Princess of Wands Page 20

  “Well, stop by the Wharf Rats suite,” Kitty said, smiling again. “She spends a good bit of time around them and if she’s not there you might find out where she is hanging out. She’s very good about visiting with the fen. For the rest,” she continued, handing over a pile of schedules, “she has a couple of panels and a signing.”

  “Is there a LARP going on?” Janea asked, smiling disarmingly. “I like to LARP.”

  “It’s in the schedule,” Kitty said, nodding. “Underworld, I think.”

  “Oh, good,” Janea said, bouncing in happiness. “I love being a Hunter! It’s like I live it!”

  * * *

  “Goldberg doesn’t have a panel until tomorrow morning,” Donahue said as they walked down the hallway. “And the Dealers’ Room doesn’t open until six. I think it’s time for dinner.”

  “When’s the LARPing start?” Janea asked, seriously. “I’d like to take that side of the investigation and Barb might enjoy it.”

  “There’s a meeting tonight at nine after opening ceremonies,” Donahue replied. “So do we eat in or out?”

  “Well, I’m always up for eating in,” Janea said in a sultry voice, waggling one eyebrow. “But let’s eat out,” she added, more normally. “We’re probably going to be immersed in fandom for the rest of the weekend; one last normal meal would be prudent.”

  “Okay,” the FBI agent said, looking at Barbara. “You okay for that?”

  “For the time being, I’m just along for the ride,” Barb pointed out.

  “Out it is,” Donahue said, heading for the parking lot.

  There was a nearby Outback Steakhouse which wasn’t completely overflowing. However, they did have to wait. The interior was crowded so they wandered outside, despite the falling temperatures, ending up sitting between a group of obvious fen and a group of much more obvious mundanes, a pair of couples, the men in slacks and golf shirts and the women in informal dresses. The fen were chatting loudly about something that had happened at another con. Barbara couldn’t make heads or tails of it and she more or less tuned it out until the group got up to go to their table.

  As the last of the group entered the restaurant one of the women next to Barb’s group shook her head.

  “I wonder where the Klingon costumes are,” she said, cattily. “I don’t think they could fit in them anyway.”

  “You gotta wonder what they do when they’re not here,” one of the men said, laughing. “I think I saw one of them working in a Seven Eleven yesterday.”

  “Well, the balding guy in the leather jacket is a New York Times bestselling author and scriptwriter,” Greg replied, turning to look at the foursome. “One of the women owns a software development company that’s just short of Fortune five hundred. And one of them is an out-of-work graphic artist. I didn’t know the other three.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” the man said, sharply.

  “No, but you were talking loudly enough to be heard by everyone out here,” Greg responded, coldly. “Ergo, you were trying to denigrate them generally instead of specifically within your group. What I’ve never understood is why.”

  “Tribal instinct,” Janea answered, ignoring the group but speaking loudly enough that they couldn’t ignore it. “Also fear of social status. Maintenance of social status for a high status person is a full-time job. People like these four have status to maintain and these days they have to live in fear of the oddballs that control things like computers and information technology. Since suits can rarely figure out how to turn on their computers, much less do anything more complicated than a simple spreadsheet, they increasingly fear geeks.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” one of the women snapped. “I can figure out a computer just fine.”

  “Yes, but use the word ‘router’ around you and you think it’s something used in a woodworking class,” Janea said, turning to her and smiling thinly. “But primarily it’s a throwback to primitive society where the higher status got to eat the better parts of the mastodon. And they’d eventually get kicked out of status and end up eating the knees. Keeping people in their place was important for them. Now, they go through high school and college in a comfortable in-group and then, upon exiting into the real world, find that they’re dependent upon the people they denigrated in both areas. It has to be terrible for you,” she added with mock caring.

  “I hadn’t realized you were with them,” the man who had made the Seven Eleven comment said, tightly. “Sorry.”

  “We’re not with them,” Greg said, turning away. “But we are of them.”

  “And what do you do?” one of the women asked Janea, smiling but with a very bitchy tone.

  “Greg is an FBI agent, Barbara is a nice little homemaker from Mississippi who has somehow fallen in with evil companions,” Janea answered, smiling pleasantly. “Me, I’m a very expensive call girl. Don’t worry about me stealing your men, though. I’m far too expensive for anyone who dresses up to go to Outback. And I only do men like your husbands for free if they’re likeable,” she added, smiling happily and bouncing enough to cause a nice jiggle.

  Barb half hid her face and shook her head as silence descended upon the area. Fortunately, the group of mundanes were soon called to their table.

  “I hadn’t expected you guys to go picking fights,” Barbara said as the group left.

  “I shouldn’t have,” Greg admitted. “But that sort of catting really pisses me off.”

  “I’ve done it myself,” Barb admitted. “Trying to fit in to an in-group in a new school. Geek bashing isn’t really a full-time job for groups like that, they’re much more focused on cutting each other down.”

  “Maintenance of status in any group is a full-time job,” Janea said. “You can’t believe the sort of status games you get in stripping.”

  “I don’t work on it full time,” Barbara argued.

  “Hah,” Janea said, grinning. “Look at the way you do your clothes and makeup. I bet you’re first in line for all the school bake sales and PTO chores, too.”

  “Well…” Barb said, frowning. “I guess so.”

  “Everybody does it,” Janea said, shrugging. “It’s normal and human. The question is the way that you do it. You can choose to cut people down or you can choose to raise them up. By raising them up, or treating them like equals, you don’t really reduce your status. Their admiration for how you treat them automatically raises your status.”

  “Well, you cut them down,” Greg said, frowning. “I mean really sniped them bad.”

  “I’m Asatru,” Janea said, smiling. “It’s my job to do battle, even verbal battle, for my tribe. And fen are my tribe. I just got God points. Especially by using sex as a weapon. Freya should be really happy. Most of her devotees come from tribes that find that tribe to be the enemy. I did battle and I kicked their ass.”

  “I’m not sure,” Barbara said. “Call girls are automatically of such low status to people like that they can ignore you.”

  “The men weren’t,” Janea said, archly. “And the women will know that, especially later tonight. Trust me, I kicked their asses.”

  “You didn’t use power, did you?” Barb said, frowning.

  “Nope,” Janea said, shaking her head. “Didn’t have to, I have these,” she added, in a little girl voice, bouncing and giggling again.

  The rest of dinner was uneventful and afterwards they made their way back to the con.

  “Opening ceremonies are at eight but I’d rather skip,” Greg said when they were back in the con area. “Most of the time it’s boring as hell to everyone but the con in-crowd. Most of the guests won’t even show up.”

  “I’m headed over to the Dealers’ Room,” Janea said, grabbing Barbara by the arm. “We’ll catch up with you later. Where are you going to be?”

  “I’ll probably stop by the Wharf Rat party,” Greg said, clearing his throat uncertainly.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Barb asked, curiously.

  “
Well, it’s like being fen,” Greg said, shrugging. “When you’re in something like the military or FBI, you generally don’t want people to realize you’re into some of this stuff. I’m sort of a Wharf Rat, a lurker anyway.”

  “Okay, what’s a ‘Wharf Rat’?” Janea asked. “I’ve heard of them but I’ve never paid attention.”

  “Well, there’s this publisher, Pier Books,” Greg answered, shrugging. “They’ve got a webboard where people talk about their books and… all sorts of other things. The people that hang out on the board are Wharf Rats. It’s sort of an in-in group in fandom, those that go to cons. The outcast of the outcasts.”

  “Why?” Barbara asked, chuckling. “Completely lacking in social skills?”

  “Some,” Greg said, nodding his head in admission. “But mostly… fandom tends to be pretty liberal. The Wharf Rats… have some liberals but they tend to be into more old-fashioned SF and conservative. I hope you can handle cigarette smoke. And, I dunno, military types. They’re not very PC.”

  “I think I might finally feel at home,” Barb replied.

  * * *

  The Dealers’ Room turned out to be a moderately large ballroom filled with folding tables. The offerings were eclectic. At the first table through the door was a comic book seller and next to him were a man and a woman selling silver jewelry and other knickknacks.

  “Keep an eye out for moonstone jewelry,” Barbara pointed out. “I’m going to circulate counterclockwise.”

  “You never seemed like the widdershins type,” Janea said, grinning. “But… okay.”

  Barbara wandered down the east wall, checking out the selections. There were two booksellers, one specializing in signed and out-of-print books and the other with a vast assortment of newer titles. Barb stopped at the out-of-print seller’s booth and perused the titles as the dealer, a short, heavily endowed brunette, was completing a sale. Barbara hadn’t heard of most of the titles on display: being an SF con they were mostly science fiction and fantasy.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” the dealer asked from over her shoulder.

  “I’m just getting back into reading,” Barb admitted, turning to look at the woman. She was older than Barbara had thought at first glance, with fine lines by sharp green eyes. “I’m more into romance.”

  “I’ve got a signed copy of A Civil Campaign,” the dealer said, pulling a book out. “It’s SF, but it’s really a Regency romance novel. Lois is an excellent writer.”

  Barbara glanced at the price and blanched. With all the “homework” she had, she wasn’t sure when she could get to the book.

  “A bit much,” she murmured. “Do you have anything about necromancy?”

  “Hmmm,” the woman said, lifting an eyebrow. “Fiction or nonfiction?”

  “I’d think that anything about necromancy would be fiction,” Barb said, smiling faintly.

  “Well, there are books on the occult,” the woman replied, squatting to pull out a thin volume. “Mark Tommon’s Necromancy in the Western World for example.”

  “Got that one,” Barbara admitted. “I think I’ll just look around.”

  “Feel free,” the woman said, smiling. “I hope you find something interesting.”

  “Oh, it’s all interesting,” Barb said. “It’s simply a matter of time. I’m taking a course at the moment and I don’t have a lot of time for pleasure reading.”

  “A course in necromancy?” the woman asked.

  “The occult,” Barbara said, generally. “It’s part of a… church program.”

  “Ah,” the dealer said, her expression closing. “Christian?”

  “Not… exactly,” Barb admitted. “More ecumenical, I suppose. Thank you for your time.”

  “Not at all,” the dealer replied. “Enjoy yourself. First con?”

  “Does it show?” Barbara asked.

  “A bit,” the woman said, smiling. “But you’ll find you fit in pretty quick.”

  A couple of booths down from the bookseller a dealer had a large selection of silver jewelry in glass cases, quite a bit of it with moonstone. The dealer handling the jewelry was a “pleasingly plump” brunette with long, dark-brown hair, but on the side of the booth was a massage chair where a short, heavily muscled man was painting henna on the arm of a teenage girl.

  “If you see anything you like, just ask,” the woman behind the counter said.

  “Thank you,” Barb said, closing her eyes for a moment and running her hand over the display. She stopped and opened her eyes, looking at a silver dragon brooch with a large moonstone in the breast. She had felt a definite twinge of power from the brooch, but not necromantic. It felt… sad but not evil. “That’s very nice.”

  “Yes,” the dealer replied, her eyes wary and a touch sad. “I had a friend who died of AIDS. His avatar was the dragon so I made that in his memory.”

  “I see,” Barbara said, carefully, unsure how to ask the question. “When you were making it…”

  “I imbued it with my sadness, yes,” the woman replied. “You noticed.”

  “It’s a gift of God,” Barb said. “It is very beautiful and very sad.”

  “It was designed to draw sadness out,” the woman said. “But I think, instead, it brings the sadness with it. Not what I’d intended.”

  “You’re a witch?” Barbara asked, interestedly.

  “A bit,” the woman said, frowning. “I don’t think you are, though.”

  “No, but I’m not a Bible thumper, either,” Barb replied, smiling. “I’m finding that there are many ways to God. Each chooses his or her own. And you make beautiful jewelry. Do you make custom pieces?”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “Do you want one?”

  “Thinking about it,” Barbara admitted. “But I’ll have to think about what.”

  “When you’ve got a design in mind, call me,” the woman said, handing her a card. “My husband does the design work and I make the jewelry.”

  “Thank you,” Barb replied, taking the card and inserting it in her purse. “Go with God.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said, smiling. “I will.”

  Towards the back of the room was a large freestanding booth just about covered in weapons, armor and leather accoutrements, some of which Barbara half turned her eyes from. The racks hid the center of the booth so she peeked in, letting out a startled squeak of surprise at the sight of the dealer. He was about seven feet high and skeletally thin, with long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. His arms were covered in tattoos so old and faded they were hard to make out. But what was especially startling were his eyes, which had red irises and a vertical pupil.

  “Contacts,” the man said in a deep baritone. “They’re contacts.”

  “Oh,” Barb replied, embarrassed at her reaction. “Sorry.”

  “I get it all the time,” the man said, grinning. When he smiled his formidable looks faded into the background. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “No,” Barbara said, taking a glance around the interior, carefully skipping over some of the studded pieces she suspected she knew the purpose of, and then stopping at a sword that was on display as a centerpiece. It was a katana, but something told her it wasn’t just a cheap knockoff. “Oh, my,” she continued, sliding past the dealer to look more closely at the sword. The price tag dangling from it told her all she needed to know about its authenticity. “…Murasaki?”

  “Yes,” the man said, sliding past her in turn and lifting the sword down carefully. “For anyone who can identify it that quick, I’ll take it down.”

  Barb took the sword in a perfect two-handed grip and examined the wavery light reflected from the dark steel. “Beautiful,” she said, turning it from side to side to look down the blade. It was perfectly balanced for her.

  “I found it in a pawnshop,” the man said, shaking his head. “It was just about covered with rust. The guy thought it was one of the World War Two souvenir swords. I spent three years rebuilding it, working the blade inch by inc
h when I had time and the right energies.”

  Barbara closed her eyes and opened her link, feeling for the sword. Then her eyes flew open.

  “This sword has a soul,” she said, softly.

  “The maker put his energies into it,” the man replied, just as softly. “That was why I only worked on it when I had the right energy.”

  “You can’t give a soul,” Barb said, looking up at him.

  “You can give of yourself,” the man contradicted. “The soul is ever refilling and the more you give of it, the more you gain.”

  “Did you put your soul into it?” Barbara asked, comparing the feel of the man, which was deep and a tad dark, to the feel of the sword. The sword was… remarkably neutral.

  “Not really,” the man replied, shaking his head. “I simply showed it that it was once again cherished and loved. It is not for me, though. Its soul and mine are not in full harmony. It is for someone else.”

  “Not me,” Barb said, handing it back regretfully. “Not at sixty grand.” As the man placed his hand on it, Barb’s spasmed shut and she grabbed at her head as a wave of evil seemed to wash over the room.

  “Are you okay?” the man said as Barb finally relinquished the sword.

  “Fine,” Barb gasped as the wave passed. “Headache. I have to go now.”

  She stumbled out of the booth and settled in a convenient chair. The wave of evil had passed but it left a numbing miasma behind it.

  “Barb, are you okay?” Janea asked after a moment.

  “Did you feel that?” Barb asked.

  “No,” Janea replied. “What?”

  “Our friend is definitely at this con.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was really strong,” Barb said. Janea had called Greg and helped her up to their room where they were met by the FBI agent. “It had a feel to it, like a predator. Like you look up and there are the eyes of a beast staring at you from a cliff. Not a clean beast, either, a horrible one. I think, maybe, he’d seen his quarry.”

  “Then we need to find him, fast,” Greg said. “Before he leaves with her.”