Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [80]
The hotel was an older establishment, nonchain, and not particularly large. Motioning for his friends to remain behind, quiet and in shadow, Jon-Tom performed a hasty survey until he found what he was looking for: a side entrance that would allow them entry without the necessity of passing through the main lobby. He was further relieved when he saw two couples emerge. One pair were dressed in medieval garb, a third individual was clad in the guise of a large alien insect with a latex head, and the fourth was wearing the silken body stocking and pale gossamer wings of an oversized pixie. Having met real pixies, he almost paused to offer a critique of the latter costume, but settled for asking directions to the party. Returning to his companions and explaining the situation, he then boldly led them across the street.
Mudge remained wary. “’Ere now, mate. Are you sure this is goin’ to work?”
As they approached the ancillary entrance, Jon-Tom replied with growing confidence, “I’ve heard about these fantasy convention masquerades, Mudge. For tonight, many of those attending are in full costume. They’ll think you and Stromagg are fellow participants.” He glanced back at the bear. “Try and make yourself look a little smaller, Stromagg.” The grizzly obediently hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. “Also, there will probably be food.”
The bear’s interest picked up noticeably. “Food?”
No one challenged them as they entered through the side lobby. After asking directions of a pair of over-weight warriors who would have cut a laughable figure in Lynchbany Towne, they proceeded to a large auditorium. It was packed with milling, chatting participants, more than half of whom were in costume. A few glanced up at the arrival of the newcomers, but no one appeared startled or otherwise alerted that they were anything other than fellow costumers. While Mudge and Stromagg surveyed the scene with varying degrees of incredulity, Jon-Tom led them toward a line of tables piled high with snack foods. Sniffing the air, the grizzly’s expression brightened perceptibly.
“Beer! Stromagg smell beer.” Whereupon the bear, despite Jon-Tom’s entreaties, promptly angled off on a course of his own.
“Let the bleedin’ oversized ’ulk ’ave ’imself a drink,” Mudge advised his concerned companion. “’E deserves it, after the bloody ’elp ’e rendered back at the first tunnel. I wish I could—oi there! Watch where you’re goin’!”
The girl who had bumped into him was dressed as a butterfly. There was not much to her costume, and she was considerably more svelte than the erstwhile warriors the travelers had encountered in the hallway outside the auditorium. Mudge’s anger dissipated as rapidly as it had surged.
She gazed admiringly from him to Jon-Tom. “Hey, love your costumes. Did you make them yourselves?”
Seeking to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, a hungry Jon-Tom eyed the long table. Food was vanishing rapidly from the stained white tablecloths. “Uh, pretty much, yeah.”
She eyed him with increasing interest, her wire-supported wings and other things bobbing with her movements. “You’re not writers or artists, because you don’t have name tags on.” She indicated the duar slung across Jon-Tom’s back. “That’s a neat lute or whatever. It looks too functional to be just a prop.” She gestured in the direction of the busy stage at the far end of the auditorium. “There’s filksinging going on right now. I’m getting this vibe that you’re pretty good at it. I’m kind of psychic, you see, and I have a feel for other people.” Her smile widened. “I bet you’re a—computer programmer!”
“Not exac—” he tried to explain as she grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. Mudge watched with amusement as his friend found himself dragged helplessly in the direction of the stage. Then he turned and headed for the food-laden tables.
Welcoming Jon-Tom, the flute player currently holding court on stage cast his own admiring glance at the duar. “Cool strings. You need a cord and an amp?”
Aware that others in the