The joke isn’t quite as funny as he hoped. We let it lie, anyway.
With breakfast concluded, we make our way to the foyer. We still have an hour before Ahbni is to meet us, and after Elgar’s attempt to brain Pip’s nonexistent attacker with a lamp, it has occurred to me that perhaps my creator ought also to be armed for the coming confrontation. A trip to Artist’s Alley to find a replica or prop to use is high on my list of priorities.
The hotel stands on top of a large conference center that is two stories high and stretches the length of a city block. The second level consists of floor-to-ceiling glass—an unfathomable expense in my world, but standard urban architecture in the Overrealm—but the ground floor is clad in white blocks and tiles that create an interesting mixture of glossy and matte textures. The main entrance of the center opens into a large, paved courtyard bordered by a park filled with grassy knolls and potted trees. Alternately, one may enter the conference center through the hotel lobby. The center’s foyer is circular, a small glass dome perched above allowing a flood of morning light to filter down through the curved banks of escalators that curl up to the balcony-floor above, and down into the windowless underground storey below. A small fountain with a single jet of water that spurts upward like a playful kelpie’s spout on a timed interval lends the otherwise glass, chrome, and concrete space a grandiose air.
“According to the map, the upper level is going to be the dealers’ room and vendors’ tables, the space on the ground floor is for ticket line-ups and photo sessions, and the basement will have the food court, gaming tables, the signings, and the ballroom for the Q&As and dance,” Pip says, staring up at the poster hanging from the ceiling next to the main entrance.
Through the glass doors to the outside world, I can see that the convention is already setting up the long, snaking entry queues with black retractable barriers. A small handful of dedicated geeks sit or stand patiently a few meters back, some already in costume; others mill about, chatting, or playing card games, or chasing augmented reality monsters on their smartphones across the parkland.
“Great,” Elgar grumbles. “Another weekend spent in a lightless, airless hole in the ground. Looks like the Green Room for guests is downstairs, too.”
“I would much rather we were downstairs, to be honest,” I say. “Easier to defend.”
“But harder to escape,” Pip points out.
“Oh, don’t be a complete ball of sunshine or anything,” Elgar grouses. Pip chuckles and pats his arm. “Come on, I have to meet Abby in an hour, so if we’re going to go snooping, we have to do it now.”
“It’s Ahbni,” Pip corrects as we head for the escalators.
“That’s what I said.”
Pip groans and pinches the bridge of her nose as we step onto the moving stairs. “You explain,” she says to me. I try as we ascend, saying that it is impolite to deliberately mispronounce someone’s name, or worse, to “whiten” it without being invited to do so. Elgar looks chastened and promises to do better.
The security volunteers at the top of the escalator are happy to let Elgar browse before the crowds arrive, and we make a tour of the room, stopping to chat with artisans and merchants, checking eye colors and looking for signs of the Viceroy’s influence. I scan the high corners of the booth spaces for runes and spell bags, peek as unobtrusively under tables and within merchandise as I can. Our walk through the Artist’s Alley is woefully brief, and I take a moment to feel sorry for myself that we probably won’t have the opportunity to peruse it properly this year. Last time we attended a convention like this, I found a lovely, hand-embroidered bunting to hang over Alis’s crib, the artist’s rendition of my family’s emblem picked out in gold thread on Turn-russet brocade.
“I don’t actually know what I’m looking for,” Pip says eventually, hands planted on the small of her back, frustration twisting at her mouth. “If there are spells here, lying in wait, I can’t feel them. Everything looks fine. But I know it’s not, and it’s driving me bananas.”
“Here, then,” I say, pulling Pip over to where a vendor is laying out a selection of swords and daggers. The man is twitterpated by Elgar, reaches out to shake his hand, and shows him a sword he says he patterned on Elgar’s description of Foesmiter.
“And this!” the young man says eagerly, fumbling a sheathed dagger out of its leather casing and brandishing it proudly in the sunlight.
Pip sucks in a deep, horrified breath and backs up so quickly that she crashes right into my chest.
“It’s not sharp,” the young man scoffs at her. “I’m not planning on stabbing you.”
But it’s not the blade that has Pip flummoxed; it’s the hilt. It’s the recognition. “Chailin’s dagger,” Pip breathes, eyes wide and glazed with painful memories.
“Actually, it’s Kintyre Turn’s dagger,” the young man sneers, then turns back to simper at Elgar, showing off the glass gems set into the hilt, the intricate floral designs on the cross guard. “Fake geek girl.”
“God grant me the self-confidence of a mediocre white man,” Pip grumbles, but straightens herself and screws up her courage to approach the table and take a closer look at the dagger. The young man doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t protest when Elgar hands it to Pip. My fingers twined casually with my wife’s free hand, I whisper a Word of Revelation, but the dagger is only what it appears to be—a collection of glass, and steel, and wood, and leather. There is no danger here.
It feels good to be certain, to have access to my arsenal as a spymaster and, yes, adventuring hero. It’s not quite like having a limb once thought forever lost suddenly regrow on
