by Pam Uphoff
The shuttle swung by and picked him up. Black Horse guard driving, of course. He stopped for two other party goers and dropped them all at the main entrance.
Because even the casual party attendees expect to go up these famous steps.
He was early, purposefully, and sought out Koil.
The Newsie eyed him. "Ebsa, what are you up to this time?'
He tried his best innocent look, and got cynicism in return.
"I'm going to arrange something I'd like to have a recording of. And yes, I do realize that if it's newsworthy, everyone will see it. So . . . see that little niche over at the far end of the dance floor? Scope out how to record unobtrusively, and be there at . . . " He pulled out his dance card to check . . . because of nerves. "Three dances from the end. Scheduled for twenty-two fifteen. Something might happen over there, during the dance."
Koil peeked at it. "I just love these casual parties where you have to reserve a dance a week ahead of time. How many dances did you manage with Paer? Only four? And practically nothing else. Tsk! Poor woman is being besieged by, umm . . . "
"Everyone." With money, position, or power. Or all three.
"Dirty old men."
"Ambitious men. See you then."
It was a good party. Izzo and Xiat were there, Rael of course. Both women danced with him, and a few others he'd met. And Paer. Their fourth dance was the third from the end and he steered her steps to the far end of the dance floor and off the floor halfway through.
Paer sighed in relief. "My feet are starting to hurt."
He handed her down to the bench. Dry swallowed.
Knelt.
"Paer . . . will you marry me?"
Chapter Five
Parents and Politics
Koil's paper led with it. A full page picture of Paer on the bench and Ebsa on one knee, dark sepia overlain in huge italics in white "Paer . . . will you marry me?"
And below the fold. "Yes."
Other papers had pictures of them approaching the President. His beaming laugh and hug. And from comm interviews, Ebsa's mother's death threats, "If he doesn't call me before your paper is out on the streets! That Boy! No consideration for his old mother. I was beginning to think poor Paer was going to have to ask him! Yes of course I've met her, sweet girl, and so smart! Goodness, that boy of mine had better make her the happiest woman in the world . . ."
Of course some of the vid channels ran the whole half hour diatribe without cutting it, right down to the ending: "I'm so happy I could cry!" Which she was obviously already doing.
Ebsa heard a replay on the radio while stirring pudding in her kitchen, Paer perched on a stool beside him, discreet guards grinning or serious, depending on their opinions of Ebsa, prowling about. Eyeing the impressive array of very sharp implements with dismay.
Rael, as the local expert, had briefed them all, and was around somewhere. Probably being glared at by the co-workers of her brother-in-law the Chief of Police.
Ebsa waited until his mother had nothing breakable or liquid in her hands. The cleaver . . . well, minimal damage possible if she dropped it. "And of course President Orde wants to meet you."
His mother froze.
"He'll be down in two days."
"Ebsa!" She looked around in horror. "He's coming here?"
"He knows you have a business to run. I told him you don't open until eleven, so he's going to come by in the morning."
"Here? The President?"
"The newsies will take pictures, then the two of you can sit down with some coffee and pastries and chat for a bit. He's a very nice man."
"Here? The President?"
Ebsa got up and took the cleaver from her slack fingers and steered her over to a stool. "Everything will be fine, Mom. Orde is very happy about this. He knows we held off so long because of what effect it might have had on his last election. He said he was glad we'd waited to be sure of each other, and that if anything the attention would help his election."
Paer snickered. "I said we ought to be really sensible and elope."
That got his mother sitting up and paying attention.
"Oh! No, no, no! A young woman like you should have a beautiful wedding! A spectacular wedding!" She glowered at Ebsa. "So don't you get any funny ideas, young man!"
***
The President agreed. They put their heads together over coffee and pastries and started planning the whole wedding.
In the background, Paer leaned close to his ear. "If they start planning the honeymoon, the elopement is on."
Two parental glares.
"Humph. Obviously you should honeymoon on Embassy."
An emphatic nod from the president.
"Oh, One. We have created a monster." Ebsa looked out the window. The guards were keeping the Newsies back a hundred meters. "If any of them have voice pickups . . . "
Most of them did. Of course.
Grinning newsies pointed mikes at them whenever they stuck their heads outside.
"Paer! Embassy for the Honeymoon?"
Paer threw her hands in the air. "Really, I had no idea my father would get so . . . enthusiastic about a ceremony! And, and, I'm only twenty-eight, so there's no rush for children."
Ebsa sighed. "Of course our parents seem to have a different opinion about that. But there's no need for the Joy Juice, we're both healthy. All we need is the specific spell that turns off the rejection process. So, no von Neumann's, no aphrodisiacs, and no twin or triplet producing fertility aids and so forth."
"Paer, are you worried about your children, marrying a mere Clostuone?"
Ebsa sighed, loudly. "Shall we be crude, chuck our manners altogether? I'm a two oh one. I have all twelve insertions. A few holes. And I never did have any of the rape genes, so for me, nothing changed."
Paer squeezed his arm, and raised her chin. "And I am now a two ten. And I don't want those genes back, either. I'm a much stronger magician, and medgician than I was before. Possibly just age and practice, but I'd rather give up the numbers than the strength." She hesitated. "I might, before starting a family. Maybe."
A second's stunned silence from the Newsies, then a blast of questions from all directions.
:: This is going to go on for . . . months. ::
She squeezed his arm again. :: Yes. So we've got the worst out of the way. :: She turned her smile on the newsies. "When? Well, we haven't set a date, and the Wedding Organizers," She nodded back at the restaurant, "will no doubt have their own ideas about it. One help us."
Ebsa cleared his throat. "Surely we can organize a wedding in a few months. Perhaps the middle of Nicholas, so the primaries will be over, but before the frenzy of the end of the campaigns gets going and captures all of your father's attention."
More questions. Ebsa parsed out a general consensus.
"No, I suspect we'll be too busy to do much campaigning . . . speaking of which I suspect our bosses are going to have . . . some comments about timing and remembering that we're working stiffs and so forth."
Alone, Paer eyed him suspiciously. "Mind you, I like the fact that you're politically aware, but may I know why mid-Nicholas?"
Ebsa felt his face heat and controlled an impulse to squirm. "I've been getting a strong feeling that you want children soon."
Her glower softened into wistfulness.
"Well, the wedding will get your dad plenty of news time to start off the hard core campaigning. And perhaps just a week or so before the election, I mean, four months . . . We might just have something to announce."
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in a silent "oh!" And curved up into a big grin. "You politician! That's the perfect fit of politics and personal wishes, isn't it? I think a wedding in mid-Nicholas would be excellent."
"Now let's see if we can sell it to the parents."
Chapter Six
The Finest Wedding Money Can Buy!
"One With Each Other" was the most exclusive wedding organizer in the Empire.
They were utterl
y aghast at the thought of a mere four months of preparation time. "The dresses! The flowers! The cakes! The venue!"
Ebsa cleared his throat. "We thought, the garden at Versalle. And the staff ought to take this right in stride . . . "
"No, no, no! Not for the wedding of the President's daughter! The Grand Mosque is the only possible . . . "
"And a white wedding gown for a proper Daughter of the Prophet's wedding."
"Right, however fun some of the, ahem, local traditions can be." Madam Beut nodded decisively.
"Off white, dear Abbie, stark white won't do!"
"Good One, dear Coat! That was implied!"
Ebsa and Paer met each other's gaze.
"We will survive this." Paer swallowed, as if refusing to add "I hope."
***
Isakson glared at him. "You will wear the keffiyeh and agal of a Warrior of the One."
Ebsa paused, mouth open while his sense of self-preservation caught up with his tongue. He cleared his throat. "Of course. Umm . . . Paer?"
"I am not suicidal. Never tell a woman what to wear to her own wedding."
He commed the wedding planners. "Who is in charge of the groom's clothing? Ah, well, I believe I forgot to mention that as a Warrior of the One I will of course be wearing . . . "
Much horror in the voice of whichever of the ABC’s he was talking to—Abbie, he thought.
He listened in to the faint argument in the background.
“But he’s a Warrior! The first Warrior to have a wedding!”
Silence, then grudging acceptance.
"But the keffiyeh must coordinate with the tuxedo, and must the agal be that shade of green . . .”
“And I mean, Montevideo, the boy's probably a Catholic . . . Can't we just forgo the whole headgear thing? And what about Paer's tiara and veils? They'll have to be . . ."
“No, no! Just the greenery in the bouquet will be sufficient! Good heavens! You’d think these children wanted to elope!
Paer and Ebsa swapped nods.
***
Then the interview with the President's PR staff so they could issue an official biography of Paer's fiancé.
"Now tell us everything and we'll clean up the things that shouldn't be publicized. Umm, Director Urfa has classified this, so we can't go to the police about any of it." Nervous look from the two women. "Why did he say that?"
"Because of the very dangerous nature of many of my assignments I regularly carry deadly weapons, and umm, some Comet Fall Joy Juice."
"But . . . but not here. Where it would be quite illegal."
Ebsa eyed the nice ladies. Overprotected office workers. "I come and go regularly. Through gates, that is to say, in and out of the One World. So . . . yes."
"Oh. Umm, we'll be right back."
"Say hi to Urfa for me." Ebsa sighed.
Fortunately I never got arrested in my wannabe gangster phase. I can soften that up a bit. Emphasize the growing up in a kitchen, love to cook stuff. Oh, and the Doodlebugging. Must remember the Doodlebug races. And the street orgy . . . and having at least one child . . . One! This is going to take some time!
***
"It's not too late to elope." Paer's voice was a near growl.
"Oh One! What now?" Ebsa eyed his comm in alarm.
"They want me to diet and stop exercising. I'm apparently too muscular and healthy for their waif-like imaging of the perfect bride."
"Tell them to stuff it. Point out what a blow to their business reputation it would be if they made the wedding dress the wrong size. And tell them you intend to dance in it."
"Oh, let's not even mention the four meter train."
"Detachable. Treat them like giant rats. Make them respect you."
"When I said yes, I ought to have hauled you straight to the nearest priest."
"Heh. I ought to have done that years ago."
She sighed. “What I ought to have done is fired these . . . people . . . while there was still time to find someone else. I swear, they must cater to the High Oner Game wives, who want something new and fashionable and noticeable for their fifth wedding bash.”
“Ouch. That would explain a lot.”
***
"Paer! Paer! Did the wedding planners actually call you fat?" Newsies holding mics up to catch her reply.
"No, they said muscular. I pointed out that I was a Directorate agent, not a high society trophy. I just hope the dress fits the real me, not what they imagine my shape ought to be."
***
Paer growled. "And they ordered me to stop clipping my fingernails."
Ebsa nodded. "They sent me to this . . . well, I refuse to call him a barber. It would be an insult to every honest barber in the Empire. Thank the One I'll be wearing that kaffiyeh."
"Oh. They looked at my hair and sort of shook their heads. They didn't say a thing."
"That's ominous."
***
"You are pathetic." Ra'd grinned. "Do I need to show you how to handle the artistic temperament?"
"He's not an artist. He's a tailor who's putting on airs."
"Come with me. I will save you from the nasty man."
Ra'd's friendly hand on his shoulder shoved him through the door.
The nasty little man had a manikin dressed in a green tuxedo front and center.
Ra'd prowled around it, eyed the other cloth draped around the room. Lifted his nose. "A green tuxedo? No, I think not. A bit too much green for good taste. Let's go with the dark cream." He grabbed some cloth and draped it over the green monstrosity. Turned back for a scrap of shiny deep green fabric. "Dark green silk pocket accent. The agal can be that dark too. Wind some gold cords around it. Make the keffiyeh cream a shade or two lighter for contrast. Silk, of course."
The male wardrobe coordinator scowled but jolted down a note.
Ra'd flipped a limp wrist. "And just think of the striking contrast of red roses in the boutonniere. Darling! It will become the rage. Men will flock to you for elegant masculine garb."
The nasty little man paused, eyes slowly widening. "Oh! Red roses have been out for so long . . . " He snatched a bit of red whatever and twisted it up and held it against the dark cream, edged the dark green closer . . . "Oh yes! Time for red roses to return! I will . . . I will create a trend!"
Outside, Ra’d crawled into the back seat of the car and fell over laughing.
Ebsa slammed the door on him and walked around to the driver's seat. "So . . . don't you and Nighthawk want a fancy wedding?"
"One no! She'd have killed someone by now."
"You are so weird. Stone cold warriors are not supposed to be Ahhhtists, daaahling."
"Ha! Look at yourself, Daddy to Dinosaurs. Warriors had some . . . interesting hobbies." Ra'd sat up finally. "So. I'm afraid to ask what they are doing to Paer's dress. And I have to get back to work, so you'll have to deal with that yourself."
***
Ebsa stared at the computer model. Blinked. "Ha! Very funny. Now what are you really recommending?"
Indignant stares.
He looked back at the screen. Hadn't changed.
He kept his voice level and calm with an effort. "No. I do not care what the latest fad is. Pictures of this wedding will be shown for decades to come. Centuries. My wife will not be immortalized with peek-a-boo holes in the front of her wedding gown. And why the high neckline? You've put everything else on display."
"To hide her excessively developed trapezius muscles." Three noses elevated.
Paer trotted in. "Sorry I'm late . . . " She stopped dead.
"I've already said no."
"Good." Paer looked at the three stubborn women. "Are. You. Insane? I said traditional. I'll be back tomorrow, and I expect a traditional design."
She walked out, Ebsa on her heels.
"I am going to strangle them. I swear, I'm going to do it."
Ebsa steered her away from the limo and toward his car. "C'mon. Time for us to do some planning. And bring in the big guns."
"Your mother?"
"And my step mother. Those three don't stand a chance."
Chapter Seven
Revolt in 1410 yp
It was magnificently subversive.
Mr. Safron's two sisters were seamstresses, wedding gowns a specialty. Yes, in the shop next door to the tailor’s.
As Ebsa and Paer showed them the sorts of things they liked, one of Ra'd's geometric tangles flashed by and they made them back up to it . . .
"Lace in that pattern! It will be absolutely unique!"
"Over the bodice, with seed pearls and crystals around a deep scoop neckline. Then a high collar necklace in that pattern with pearl and crystal bangles . . ."
"A few emeralds to carry the green accents from the groom's agal . . . "
"Long sleeves. Raglan, with seed pearls and . . . maybe bangles there too."
"Long sweeping lines, short train, with a detachable under train . . . "
“It will be done in three weeks. We’ll call you.”
***
“And the company making the bridesmaids’ dresses had only just gotten in the fabric, so the new pattern was no problem.” Paer blew out her breath. “And less work, being so much less, umm, daring.”
“So long as Madams A, B, and C don’t find out.” Ebsa looked at his fingernails. Am I allowed to chew them?
“I told these dressmakers that Madam B suspected a spy among their sewers, so they were absolutely not to contact them. That that was why I’d brought the new design in person.”
Ebsa chuckled. “You are brilliant.”
Chapter Eight
Live Interview of a Warrior
"Today we are honored to have with us a Warrior of the One, born 250 years after the arrival of the New Prophets of the One True God. Please Welcome R'ad ibn Nicholas."
Ra'd walked out, trying to relax, trying to not think the hostess' toothy grin made her look hungry rather than welcoming. How the Hell did I get talked into this?