“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 thi
s 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.
“You would be hard-pressed to entertain yourself two days in this place, much less two weeks,” Lenna continued briskly. “You need someone to show you around. What do you say?”
“I might agree,” Velmeran replied. “If you tell me what happened to your accent.”
“Ah, but my local tongue’s just to show my clients,” she said, the accent back and thicker than ever. “Said I was of Trader stock. Born and bred on a freighter, so I was. But I’ve lived here half of my twenty-five years.”
He resorted to a fairly standard question. “Do you enjoy your work?”
“The truth is, I fly a freight shuttle for the Trade Association, and I love flying too well to give it up. I’d leave here in an instant to go back to the Traders, but that isn’t likely.”
“Why not?”
“No formal training,” she said bitterly. “My father saw to that.”
Before Velmeran could question that, Lenna directed him into a small restaurant, hardly more than an indoor cafe, and sat him at a table by the front window while she went to get drinks for the two of them.
“My father was local,” she began as she sat down. “But he had no land and no herd, and there’s not much else you can do in this place. But our treaty allows us to hire on in their military as civilian technicians. Got his training that way, in drive mechanics. He stayed with them four years, then came back here, married, and had a son. But the money he’d saved soon ran out and his first wife left him. Then it happened that an independent freighter came in and got stranded at port for want of repairs her crew could not do, so he fixed her up. Being Kanian, he could take G’s better than most, so they gave him a contract. Soon it looked like he was settled in to stay.
“Then, one day, their ship was rammed by a tender as they were coming in to station. Damage was slight, but my mother was gone. And my father was very bitter about it. He flew back here and did his best to forget about space... which was hard enough with me around, looking like a Trader. I was too young to understand, and it seemed to me like he brought me here just to make me miserable. Especially once my older brother came to live with us.”
“You could get the training you needed, just like your father did,” he suggested hopefully.
Lenna shook her head sadly. “You have to be twenty-one to get Union training, but you can’t travel off-world without parental permission until you are twenty-one. Naturally, my father wouldn’t sign. I did get flight training locally, enough to convince the Trade Association to hire me on as an apprentice for a year until the old pilot retired.”
“Surely your father’s old texts... ?”
“Do you really think my father kept his books?” she asked. “I was able to get the texts for helm and navigation, and I taught myself. I know enough to get a ship from here to there. I’m certainly ready for an apprenticeship on a Trader.”
Velmeran pointedly refused to answer that, for he knew only too well what she was asking him. She thought him to be a Trader; in his rich dress and manner, perhaps a senior officer or even a Captain. She was desperate, and she hoped that he would give her what she wanted. And Velmeran felt guilty, since there was little he could do to help her.
“Treck is back in town,” someone behind him said suddenly.
Velmeran had no idea what that could mean, but Lenna obviously did. Her eyes widened and her face turned from lightly tan to chalky white. Whatever else it might mean, it was obviously a threat and intended as one.
“So what’s that to me?” Lenna demanded.
A pair of rangers, fresh from the highlands, appeared from behind Velmeran to stand at either side of the table. They were young and a matched pair of second-rate bullies, the one to his left short, stocky, and stupid, while the other, the speaker, was tall and lean. They were ragged, dirty, and fairly rank. Kelvessan had no sense of smell, but he could guess that part. But they must have something of a reputation, judging by the way the rest of the patrons were slowly retreating.
“You know the answer to that,” the tall one said, sneering. “Treck Lesries has put his name on you, and he doesn’t like for his girls to run around on him.”
“I’m not afraid of Treck Lesries,” Lenna declared.
“No, I’m sure you’re not. It’s your little friend here who’ll get his neck broke,” the tall one said, his threat now aimed at Velmeran. He put a hand on the Starwolf’s shoulder and did his best to knead the muscle painfully.
Velmeran reached up and took hold of the offending wrist, applying pressure until both bones snapped loudly. The tall ranger gasped in pain and sank to his knees, for Velmeran did not let go. “If you are Treck Lesries’s messenger, then you can take him this message. Tell him to get out of town.”
“Lesries can take care of you!” the ranger threatened, his voice sharp with pain. “He’s half Starwolf, you know.”
Velmeran laughed aloud. “Do not be a complete idiot! No one can be half Starwolf.”
“He’ll show you what he can do!” the other squealed.
Velmeran laughed again. “I have enemies that make your Treck Lesries seem like a child. Now go.”
He squeezed the wrist until the ranger screamed in agony, then gave him a shove. The stocky ranger caught him, taking him under the arms to half carry his friend, nearly faint with pain, toward the door. Velmeran watched them until they were gone, then saw that Lenna was staring at him.
“Do not be afraid of me,” he said. “I might not hesitate to use violence, but only against those who ask for it.”
“You broke his damned wrist,” Lenna muttered in open awe. “You took hold of it and it snapped. Sergei, you’ve got to get out of here. Treck won’t take it well, not at all. He’ll kill you when he finds you.”
“Would you explain what this is all about?” Velmeran said firmly. “Why is a murderer like Treck Lesries and his misfits allowed to walk around free?”
“Oh, Lesries is a Unioner,” she explained. “Commando-trained in their military, trained to kill. Union supposedly gave him permission to settle here, but he’s still Union. On detached duty, as we see it, here to stir up all the trouble he can. Our treaty says that we can’t touch him, and every time we file a complaint they say we have no evidence. Him and his lackeys earn their bread and beer by poaching; they sell langie pelts on the black market. Sev
eral times a year we find a ranger dead, his neck broken, and nothing left of his herd but skinned carcasses. That’s his trick. He breaks your neck with one swift kick. He’s done that to about five of our boys here in town.”
Velmeran frowned. “What is this business about your being his girl? You seem to think otherwise.”
Lenna nearly spat in anger. “He thinks he’s a stud! He names certain girls to be his own, and if anyone goes near them he breaks their neck. He’s not touched me yet, but he will come for me eventually. What happens then, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
She frowned regretfully. “My brother, Iyan, he’s port police, and he hates Lesries with a passion. If Lesries does touch me, Iyan will go after him. Either he’ll kill him and get himself into trouble, or get himself killed. But first I’ll see what my Trader’s strength and a few of my brother’s tricks can do against that kicking idiot.”
“You have nothing to worry about now,” Velmeran assured her gently. “I will take care of Lesries before I leave.”
Lenna stared at him. “Sergei, this isn’t your problem.”
“It is now,” he said. “Lenna, I am not a Trader like you know. I have fought the Union all my life. I have killed before, and I will again. And I can certainly handle this Unioner. Getting rid of him is one loose end I can tie up while I am waiting for more important matters.”
“You mean to kill him?” she asked.
“He means to kill me. Besides, if he is pretending to be half Starwolf, I owe it to him. Most of my friends are Starwolves. How did he come up with that, anyway?”
“He’s a heavy worlder,” Lenna explained. “Growing up in two and a half G’s left him as strong as a bull langie.”
Velmeran laughed. “Charming fellow! I believe that we should just wander around until your friend does make his appearance. Then we will really celebrate.”
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Battle of the Ring Page 8
