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
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
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