“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.”