Queen of Wands-eARC

by John Ringo

  “And if the other side starts to lose?” Hjalmar asked.

  “They would have to be desperate to engage in combat in this zone,” Sharice said, her brow furrowing. “But if they were…”

  “Smackdown time,” Hjalmar finished. “Since they put Janea here, they presumably don’t want her active in the mundane realm.”

  “With Barb taking over, their problems have increased tenfold, whether they know it or not,” Sharice pointed out.

  “Given,” Hjalmar said. “But they’re going to want to keep Janea out of play, stuck over here. So when we find her, they may try to prevent her from leaving.”

  “Or there may be a deeper reason she’s here,” Sharice said. “Synchronicity.”

  “Either way, they’re going to try to stop her from winning, for values of winning,” Hjalmar pointed out. “So…”

  “You just want to weapon up,” Sharice said. “Admit it.”

  “I’m Asatru,” Hjalmar snapped. “Being without a weapon is the closest thing we have to sin!”

  “What do you want?” Sharice asked.

  “I want to cruise the Dealers Room and the Exhibitors Hall. If this is a true metaphor of Dragon*Con, everything I need is going to be in one of those two places. Every major sharp-pointy-thing dealer comes to Dragon*Con. The problem is…”

  “Money,” Sharice said. “Power. You’ll have to trade power for sharp, pointy things.”

  “And I don’t think I have enough,” Hjalmar said. “I mean, to an Asatru there is no such thing as too much sharp, pointy weaponry. But I specifically don’t have enough money to buy what I consider a minimum if there’s any possibility of us getting busy over here. So, is the cleric willing to cough up some cash to armor up your fighter?” he added with a grin.

  “Only if he avoids gaming metaphors,” Sharice said. “How much do you need?”

  “Around or over five hundred,” Hjalmar said. “But if I use it all, I’m flat. I don’t think that is wise here.”

  “Agreed,” Sharice said. “Okay, I’ll get Drakon to take over the stakeout and meet you in the Exhibitors Hall. The better weapons vendors were there. We should be able to leave it in our rooms and pick it up when we come back.”

  “Works.”

  “By the way, when we shut down the stakeout, meet me in the bar in the Hyatt.”

  “Shouldn’t we have started in the tavern? I mean it’s meet up in the tavern, listen to rumors, buy equipment…We’re doing this all backwards!”

  “Do you want your sharp, pointy things or not?”

  “Shutting up now.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The kimono was, indeed, short.

  “The nice thing about a kimono is that, well, one size doesn’t fit all but it does fit most,” Anita said, holding the yellow silk robe up to Doris’s back. “This one is going to be tight, I’ll admit. But that’s all to the good. Tight will definitely be noticed.”

  They were in Bran’s room, but he’d made himself scarce after showing Anita where the kimono was. He was unquestionably busy, but Doris was pretty sure it was to keep her from being freaked out.

  “You’re going to need makeup, though, and hairpins,” Anita continued. “And slippers. Makeup we’ll need to scrounge. Ditto the hairpins, although if I can get some bobby pins, we can fix them up nicely. Actually, if we can get a couple of lacquered chopsticks, that might be enough…Try it on.”

  “Uhmmm…” Doris said uncomfortably.

  “Go in the bathroom if it makes you feel any better,” Anita said, shaking her head. “You’re seriously going to have to work on your attitude if you’re planning on winning Dawn.”

  “I will,” Doris said. “But right now I’ll try it on in the bathroom.”

  * * *

  She came back out, tugging at the bottom, then at the top, then at the bottom again.

  “Short, all right, but legal,” Anita said. “Barely. Those are much better legs than I expected. Do you dance?”

  “Yes,” Doris said. “I love dancing.”

  “There may be hope,” Anita said. “Right, kimono fits, barely, which is the best way. Now for the appliances. We need to scrounge…which here means by cell phone. Do you know anybody at the con at all that you can borrow stuff from?”

  “Just Folsom,” Doris said.

  “He’s not going to have makeup, trust me.”

  “And…Mandy. She’s one of his friends.”

  “Mandy will have makeup. Right…”

  * * *

  “Quite a change, I like it,” Mandy said, as Anita let her in the room. “I brought what I could scrounge up. You want to go full geisha?”

  While Anita had been running down makeup and “appliances,” Doris had been working on slippers. Bran had a very old but sturdy sewing machine. By taking several layers of cloth and, yes, hot-gluing them together, she got a sole for the slippers strong enough to last at least the evening. The uppers were easy enough to sew, then she attached them to the sole with more hot glue. They probably wouldn’t last more than a day, but that was all she needed.

  By the time she was finished with the slippers, Anita, Mandy and her daughter Traxa had fixed up a set of bobby pins into “jeweled pins” by gluing—superglue this time—plastic “gems” onto the ends.

  “Now for the mask,” Anita said, pulling a cheap mask out of a bin.

  “That’s not going to go with the outfit,” Mandy pointed out.

  “Absolutely not,” Anita said. “Give me that hot-glue gun and the dragon brooch.”

  Traxa was wearing a metal dragon brooch that was about six inches long. Anita first, gently and over some protest, heated it up then laid it into a styrofoam form that looked as if it had once been used as packing material. The brooch left a nearly perfect impression of the dragon, which she touched up with the tip of the hot-glue gun. When it was done, she filled the mold with more hot glue.

  “And now we wait a few minutes for it to cool,” Anita said. “Okay, we’ve got pins, the kimono…Anything else?”

  “I think I should wear this,” Doris said, digging into the bottom of her pack and pulling out the metal pin of the woman in the chariot.

  “Interesting,” Anita said, examining the pin. “Nice craftsmanship. Doesn’t really go with the outfit, but if we use it to pin up your hair it will be less noticeable. Okay, hot glue’s done enough.”

  She removed the still-warm form and held it up.

  “Voila, one dragon mask.”

  “I don’t get it,” Traxa said.

  Traxa was a taller, teenage version of her mother, wearing a black bodice, black leather wings and demon horns. Doris had already determined that the outfit matched the personality. “Friendly as a prickly pear” were the words that came to mind.

  Anita laid more glue onto the paper mask then pressed the dragon onto it.

  “Now to form it,” she said. “Put it on.”

  The glue was still warm, hot even, but Doris dutifully put it on.

  “We gently form it to the face,” Anita said, pressing down carefully on the still-malleable glue, “and we now have a form-fitted dragon mask to go with the kimono.”

  “A hot-glue dragon mask,” Traxa said, shrugging. “It’s ugly.”

  “And we take it off,” Anita said, sharply, “and put it on a dummy. Then we spray glue it,” she continued, spraying the mask and, incidentally, the dummy, “then we cover it in gold glitter.”

  When complete, the mask was a gorgeous replica of a golden dragon that fit Doris’s face as if made for it. Which it was.

  “Total cost? Maybe three dollars,” Anita said. “And it’s pretty much the same thing a Hollywood costumer would make for a TV show. They might use foam latex instead of hot glue but the principle is the same, and the outcome, for an appliance like this, is about the same.”

  “I never would have thought of that,” Mandy admitted.

  “That’s because you haven’t been doing this for years,” Anita said.

  “And I’m not
a hot-glue addict,” Mandy pointed out.

  “Agreed. So, we have kimono, slippers, mask, pins and a nice barrette. I think you are set.”

  “Except for makeup and posture,” Mandy said, pulling out a large box. “And that is my job.”

  When she was done, Doris was the perfect model of a Japanese geisha. With red hair.

  “I camp moob my pace,” Doris said.

  “That’s the point of the makeup,” Mandy said. “Geisha smile very minimally but continuously. No teeth, they generally had awful teeth. They barely part their lips to speak. Don’t try it, just pose and look beautiful. Speaking of posing, we need to work on your body language. Small, dainty steps. Hands folded. Head tilted…”

  Over the next thirty minutes Doris was given a crash course in presentation as a geisha.

  “Tis is s’upid,” Doris said.

  “Beee the geisha,” Anita said, waving fingers in her face. “Liiive the geisha.”

  “You look like a Japanese hooker,” Traxa said.

  “That’s what a geisha is, sort of,” Anita replied.

  “Traditionally geisha were considered far too valuable to actually engage in sex,” Mandy argued. “The level of training they went through meant that their managers weren’t about to risk them getting pregnant and unable to work.”

  “Tea-house girl, then,” Anita said.

  “Okay, tea-house girl,” Mandy agreed. “More the look, anyway.”

  “Wha’ ’re ’u ’alking abou’?”

  “Think of yourself as a Japanese hooker trying to act like she’s an important lady so she can get higher tips,” Traxa said.

  “’Kay,” Doris said. “Not.”

  “Attitude adjustment,” Anita said. “You want to do the Dawn or not?”

  “Yes,” Doris said.

  “With this outfit, you get to be the little wallflower and get noticed,” Anita said. “Being noticed while still a wallflower is the essence of geisha. And when you put your street clothes back on, between the makeup and the mask, nobody will know it was you. So get out there and strut it, Doris.”

  “Well, not strut,” Mandy said. “Geisha never strut. Tea-house girls don’t either.”

  “Metaphorically speaking,” Anita said. “I have a late panel so I got to get going.”

  “And I have an eighteen-or-older party to attend,” Mandy said. “But you need a con-buddy. So…Traxa is going to be your con-buddy tonight.”

  “Says who?” Traxa snarled. “I wanted to go over to the Hyatt lobby.”

  “Says yo’ mama,” Mandy snapped. “That way I know you’re not getting into too much trouble. Which is way possible in the Hyatt. Stick to the Hilton. All the serious costumers are over here, anyway, along with the serious picture-takers. You two…don’t really match, but you mismatch well. I bet you get pictures taken of you galore.”

  “I don’t want pictures taken of me,” Traxa said. “Damned perverts.”

  “Then tell them no pictures,” Mandy said. “Seriously. You are going to con-buddy with Doris tonight. End of story.”

  “In another week you won’t be able to take that tone,” Traxa promised.

  “I know,” Mandy said, sighing. “But that’s in another week. Tonight you are going to con-buddy with Doris.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Traxa snapped. “Okay, Doris, ready to go?”

  “’Ure,” Doris said. “Af’er ’u.”

  * * *

  “You know,” Sharice said, “if we could wait until the last day of the con we could probably get a big discount on some of this stuff.”

  Half the booths in the Exhibitors Hall had some manner of “sharp, pointy things” but most of them were cheap fantasy blades. Hjalmar normally made his own weapons and armor, but he couldn’t exactly do that on the astral plane, no matter how much it looked like “reality.” Thus he had to buy some. However, having made weapons a good part of his adult life, he knew what to look for and from whom. Cheap junk fantasy blades from China were not on his shopping list. On the other hand…

  “I can’t believe that there’s a Forged Steel outlet on the astral plane,” he whispered, perusing the weapons and armor on display.

  Forged Steel was a well-known company in the mundane world among people who collected sharp, pointy things. And the guy running the booth was the spitting image of the mundane partner who normally sold at conventions.

  “Do I know you?” the man asked as Hjalmar hefted an authentic Frankish throwing axe.

  “I think I might have seen you around,” Hjalmar admitted. “Svar Kellogg, right?”

  “Yes,” Svar said, smiling. A tall man with black hair and a widow’s peak, he had the build and cut of a guy who seriously worked out every single day, and a faintly Slavic accent. “I can’t place the name, but if I remember correctly…Asatru, right? Sorry if…”

  “No, that’s me. Hjalmar.”

  “That’s right,” Svar said, nodding. “You got a tower-shield from me a couple of years ago.”

  “Great shield,” Hjalmar said, grinning. “Surprised you remember.”

  “Custom shields are rare,” Svar said. “Custom shields sized for a guy who’s nearly two meters are rarer. Enjoying the con?”

  “So far it’s been…interesting,” Hjalmar remarked. “Thing is, I’ve got a need to do full Viking costume for most of the con. Problem is…”

  “I make a lot of money,” Svar said, smiling. “Well, let’s see what we can do to shave my profits without putting me in the poorhouse.”

  The negotiations went on until after the Exhibitors Hall was closed, but finally they got down to a price that Hjalmar and Sharice could afford.

  In the end he got a buckler, a seax, a mail shirt, and a Norman helmet with nose-piece; tunic, and trous. The kicker was the main weapon.

  “I dearly love this hand-and-a-half,” Hjalmar said, hefting the nearly five-foot-long sword. Contrary to myth, the sword was not particularly heavy, barely four pounds. But in use, due to its length, most people used two hands. With Hjalmar’s height and strength he could easily wield it with one and still use his shield. “But it’s just as dearly priced.”

  “Not much more than the Beowulf, and it comes with the baldric,” Svar pointed out.

  “This is getting way over five hundred,” Sharice pointed out. “Are we sure we’re going to need this?”

  “If I need it, you’re going to want me to have it,” Hjalmar replied.

  “Point,” Sharice said. “In for a penny. Get it all.”

  “Done,” Hjalmar said. “And there’s no way I can carry it all in my hands. Got a changing room?”

  “In the back.”

  * * *

  “Ah, that’s more like it,” Hjalmar said was he walked out of the back. With the exception of the sword, which wasn’t quite period, and his work boots, he was now the model of a Viking soldier.

  “Remember to keep it peace bonded,” Svar said, handing over some red cords. “You can have the cords gratis.”

  “Thank you so much,” Sharice said, smiling and considering the considerable sum of money—power, in other words—she’d just transferred. “Can we go now?”

  * * *

  Drakon was tapping his foot impatiently when the two got back.

  “No luck?” Sharice asked.

  “Lots of redheads,” Drakon said. “No Janea. Nice threads.”

  “Thanks,” Hjalmar said as a large black man in a Blade costume stopped by him and looked him up and down.

  “Everything okay, friend?” Hjalmar said, blandly.

  The man looked him up and down again, snorted faintly, and walked across the street towards the Marriott.

  “What was that all about?” Drakon asked.

  “I have no idea,” Hjalmar said.

  “And why do I think I recognize him?” Sharice asked. “I think I’d remember a guy that big and that black. Seven feet of pure Nubian is memorable. But I’d swear I recognize him.”

  “Me, too,” Hjalmar admitted. “But whatever.
I feel I can stand sentry peacefully now.”

  “You look anything but peaceful,” Sharice pointed out. The sun was starting to go down and she wondered how long they should keep up the stakeout. “We’ll stay until local time of midnight, then meet up in the Hyatt bar. Hjalmar…”

  “I’ll take over sentry duty again,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got some bottled water.”

  “I’ll bring you a sandwich, man,” Drakon said. “After that I’m going to cruise through the Hyatt again. Janea’s going to be making a splash one way or another.”

  “Even with all these redheads she has got to stand out,” Sharice said as another one walked by in the “thermal bandages” outfit from the movie The Fifth Element. “I’m almost positive.”

  * * *

  “Are you hiding?”

  The person asking the question was a short, slightly plump brunette who was maybe twenty. She was in a beautiful blue-and-black pirate outfit complete with a massive hat.

  “Sort of,” Doris said. Traxa had said she had to go “talk to somebody” and had disappeared nearly an hour before. Since then Doris had been watching the goings-on from halfway behind a potted plant.

  The lobby of the Hilton was the venue of choice for serious costumers. While more people gathered in the Hyatt in the evenings to show off their costumes, and bodies, the Hilton was where the people who cared primarily about their costumes tended to gather. And the amount of photography occasionally rivaled an assault by paparazzi. The current favorite was a guy in a very authentic Spiderman outfit who was just about a dead ringer for the actor in the movie. He had about twenty people taking pictures of him at a time.

  “You can come out, it’s okay,” the girl said. “Nobody bites. Not here, anyway. They do in the Hyatt sometimes.”

  “Really?” Doris asked, taking a tentative step out. Making up your mind to go out in public in what amounted to a very tight, nearly paper-thin robe was one thing. Doing it had turned out to be another.

  “Some of the girls can be real bitches, if you’ll pardon my language, if they think you’re getting more attention than they are,” the girl said. “I’m Daphne.”

  “Doris,” Doris said, shaking her hand. “That is a gorgeous pirate costume. You must have worked on it for months.”