by Blaze Ward
Four identical Nari men, dressed almost as silly as the Pope’s Swiss Guard, defended the main hall from the riff-raff. The looks of appraisal sent his way were more along the lines of checking out the guy that had just walked into the wrong bar, to see if anybody really felt like doing anything about it. He had a head and at least one hundred pounds on the any of them, so they smiled.
“Ticket, please?” the closest one asked as Gareth approached.
He pulled the ornate card from an inner pocket and handed it over.
“Gareth?” the man asked in obvious confusion. “No last name?”
“That’s right,” he smiled ambiguously.
Let people fill in their own stories, Baker and Grodray and others had told him, time and again. That was the key to undercover work. Keep it all vague and you don’t have to track your lies later.
“Very good, sir,” the Nari handed the card back and stepped to one side.
And with that, Gareth was in the Great Hall itself.
Because of the Chaa, and their lasting impact on the culture, everything was huge. The building was an eclectic mix of Ionic and Gothic that shouldn’t have worked, but did. White marble flecked and striped with precious metals held up the roof and covered the floor.
The ceiling in here was forty meters at the peak of the low-pitched roof, with colorful banners hanging from everywhere and idly drifting in the breezes generated by open doors and the air conditioning system. The red carpet continued a four-meter-wide path up a flight of twenty, deep stairs. A Vanir could walk them individually, but anyone shorter would take two steps on each.
At the top of the stairs was an impressive bronze bust, fifteen feet tall, of a cyclopean Grace, tentacles in wild disarray and one, angry eyeball scowling out of the middle of his forehead.
Gareth checked the small placard at the bottom as he approached. He had seen pictures of the enormous head, but had never realized how big “The Art Critic” was in real life. Or what a lovely play on words it was, subtly tweaking all the artists in here and their fiercest enemies.
It put a smile on his face as he entered the atrium of the space at the top of the stairs, trying not to ogle the people around him. There were seventeen species represented in the Accord of Souls, and all of them appeared to be present tonight, in an array of outfits that left him too stunned to even comprehend, let alone describe.
Except there was a lot of skin visible, on both male and female, as well as fur, scales, and bark, depending on the direction he turned. Gareth concentrated on keeping his mouth from falling open, and headed in the direction of the open bar on the side wall.
He wasn’t there to be noticed, unlike many of the people around him. If pressed, he could only name on sight perhaps two dozen, at best, of the three hundred or so that would be joining him for dinner. Many would be offended at his ignorance, however unintentional, so he would keep to himself.
The bartender was a tall, skinny, Grace woman. Lanky and over six feet tall, she was probably used to looking down on her patrons. The expression on her face as she turned to her right to serve him was sour.
She stared at the center of his chest for a moment, and then leaned back to see him smiling above her. Her own smile seemed to emerge from behind the dour shell.
“Sir?” she asked, voice turning hopeful, after the gruffness she had sent after the previous victim.
“Red wine,” Gareth said simply. “The house blend is good enough for now.”
Gareth had no way of guessing which of the dozen bottles in front of him he might like, and wasn’t going to more than sip this glass anyway.
She overpoured him anyway and handed the glass up. Gareth took it with a nod.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, turning away before she pursued any conversation.
He did not understand the effect he had on women, but there was no denying it. Gareth knew he was considered attractive, but had never seemed all that impressive, back home.
Or maybe he just never paid any attention? There was only one woman for him, even if he might never see her again.
Gareth took a sip and meandered into the slowly-thickening crowd.
“No, it’s just hideous,” Gareth overheard two Grace, and older man and slightly-younger woman, well-dressed if conservative, discussing a painting that was hanging on a pillar.
Back home, art was something you observed from a safe distance, frequently behind a velvet rope, with the picture itself perhaps protected by a sealed, transparent container against aging.
But this was Orgoth Vortai, and these were the Grace. That was far too pedestrian.
One approached the painting and leaned close enough that a dozen or more head tentacles could touch the picture, absorbing a full-sensory experience of smell, taste, and texture to go along with the light. Many other installations in here included a musical element as well, so all senses would be engaged.
To allow the pitifully-under-sensed (the Grace’s occasional term for the rest of the Accord), there was a small table to one side, near the picture. Sets-of-three shot glasses held a red, an umber, and a green liquid: just a taste of each, with a number indicating the order to consume them.
Gareth stepped to one side of the two Grace, still arguing, and studied the painting itself. The oil appeared to be a land- and sky-scape at sunset, perhaps. Fierce crimsons bled up into salmony-orange and down into violets, but the over-all image was scarlet in nature.
Gareth nodded to himself and emptied a red glass into his mouth first. It held barely enough to give him a taste, but that was the point. Umber followed quickly, and then green.
One held the three in one’s mouth for a moment, swishing them around like a sommelier at a good wine, before swallowing. It was a complicated taste, almost sour at the outset fading down to an earthy sweetness after a few seconds.
“Mm-hmm,” Gareth hummed to himself.
The nearer Grace turned to him.
“Utterly atrocious, am I correct?” he almost demanded.
Gareth checked the image of the artist herself by leaning well forward, just to make sure, before he leaned back and turned to the two critics. They didn’t appear to be man and wife, although they might be of a similar age.
And he had absolutely no idea if the picture was any good. Or bad. Or how a Grace might experience it differently from a Vanir, or an Elohynn, like the one he saw over there.
But it didn’t matter, as the old master had explained to him this morning. Art was art.
Gareth fell back on the best line the man had taught him, for exactly situations like this.
“I like the way she exhausts her reds,” he opined breezily. “Refreshing.”
Both gawked, and then leaned close to taste it again, afraid they had missed something terribly important that a Vanir, no less, had caught.
Gareth giggled privately to himself and departed before he was called on to explain the random remark. As if he could.
Art was art.
He made his way to the next installation, wondering what any of it meant.
Showtime
“Seriously?” Morty demanded. “The Accord Ball? That bastard wants us to hang around outside like paparazzi for him, and he’ll mingle with us after dinner? Screw that shit.”
Xiomber shrugged. He handed the letter over to Morty and took a step back. Likely moving out of range before he got an angry fist to the snout.
Morty controlled his temper and read the note. Yes, that was exactly what it said. He and his egg-brother had tickets to the after party, while Omerlon would be at the banquet itself, being seen and famous.
“Hey,” Xiomber said to get his attention. “There’s another card in here. It’s for a tailor who owes the man a favor. We’re supposed to call him and get fitted for something nice, on Omerlon’s dime.”
Morty found that at least mollifying. Power, showing itself off. Omerlon was one of the power players on this planet. He was making that point, aggravating as it was.
But
it he was willing to throw in a new suit as an enticement, Morty was willing to be enticed. He had worn nothing but grungy jeans and T-shirts for so long he might not even own anything nice enough for a public event like this. So even if they didn’t end up getting a job offer they liked, they’d come out ahead.
Not that he’d be able to wear it in prison, but at that point, maybe something else would come up.
“Fine,” Morty groused. “Anybody we know?”
“Nope,” Xiomber said helpfully. “Want me to look him up?”
“Yes, please,” he said. “Don’t want to end up looking like a clown here.”
“More like a clown?” Xiomber asked serenely.
Morty growled at the Yuudixtl. Xiomber laughed and pulled out a pad, typing furiously with one hand.
“Let’s see,” Xiomber said after a few moments. “Shit’s gone really weird, this season, with an emphasis on flesh and glitter, if I read the guy’s brochure correctly.”
“We’re scientists,” Morty reminded his egg-brother. “We’re supposed to look like nerds. Dark and severe would be my preference.”
“Yeah, you ain’t got the gams to pull off an outfit like this,” Xiomber turned the screen to show him something a self-respecting Nari woman might hesitate to wear to the beach, let alone a ball. “We doing this?”
“Make the call and set us up an appointment,” Morty groused some more. “I’ll find us a place close for dinner reservations. Might as well try and make this stupid charade work.”
Seriously? They wanted a quiet, sit-down kind of meeting to talk turkey with Omerlon, and the man wanted a spectacle.
Were all the criminals these days turning into congenital idiots?
Dinner
“Gareth?” the Borren woman seated on his left asked as she turned away from a conversation on her other side. “That’s it? No last name.”
“More mysterious that way,” he offered, turning away from the overweight, middle-aged Vanir guy on his right that had wanted to talk about investing in art futures.
Whatever that was.
“I see,” the woman leaned a little closer.
Borren were even taller than Vanir, so it made sense that they would be seated at the same table, itself a foot taller than normal. And Gareth had only seen a few of her type, and only at a distance, and not actually talked to one, so he couldn’t tell her age at a glance.
She wore a headpiece in turquoise that sat on her bald skull like an ancient Chinese temple, as much as he could find words to compare it, looking at her. The species was apparently hairless, with spots bigger than freckles on their pate, as well as interesting color patterns like a giraffe trailing down all the parts of her shoulders, chest, and stomach that were naked flesh.
Which was most of them.
Twin ridges of bone emerged from the sides of the large, flat nose and flared away over the eyes, providing shadows that looked rather like eyebrows. Her eyes were simply huge, at least twice the size of Gareth’s, with the points at the inner bottom and outer top corners of an invisible square.
She wore a dress that seemed to cover her back and encase the long, giraffe-like neck, covering only the tops of her shoulders and her arms down to the wrists. White, flexible, plastic sheets had been wrapped around her thorax like an open-fronted corset, resting on her hip bones and coming up to more or less cover her breasts from the sides.
More or less.
The fleshy top of her belly button was pierced, with a ruby pendant dangling in the hole. And if he was understanding the physics involved, he had to guess that her nipples were pierced as well, connected by a silver or platinum chain, hidden by the open-front corset device, connecting them. Not a question that he sought to answer, thank you kindly.
Gareth cleared his throat, sipped his wine, and concentrated on her face. It was weird, but looking up kept him from looking down. The way she leaned towards him and seemed to flex her long torso didn’t help his state of mind.
“And what do you do, Gareth-with-no-name?” she purred warmly.
Gareth fell back as hard as he could on the training and books. Those had been for this question, but the role-play he had done to get ready had been with fully-clothed agents, many of them men.
This was…
“I’m a writer,” he offered, as blandly as he could. “Mostly magazine work.”
“Anything I’d know?” her gravity seemed to be off, or her balance. She kept easing closer, like a tide coming in.
“All written under a pen name,” he tried to relax. “Fewer enemies that way.”
“You must have friends, to get this invitation,” she smiled easily with soft, blue lips.
“Favors for important people,” Gareth suggested. “And I’ll write this all up tomorrow.”
“And when will it be in print?” she was almost breathing on him now. It was like dating that volleyball player in junior high school, when she had been almost a head taller than him, too.
“Who’s to say,” Gareth shrugged, using that as an opportunity to eke out a little more distance.
If he wasn’t careful, she’d be in his lap very shortly.
Not what Constable Baker had planned for him tonight.
Hopefully.
The steward rescued him, delivering a mixed salad and refreshing the bread bowl. Another one filled water and took drink orders.
Gareth had no idea what the salad was. And didn’t really care. The colors were probably fake anyway, or they grew pink carrots here. Didn’t matter. He used the fork in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other to defend his turf like the Russians at Moscow facing the invaders. Any of them.
The woman seemed more bemused than insulted. The man on Gareth’s other side was still bending the ear of the man on his far side about investment opportunities and tax breaks.
All conversation seemed, of universal volition, to subside for an hour, replaced by the tinkling of knives and folks on plates and glasses being set down loud enough to clunk. Salad was followed by a cold soup that would have been proudly served by any Ukrainian café in the solar system.
Gareth hadn’t ordered the main course. Apparently, that had been handled by whoever got him the invitation. They had selected the beef. He hoped it was beef. Now was not the time to ask. Nor was this the place. The sauce was lavender. And rather sweet/sour in the way of certain Chinese dishes he had encountered in his travels.
Gareth pretended he had a boneless ribeye in a redwine reduction, and attacked it with gusto. And it was close enough, with the occasional sip of red wine and some buttered bread in between bites.
When the stewards removed his plate and filled his coffee cup, Gareth found the woman on his left suddenly much closer than he remembered her chair being before.
“Diệu Ahn,” she introduced herself. “Since we don’t have last names tonight.”
Gareth shivered, but only inside, he hoped. That sounded like too much of an invitation on her part. Letting her hair down, although she didn’t have any, just exquisite, tiny ears and that huge headpiece.
Gareth lifted the coffee cup like it was a shield, holding his left elbow out in such a way as to hopefully keep her at arm’s length. But then the other patrons began to rise and make their way towards the front of the building, from the auditorium at the back where dinner had been served.
Before he was fully standing, Diệu Ahn had her arm wrapped around his.
“I think you’re one of those fashion writers that always goes by a secret identity at these sorts of things,” she murmured down to him. “That or a secret agent. What do you think, Gareth?”
“Something like that,” he replied evenly. It was even true, more or less.
Just not the parts she was expecting.
“Have you seen the entire hall?” she continued, leading him towards a grand flight of stairs he had ignored earlier, when he had been scouting the people more than the terrain.
These steps were more polished white marble, overlaid with a burgund
y carpet that bullnosed at each step.
“I have not,” he replied.
Gareth felt like a dog on a leash, or one with his head out the window, as she politely led him up the stairs. That she was at least seven inches taller or more, depending on the heels below that dress, didn’t help. Everything about her was turquoise and white tonight, except her skin, which was too pink to be alabaster, and those freckles, which might cover her entire body in geometric shapes.
Gareth really, REALLY didn’t want to do any math tonight.
The mezzanine was lovely. Gareth regretted not coming up here earlier. The view was perfect to observe all the beautiful people below, while keeping them at a polite and impersonal distance. He and Diệu Ahn shared the balcony with a number of other folks, some he recognized from dinner, and a large number of photographers making their living. Steward with trays came by, and she snagged them both glasses of what Gareth guessed were champagne, from the color and bubbles.
She giggled as they tickled her nose. It was a pretty, girlish, distracting sound that kept Gareth’s attention wandering to places it had no business going.
Pippa. Only Pippa.
At the far end of the hall, the flood gates had apparently been breached. A wave of species poured into the grand hall from the front, those people with second-class tickets to the after-party.
Dinner had been showy and self-congratulatory, as various awards had been given out while everyone chowed down. Now came the grand event. Everyone coming in with the tides had a camera in one hand. Drones were forbidden indoors tonight, and nobody wanted to miss anything.
Diệu Ahn still had her free hand around his elbow. Gareth watched her set her glass down on the wide, marble balustrade and reach inside her corset, thankfully below her breast instead of across it. She did something and withdrew her hand, reaching towards him.
Gareth nearly flinched. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but his mind kept seeing a giant spider in her hand. His nerves were apparently shot.
Instead, she had pulled a business card from in pocket inside the corset-thingee. Rather like his blazer had pockets inside, but his were empty.
