed
under a protective roof. It made no pretensions toward the domed cities of the
inner worlds, a crude frontier flattery of the wealth at the Union’s
heart. A simple wooden platform on heavy posts stretched between the roofs
of the buildings. No attempt was made to enclose a warm, comfortable
environment beneath. It was meant only to keep away the worst of the local
weather, the harsh winds and volumes of snow that fell more than half the year.

Indeed, there had been a serious attempt to preserve the frontier
appearance within the Mall, for Kanis could afford better. The shop fronts were
dressed out in rough-cut wood and large windows of framed glass, while the
narrow streets were paved in brick, stone, and planks of seasoned wood.
Velmeran was not certain just who the natives were trying to impress with this
touristlike atmosphere where there were no tourists, although his own suspicion
was that they simply preferred things this way.

Velmeran first took his pack to a local jeweler, where they could sell the
pieces of jewelry they received as pay for local money. Their business
concluded, he dismissed his pilots to enjoy their port leave as they desired.
The Mall was large enough to swallow up an entire ship’s portion of
pilots so well that a glimpse of black armor became rare, and he wanted to be
alone. Or so he thought, until he looked around and wondered what he was
actually going to do with his port leave. If this was how he proposed to spend
what might be the last days of his life, he would be better off to return to
the ship, retire to his cabin, and read Shakespeare. Or Kipling, for all the
good this did him.

Still pondering this problem, Velmeran began to walk slowly down the street,
peering inside each shop as he passed. There were few people in the narrow
streets; with winter coming, the rangers had long since returned to the
highlands. Even beneath the protective canopy, the morning air was sharply
frigid. After only a moment he came upon a tailor’s shop, an oddity that
was more than enough to distract him. He knew what a tailor was, but he had
thought that such an occupation had long since ceased to exist.

What captivated his interest even more was the fact that the tailor was a
Feldennye, for that defied all reason. The Feldennye were a canine race,
in appearance not unlike large wolves walking on their hind legs. Since they
wore no clothes except for their own natural fur coats, it was unimaginable
that one would choose such a profession. The Feldennye saw his staring and
hurried to open the door.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked eagerly in a
thick accent that indicated that he had come from a Feldenneh colony.

“Surely not, I suppose,” Velmeran replied. “I could wear
nothing of yours.”

“Oh, there you are wrong!” the tailor insisted, surprising
Velmeran again by taking him by the hand and pulling him into the shop. No one
dared to touch a Starwolf, but Velmeran was so bemused that he went along
willingly.

The interior of the shop was in keeping with the rustic appearance of
the Mall. The floor was crude wooden planks and the interior walls were paneled
with polished wood. The lights overhead hung from iron chains and the counter
and other furnishings were constructed from real wood. But there was nothing
simple about the merchant’s wares. Velmeran saw from the first that,
while the tailor might undertake special orders here in his shop, he sold for
the most part the very best this world had to offer. Most of the clothes were
of the extreme of the local fashion, almost a native costume. The rest were
less distinctive, reflecting off-world tastes.

“It happened that I was approached by a Starwolf several months
ago,” the tailor explained as he stopped before a small rack in a remote
corner of the room. “He asked me for clothes, shirt and pants, such as he
could wear on port leave. I made him a set, all very fine, and he was most
pleased. Then I made another, thinking that he or another might come back.

“I am a merchant, Starlord, and I cannot afford to have clothes on my
rack that I cannot sell. And when I saw you, I thought that you might be tall
enough to wear those clothes. Of the tags that you see, you may take away
half.”

“That is generous,” Velmeran agreed. “But I do not know
what I would do with such clothes.”

“Ah, but look at these!” the tailor declared proudly as he
pulled the tunic and pants from the rack. The tunic was soft velvet, the pants
of some hardier material that Velmeran did not recognize. Both had been dyed to
a color that matched perfectly, a violet so deep that it graduated into
black in the shadows of the folds.

“Surely you do not have clothes such as these,” the tailor
insisted. “These are real clothes, not the armored suits that you hide yourselves
in or the half-uniforms that I see. Surely there are times when you are not a
Starwolf, just yourself. Clothes like these would be for such times.”

This furry merchant knew all the right words, Velmeran had to admit. His own
thoughts were on the photograph that Mayelna had shown him, how easy it really
was to make a Kelvessan into something that might just pass as human. The old
fantasy, so long pushed aside for more important matters, began to stir. Just
once in his life, even for only a very short time, he would like to pretend.

“Try it on, at least,” the tailor urged, his eyes seeming to
glow with hope. “If it does not fit, that question at least is
answered.”

Unfortunately, it fit perfectly. The tailor must have known, judging with an
experienced eye that had not been confounded by armor. And he must have known
as well that, once inside those clothes, his client would not be able to part
with them. Velmeran emerged from the changing room, looking for a mirror.

That did not show him anything that he had not seen before; it was still
Velmeran, even if the clothes were richer than he had ever known. But the
costume was not yet complete. The tailor came up with a pair of low half-boots,
having trouble finding a pair small enough, and a matching belt. A dress cape,
deep black, was wrapped around his upper shoulders and hung down just below his
rump. Since the main part of his body was rather small for his height, it was
too large for him. He folded his lower arms behind his back, adjusting the folds
of the cape to hide them.

“Ah, good!” the tailor crowed with delight as he beheld the
vision. “You would play at being human? It is often done, and no one
knows but me.”

“I had considered it,” Velmeran admitted cautiously, wondering
if he really did dare to do such a thing. “I will have to do something
about my ears. Do you have a hat?”

“No, not the type you would need.” The Feldennye paused a moment
to consider the problem. “I think that braids would look best on you
anyway.”

“Braids?”

“Yes, let me show.” Taking a brush, he parted Velmeran’s
long, thick hair down the middle and deftly tied it on either side into thick,
loose braids. Gold clips from under the counter tied off the ends, with the
last ten centimeters left free and brushed into thick, plushy tufts. His heavy
bangs, too short to be brought into the braids, remained in front. Although the
braiding started low, it still brought a thick curtain of hair down over
each of his ears. Velmeran rather liked the effect, lending him a rather
handsome barbarian look. The Feldennye obviously knew what he was doing.

“This will do for you,” the tailor said. “Everything else
you wear will be the same half off, because you are a Starwolf. Also, I have a
little closet in back that I keep for Starwolves. You may put your armor
inside, lock the door, and keep the key until you return. Is that fair?”

In the end he did as the tailor suggested, leaving his armor locked in the
closet while he went out into the city wearing his new clothes. And he would
not have been less ill at ease if he had been naked, since that was exactly how
he felt. He still wore both his guns, hidden beneath his cape, but he was without
the protection of his armor. He could only think how every loyal Unioner wished
him dead, and a few would be willing to try their best at making that a
reality. He hoped that his special senses would keep him safe.

When he stepped out of the tailor’s shop, however, he found that no
one seemed to notice. He hardly resembled the tall, rugged natives, but he
could pass as a member of some mutant branch of the race. Encouraged by the
fact that he was completely ignored, he started down the street to his
right. The morning air was chill enough to be comfortable, although he wondered
how he would be able to endure the heated shops. If he did give himself away,
he reflected, it would be from passing out from the heat.

Once again he did not make it very far. Two doors down from the tailor, in a
corner shop, was an art gallery. Being a casual artist himself, he stepped inside
for a quick look. He paused at the door as a blast of hot air struck him. At
least there was no one in the front of the shop, although he could hear voices
in the back. He looked about briefly but soon decided that most of what he saw
was just tourist fodder and investments for healthy collectors, and he was
not particularly impressed.

He was about to leave when something curious caught his eyes. It was a
landscape much like any other, a deep glacial valley with a high, rocky peak in
the background. It was definitely a painting, not a photograph. But as he
watched, much to his surprise, a dark band of clouds began to rise behind the
mountains, sweeping over the ridge to obscure it behind a white veil of falling
snow.

“Like it, do you?”

Velmeran nearly jumped out of his new clothes at the sound of a voice
immediately behind him. A human girl stood there, watching him with the same
expectant stare the tailor had employed when anticipating a sale. Dressed
in a stylized version of the local costume, she was small and slim, slightly
taller than himself with a slender, bony build that was best described as lean
and gawky. She was definitely not a child of the highlands but, curiously
enough, of Trader stock. A small nose and large eyes peered out beneath a long,
full mane of brown hair. From a distance, she might have passed for another
Kelvessan in disguise.

“Have you ever seen the like of this?” she continued. She might
look like a Trader, but she spoke with the thick, rolling local brogue.
“All the rage, it is, in the inner worlds. The frame, you see, is
actually a flat-screen monitor. Down here is the computer and disk drive that
runs it. The artist assembles the work from a fixed feature, the subject
itself, and a series of variables. The variables exist in groups; in this case
time of day, season of the year, and weather. You can set it to run in sequence,
or the computer selects variables at random. And with multiple drives, you can
also alternate several different works over a period of time. The hard microdisks
will last forever.”

“And you sell the disks as you would prints?” he asked.

“Exactly so. You put out, say, fifty to a thousand disks of each work,
each one with a certificate of authenticity. So what do you think?”

Velmeran shrugged. “It is very interesting, but still just a
toy.”

“Sure, but it is!” the girl declared, laughing. “But
collectors are paying a lot for these toys just now. But then, that’s all
art has ever been to most collectors anyway.”

Velmeran laughed at the obvious scorn in her voice. “You must be the
artist.”

“And you obviously are not a collector,” she said in return, and
nodded politely. “Lenna Makayen.”

“Er... Rachmaninoff. Sergei Rachmaninoff.” Unprepared for that
question, he had to think fast... and he could have done better.”

“So, what brings you to a place like this, anyway?”

“Business, of course.”

“Business?” she asked. “You’re not a wool merchant,
that’s for certain. What other kind of business would bring you to this
hole?”

“I am in... salvage and redistribution, you might say,” he
replied cautiously. “I am just passing through... on business.”

“And how long will you be here, do you suppose?”

“Now that I cannot say. I will just have to wait and see.”

“Wait and see when the Starwolves are ready to move on?” Lenna
asked sharply. “Salvage and redistribution indeed! You manage their loot
for them, don’t you? You’re a Trader, aren’t you?”

Velmeran smiled. “How did you guess?”

“My mother was of the Traders,” she explained proudly.
“I’ve got her looks. And you look like me, only more so, if you
take my meaning. Traders are small and tough, with big eyes and small noses.
You stand about five feet tall, as they say locally, about a hundred and fifty
meters tall, and I’m not two centimeters taller. Not quite human, they
say. So, what will you be doing until the Starwolves move off again?”

“I do not really know,” he admitted. “Just waiting.”

“Then you can wait with me,” Lenna said decisively. “My
buyer has been in port, and he payed me a small fortune, so I was going to
celebrate. Come along and I’ll buy you a beer.”

They were outside and marching down the street at a furious pace before
Velmeran knew what was going on. Lenna’s energy and enthusiasm was a bit
overpowering for a sedate Kelvessan; she made even the extroverted Consherra
seem quiet and shy. Still, Velmeran thought that he might go along with it.
There was something of a challenge to it; he wondered how long he could keep up
this game without giving himself away. He also wondered what Lenna’s
reaction would be to discovering that she was flirting so energetically with a
Starwolf.