Queen of Wands-eARC

by John Ringo

“That sounds ungood,” Hjalmar opined. “Do you think we can get a drink or something? I wasn’t expecting to be thirsty on the Moon Paths.”

  “That’s the sort of thing I was thinking,” Sharice admitted. She had a purse and opened it up. “Any of you got any money?”

  “Thirty bucks, more or less,” Drakon said, pulling out a leather wallet on a chain. It had a Chinese dragon embossed on it, to no one’s surprise. “And a driver’s license. That’s about it.”

  “’Bout two hundred,” Hjalmar said, going through the pockets of his cargo pants. “And a driver’s license, Visa check card, and a room key in a pack with the room number on it. I’m here in the Marriott. 2738.”

  “I’ve got about five hundred, a Visa and an American Express,” Sharice said. “Also a room key, 2739.”

  She got up and walked over to a nearby ATM, used it and came back.

  “And I’ve got five thousand in my account,” she said, sitting down. “Okay, interesting.”

  “Power equals money?” Hjalmar asked. “Relative power is about the same. That’s a pretty simple metaphor.”

  “But one that works in this environment,” Sharice said. “But we’re not going to want to get into any fights.”

  “That sucks,” Drakon said.

  “Because if we do, we get hauled to jail?” Hjalmar asked. “What happens then?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sharice said. “But I think getting stuck on the Moon Paths is the least of your worries.”

  “So who are all the people?” Drakon asked. “I hadn’t expected the Moon Paths to be so…crowded.”

  “At a guess?” Sharice said. “The staff are representatives or one or another of the gods. The leaders of each department may be gods themselves. But this has to be some sort of a neutral zone and I’d guess the police and security keep it that way. That’s why we don’t want to get into any fights. The rest of them? Sleeping people caught in dream. The deceased who are stuck in a sort of limbo. Christian purgatory? Demons and spirits of one sort or another. Angels, for that matter. We’re going to have to think our way through this.”

  “Blast,” Hjalmar said. “Maybe you should bring someone else.”

  “I just have to hope there’s a reason we’re all here,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “So you’re stuck.”

  “Speaking of which, how do we get back?” Drakon asked. “Normally you concentrate on your silver cord.”

  “You can see it if you open to it enough,” Sharice said. “Hang on.”

  She closed her eyes and a moment later started to yawn.

  “I tugged at the connection and got tired,” she said. “I’d guess that when we sleep we’ll go back.”

  “Isn’t that sort of backwards?” Hjalmar asked. “The astral plane is the world of the ka, the sleeping mind. The world of dream. We go back by dreaming?”

  “Which is the dream and which is the reality?” Sharice said, grinning. “But that’s not getting us anywhere. We’ve got money, power, and a mission: Find Janea. Let’s get to it.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Drakon said.

  “Which is?”

  “Are we preregistered?”

  * * *

  “Thor’s left testicle,” Hjalmar grunted. “Would you look at that line?”

  Just as the Marriott had backed on the Hilton, the Hyatt backed on the Marriott. And running down the entire block was a line of people. Since they had been directed there to go to registration, they were apparently supposed to get in the line.

  A police officer was directing traffic between the two hotels, and as he waved for people to cross, they headed over to the line.

  “How long do you think it is?” Hjalmar asked.

  “Long,” Drakon said. “One of the reasons I always prereg. Let’s go find the end.”

  The end, as it turned out, was around the block, down the end, and nearly to the front of the hotel.

  “Dude, I’m so going to preregister next year,” said the guy in front of them, a sallow kid in black clothes.

  “Like, totally,” agreed his companion, a shorter guy with a dozen piercings. “Or come in on Thursday.”

  “It’s been like this since last night when we opened,” a tall, dark-haired man wearing a headset said, handing them both tickets. “And this is the prereg line. Also day passes. That’s your place in line in case you have to go to the head or something. Line’s about three hours long. You’ll get there eventually.”

  “Thanks,” Hjalmar said, looking at the ticket. “I hope that the number on here isn’t our actual place in line. It’s in the millions.”

  “Doubt it,” Drakon said, chuckling. “There’s not that many people here.”

  “How, by Odin’s eyes, are we going to find Janea in all this?” Hjalmar asked.

  “I’ve been to Dragon a couple of times,” Drakon admitted. “Thing is, the way the hotels are laid out, just about everyone comes down the back steps to the Hyatt at one point or another. Most of the programming is in the Hyatt, especially the evening stuff, and it’s where all the parties are. Sooner or later, Janea’s going to pass that point. The thing is…”

  “We’re going to have to watch it like a hawk,” Sharice said. “Take shifts. Someone’s always got to be there.”

  “That is going to be buckets of fun,” Hjalmar said. “I’ll take first watch.”

  “You got it,” Drakon said. “I’ll take second. By midnight or so it’s pretty pointless. We can crash then and get back to the mortal realm to find out what’s happening out there.”

  “Since we’ve got the tickets,” Sharice said, “Drakon, go in and find a program so we can get some idea where Janea might turn up. Hjalmar…”

  “Go stand by the back of the hotel and watch for Janea,” Hjalmar said.

  “Right,” Sharice said as the line crept forward. She pulled out a twenty and handed it to Drakon. “Get us some drinks while you’re at it. I’ll hold our place in line.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Drakon said, grinning. “I know one place we’re definitely going to find her, though.”

  “Where?” Sharice asked.

  “The Dawn contest,” Drakon said. “It’s got a thousand-dollar prize. That’s power she can use. And she’s a natural.”

  “But it’s not until Monday,” Sharice said. “The question is, can she survive ’til Monday?”

  * * *

  As Folsom entered the restroom, a massive black man in a Blade costume nearly ran him down coming out.

  “Whoa,” Folsom said. “Nice costume.”

  The man paused and nodded as if in thanks, then leaned forward and sniffed several times. He surveyed Folsom for a moment longer, turned to look outwards as if peering through the walls of the bathroom, then nodded and walked out.

  Folsom lifted one arm and sniffed. He’d showered no more than an hour ago…

  “Hmmm…” he said, looking towards the door. “Try Costuming.”

  * * *

  Doris knew she should be tired, and in a distant way, she was. But mostly she was interested. She’d gotten over to the Hilton early and then sat through four hours of programming on costuming. She was even starting to understand the lingo. An “appliance” was an accessory to the costume: a mask, for example. Raiding was digging stuff out of dumpsters. Since just about anything could be turned into a costume, raiding was an old and accepted practice.

  And she knew more about uses of hot glue than she’d ever wanted to know. One of the panelists had at least a hundred suggestions for how to use hot glue. It was like she was hot-glue obsessed.

  Most of the panelists were the same people, and by the end of the third panel, she had worked up the courage to go up and ask questions.

  Bran Carlson was the head of the track, and while he was only “on” the first panel, she’d spotted him coming in and out of other panels. He came into the meeting room at the end of the third panel, so she screwed up her courage and walked up to him.

  “Hi, I’m Doris,” she said, tryin
g not to sound like a frightened newbie.

  “Well, hello, Doris,” Bran said with just a shade too much familiarity. “And what can I do for you?”

  “I’m not sure if you can do anything for me,” Doris said. “But Folsom said I should talk to you.”

  “I must remember to thank him,” Bran said, grinning. “What’s up?”

  “I’m…a newbie,” she admitted. “Con and costuming. But so far, three people have told me I should enter the Dawn contest. The thing is…”

  “All you have are street clothes,” Bran said, his grin dying. “Right?”

  “Right,” Doris said, trying not to wince. The people in the panels, both the panelists and most of the attendees, had clearly spent years, and thousands of dollars, building up their stock of costumes, materials, tools and appliances. What Doris was asking was for someone to simply step in and for no good reason help her out.

  “Besides the fact that you’re pretty, why did Folsom suggest I help you?” Bran asked, all trace of flirtatiousness gone. He wasn’t rejecting, he was just suddenly immensely professional.

  “I don’t really know,” Janea said. “He’s been talking about, well, finding myself, I guess. It sounds stupid, I know, especially with something like the Dawn contest. He says it better.”

  “Oh, God, he didn’t trot out that horrid old Billy Joel song, did he?”

  “Something about faces and masks?” Doris asked. “Yeah.”

  “The man needs to get a life,” Bran said with a sigh. “But he has a point. The problem is…the problems are…Anita!”

  “Yo, Bran?”

  The woman was the hot-glue fanatic and on her way out the door, having shaken off the last questioner. Medium height, blonde and pleasantly plump, she was wearing a multi-colored, fur-trimmed robe and a pair of antlers.

  “Folsom has seen fit to present me with a challenge,” Bran said. “This young lady is a newbie. A costuming newbie and a con newbie. She has no materials nor tools. She has, I suspect, very little in the way of available funds. Folsom wants me to get her ready to win the Dawn contest. In addition to running this madhouse of a track!”

  “Are you going to?” Anita asked.

  “Depends on how much help I can get,” Bran said. “Up for a challenge? Question…Doris. There’s a rather substantial prize involved. Are you planning on spreading the wealth if you win?”

  “Of course,” Doris said. “I mean, I need enough money to get a ride home, but you can have all the rest.”

  “Wouldn’t want that much,” Bran said. “But I do this professionally. We’ll come to an equitable arrangement. You in, Anita?”

  “Maybe,” Anita said, walking around Doris and inspecting her like a prize steer. “She’s got the looks, I think. Hard to tell under the clothes. Attitude: two. Major work there. Doing Dawn takes a ten attitude. And then there’s the question of costume. The easiest would be…”

  “No costume is no costume,” Bran said. “Disqualification.”

  “Excuse me?” Doris said. “What’s that mean? I can’t wear street clothes?”

  “You could, but you’d never win,” Anita replied. “What Bran was saying is that occasionally a contestant simply wears no costume. As in nothing. Au naturale. En dishabille. Naked. Gets a hell of a round of applause, but it’s a disqualifier. Security also gets involved.”

  “Uh…” Doris said, blushing. “I don’t think I could…”

  “There have been Dawn winners that were clothed so fully you could barely see they were female,” Bran said. “But they had costumes that were, well, too elaborate for any reasonable chance we could make them in the next couple of days. Not to mention the cost. So one thing you’re going to have to get your head around is that you’re probably going to have to walk out in front of eight thousand strangers, if not nude, then damned close. If you can’t consider that, we might as well quit now.”

  Doris thought about that and shivered involuntarily. The thought terrified her and at the same time, honestly, thrilled her just a bit. She wasn’t sure where that tendril of exhibitionism was coming from. In her heart she’d always wanted to be the pretty one, the noticed one. She hid because every time she tried to be noticed it had meant pain—mental, generally, but occasionally physical. But a part of her…

  Was that what Duncan had been driving at? Was that her Stranger? And was it a Stranger or her true self? Could she get up in front of thousands of people, how was it Bran put it? Damned near nude?

  Yes, she could. She would. She would do it. Because she suspected that strain of exhibitionism was more “her” than the shrinking wallflower she was now. And if she didn’t, she’d never know.

  But the truth was…

  “If I had to do it tonight, no,” she said. “But I will do it for the contest. I can do it. Will do it. I just need…”

  “Don’t say time,” Anita said. “Or you’re just stalling.”

  “No, I need practice,” Doris said. “I need to work up to it. Look, I’m just getting over my fear of crowds, okay? I’m going to have to get used to being…damned near nude around people. Fast. Or you’re right, it won’t work.”

  “So now you need more than one costume,” Bran said, frowning.

  “Hey, we’re experts,” Anita said. “In for a penny and all that. But here’s the question. Do you have any skills in costuming at all? Or do you expect us to do all the work?”

  “I can sew,” Doris said. “I can sew really well.”

  “That is music to my ears,” Bran said, grinning. “Because we may lay out the costume and do some of the appliances, but the big time-eater will be the sewing. If you can really sew, this is doable.”

  “Okay, you need a costume for tonight,” Anita said, walking around her again. “And that, we don’t have time to sew.”

  “Despite the red hair, let’s go Oriental,” Bran said. “I’ve got a kimono that might fit her. That’s pretty full coverage up, just showing a hint of cleavage. That way you can get used to being seen without too much boob showing. It’s going to be short, though.”

  “I can handle that,” Doris said, gulping. “But…can I have a mask?”

  “Hot glue is your friend, there,” Anita said.

  “Why did I know you were going to say that?” Bran asked, shaking his head.

  * * *

  “Thanks,” Hjalmar said, taking the bottle of water from Sharice. “Any luck?”

  They’d gotten registered, finally. It was nearly four by the time they were fully in place to start searching, and so far he hadn’t seen Janea pass by. He’d seen two or three girls that had the same look, but none of them Janea. Three hours in the hot Atlanta sun were wearing on him but he wasn’t going to stop looking. Janea wasn’t just a friend, she was a gydia of his Hearth, and the Asatru did not leave a Hearth member stuck on the astral plane. He’d stand out here until he keeled over from heatstroke first.

  “Nada,” Sharice said. “I cruised the Marriott then headed over to the Hilton to look through the Dealers Room and the Exhibitors Hall. Drakon has been covering the Hyatt and he hasn’t seen her.”

  “Speaking of the Dealers Room,” Hjalmar said. “Are you absolutely certain we’re not going to get into a furball here?”

  “I hope not,” Sharice replied. “There’s security everywhere. Mystically, if I’m getting the metaphor right, that means that if you don’t toe the line you’re going to get stuck in a lower plane. Hel or Niflheim, in your case. There are places on the Moon Paths like that, places where you tread lightly or not at all. Think of it as a no-PVP section of an online game. I’m not even sure you can attack another entity.”

  “So we are not going to get attacked and she is not going to get attacked,” Hjalmar said. “You’re positive?”

  “You’re not, I can tell,” Sharice said.

  “Call it my Viking side,” Hjalmar replied, shrugging. “I’m seeing a lot of weaponry. Sure, most of it is totally costuming. I don’t know what the reality of a plastic stormtrooper bla
ster is in this metaphor. But somebody used one hell of a lot of astral energy to get her stuck here. And Janea wasn’t going to take that sort of thing lying down. She’s a second-level adept and an Asatru, not a fluffy bunny hugger. She went out fighting, guaranteed. So…I don’t see them, whoever them is, just leaving her alone. And why here? What’s the significance of us being here? Of her being here? Not only the ‘here’ of Dragon*Con, but this particular section of the astral plane.”

  “You really want me to get into a discussion of astral synchronicity and potentialities?” Sharice asked.

  “Uh…no,” Hjalmar admitted. “I leave that up to you Wicca types. We are more the ‘Can I kill it, eat it or screw it?’ types.”

  “Okay, short answer,” Sharice said, frowning. “Janea was stuck in a hostile zone. She was under attack. We managed to stop the attack and push her out of the hostile zone into one where she’s not under some sort of constant attack. The nature of this metaphor might be generated by Janea or it may be a standing metaphorical zone. Given the number of gifted people who go to Dragon*Con, it’s possible that it is maintained virtually constantly through dreaming. Time probably is different than the outside. An hour here may be seconds and it may be days. We won’t know until we return. Did they intend for her to end up here? Probably not. Does it have anything to do with the plans of the unknown ‘them’ working the mundane side? Hmmm…Possibly. Quantum synchronicity would call for it.”

  “Okay, you just said quantum, at which point my brain turns off,” Hjalmar said.

  “Heh,” Sharice replied. “Think of the otherworld as being a giant web with thousands of interconnected threads. Kick Janea out of the hostile zone in which they’d put her, call it the place of spiders, and fate, the Norns if you prefer, could put her anywhere. But she was in opposition to those unknown ‘them.’ That…keys her to try to fight on this side. Thus she is going to be in harmony, synchronicity, with a thread that places her still on the battlefield. Hmmm…”

  “Okay, so now you’re starting to use logic to go with my gut,” Hjalmar said, nodding.

  “You’re right, but it should not, given what I’m seeing, be an actual physical battle,” Sharice said, frowning. “The battle should be a metaphorical one…”