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.”
