(B of C) aSG: The Ladies Awe-Inspiring: Tailor's Honor #1

[Eric Burns]

(Part A Precedes)

     The Tailor took a fast look around, then tapped another control.
"Juliana?
Please neaten up the library," he said smoothly, then cut the mic. With new
clients, you wanted someone you trusted on overwatch. The Tailor stepped out
and down a small wooden stairwell by way of the public facing tea bar.
Always
good to be seen by your customers.
     He was about five foot ten, and though he'd been thinner and almost
ridiculously handsome when he was young, he hadn't been young in a very long
time. Looking mid-thirties now, the Tailor looked almost weathered. His skin
was a very light brown with an almost red-gold undertone, bespeaking his
quarter Bwaha heritage. There were other xenological influences on
humaniformity, but the Bwaha were the highest percentage and interbred
with stock humanity the most easily. Most Bwaha ended up on the Station
City-States in Sol System after the war, so even after all this time anyone
who
looked at the Tailor would think 'Stationer,' so he didn't generally try and
hide it. His brown hair was cropped short, with a few streaks of what looked
like premature grey. He had one scar on his face -- a line that went through
his left eye, and the eye itself had been replaced by a smooth red crystal,
one
facet always glinting in the light. It took people a while to realize that
glinting facet always tracked the pupil of his organic right eye.
     "Tailor!" Old Vintner shouted from the bar. "Want to put a few
quidbucks
on the World Cup? I say Cloister's got it all over the Stationers this
year!"
     "Easy money," the woman next to him called out, laughing. Essie? Essie.
"Idiots are still in spin gravity -- the cup's on Hope this year. They'll
hook
every shot they try!"
     "I would dearly love to take your bet, Vintner," the Tailor shouted
back,
"but since I get these feeds before the rest of you I already know how it
ends." He winked, making his way along the back of the bar--
     He paused. There were young tea-crafters pouring and measuring out tea.
One lad -- 'Gritty,' they called him, though the Tailor had no idea why --
was
lifting a full pot on a tray. "Hold up, Gritty," he said. "Let me see
that." He
picked up the cast iron pot, uncovering it with his other hand and smelling.
"This is the Faux-Doomni/Darjeeling?" he asked.
     "The 'Evening Wakeup,' yeah," Gritty said.
     "Thought so." He moved the pot over one of the recessed sinks and
poured
it out. "You used the wrong water temperature and oversteeped. No one wants
to
drink boiled cabbage. Here."
     Setting the pot down for refreshing -- you only reused pots when a
customer asked -- he grabbed up one of the thick interim pots he'd made
himself. It was a ceramic canister with an iron core, nice and dense, and a
glassite coating, kept at 90° C for ready use. He spooned out the tea, then
set
the interim pot under the 88° C dispenser. The water aerated as it poured
into
the pot, the Tailor watching the flow and regulating it by hand, before
releasing it and setting the cover on the top, adjusting for very slight
ventilation. A four minute timer glowed across the glassite surface,
counting
down. "There," he said. "Warm the receiving pot with 93 degree water, empty
it
out when the brew is at ten seconds, then decant into the receiving pot as
soon
as it hits zero." Some teas you had to brew in their ultimate pot -- the
layers
of tea liquor that formed would be best blended when you poured from the pot
into the cup. The Evening Wakeup tea didn't need that, and the two stage
was a
bit more practical.
     "I know," Gritty said, a bit annoyed.
     "If you know, then do it right. Tea doesn't take apologies." The Tailor
pushed past him and headed down the stairs to Lower B. It was a delay he
hadn't
intended, but if people couldn't count on a decent pot of bloody Evening
Wakeup
when they came to the Teahouse then the Tailor would have to close down out
of
shame.
     Lower-B was only dimly lit. The different booth and table areas had
local
lights that looked at a distance almost like candles. The faux wood and
stain
of the building blended with the smell of different teas down here. The
Tailor
was proud of the effect.
     His left eye began to register the slightly darker hallway, even as it
went to active sensory. If anything unusual were to go on, he wanted to
know it
first. Information touched the edges of his perception -- ready to be
glanced
at if he needed to know more. He could see that Clemmont and her bodyguards
had
been seated in suite B3. He toggled the audio pickup in that suite even as
he
stepped through the service door for that side of the suites.
     "--said there was food here," Handal was saying. "There's nothing but
tea
on this menu."
     "They asked if we were here for tea or to dine," Clemmont said. "I
said we
were here for tea."
     "I thought tea also meant little sandwiches," Handal answered.
"Cucumber
or crap like that."
     "You're thinking of high tea," Handal said.
     "You're thinking of *afternoon* tea," Clemmont snapped. "And Terra, for
that matter." Clemmont didn't sound like she was in the best mood. "We're
not
here for the food. We're here to get work done."
     "And they're just jerking us around," Westergren snapped. "I have plans
later."
     "Your plans are contingent on my needs," Clemmont said coolly.
     "I know that, ma'am. That why I want *them* to hurry it along."
     "This that fluff at the shuttle port? She wasn't interested." Handal
sounded somewhere between amused at his junior and annoyed at the situation.
     "Shows what you know. We're already on. I'm supposed to meet her by
Gate C
luggage at sundown."
The Tailor paused in the hall, stifling a laugh. Handal didn't bother to
stifle
his. Even Clemmont started laughing.
     "What? *What?*"
     "Jesus, Westy. Are you honestly that stupid? There's no sundown on
Cloister. The planet's tidally locked, remember?"
     "Oh... well... that's... I know but there's--"
     "You may safely relax," Clemmont said. "There's no one waiting for you
at
the Gate C at the port." She chuckled again. "You hear about people falling
for
that sort of thing--"
     "Ma'am. Gentlemen." the Tailor stepped up through the door and moving
into
the table service position, a slight smile still on his face. "Have you
decided
on what you might like to drink?"
     "Wh-- oh." Westergren was flushed. Clearly embarrassed. "Um... can I
get
an iced kona?"
     "You absolutely can," the Tailor answered. "Locally, I'd recommend Port
Selkie Roasters -- they're about four blocks from here heading towards the
financial district. Would you like something to drink *here* before you
leave?"
     "Give him a builder's tea, sweet," Handal said. "Man's lived on
Gallowglass I don't know how long and still doesn't know tea." The older
bodyguard was cycling through the holostat, looking at the menu. "It's been
a
while for me, but do you have anything like Koshary?"
     "Any strong black will do. Something with a little bite to counteract
the
mint?"
     "Sounds fantastic."
     "And you, ma'am?"
     "Mm. Something smoky? Straight up with lemon on the side?"
     "We've got our Lopchu Pyrite." The original Lopchu Golden was an Indian
Darjeeling. The Tailor was particularly proud of the local equivalent he'd
bred.
     "I'm sure that's fine." She was looking the Tailor up and down --
appraising him, almost. "I understand that it's also possible to get some
custom clothing work done here. Do you have a tailor in-house?"
     "I know a few people who are pretty good with a thread and needle," the
Tailor said, brushing the bottoms of two tall, thick mugs with honey, even
as
he brewed two different black teas in those same canister pots he'd used
upstairs -- one a straight Assam tea, the other a blend of Assam, a
Darjeeling,
and a blend of mint. They didn't have countdown timers -- the Tailor hadn't
needed a timer for tea in generations. Setting the mugs aside, he spooned
the
Lopchu Pyrite into the receiving pot directly and poured aerated 87° C water
into it. Having been put into the mood for smoke himself he spooned a blend
of
Lapsang Souchong and Keemun with a hint of Ceylon into a canister pot as
well.
"What kind of ensemble are we talking about?"
     "Well, I run into hazardous weather a lot," Clemmont said. "Sometimes
very
hazardous."
     "Of course. Something to keep the rain off."
     "Exactly. All sorts of rain. In a very proactive sense as well as
reactive."
     "Absolutely. There's no reason to give the rain a chance to hit you,
now
is there?"
     Westergren rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat.
     "Is there a problem, sir?" the Tailor asked, even as he poured tea into
the two pre-doctored mugs. He then added milk to the builders' tea.
     "Wh-- no. I mean... I don't see why we have to talk around everything."
     "Westy--" Handal said, an edge of warning in his voice.
     "Oh, no no. Let the boy talk," the Tailor said, smiling. "But do bear
in
mind the house always applies a surcharge for rudeness to the final bill.
And
also bear in mind that after attempted intimidation and implicit threat of
the
hostess at the front, that surcharge is already at seven and a half percent.
I'm curious if we can make it to eight before even discussing
specifications."
     Clemmont frowned, slightly, but didn't say anything.
     Westergren, of course, did. "Seve-- fine. Fine. I'm sorry. Ma'am, I'm
sorry. I'll pay the rudeness fee."
     Clemmont snorted. "You should probably just stay quiet," she said,
curtly.
     "But--"
     "Westy," Handal said, softly. "The bill they're talking about now isn't
for the tea. For God's sake shut up."
     The Tailor took the awkward pause that followed as an excuse to set the
two mugs of tea in front of the bodyguards. He then set the cast iron pot in
front of Clemmont, with a dish holding two sliced lemon wedges next to it
and a
small matching cup for the tea. He poured for her and set the pot down,
before
pouring his own cup from the last canister pot. "But. He may have had a
point.
What kind of 'bad weather' are we discussing? And please, feel free to be
frank."
     "Even though you're recording?" Clemmont asked.
     "Even though I'm recording," the Tailor answered, his smile not
slipping.
He sipped his own tea.
     "Wait -- I thought this was guaranteed private! What kind of--"
Westergren
cut in--
     "And there's eight percent. My my."
     Clemmont turned to her junior bodyguard. "It was. And then you
threatened
one of his workers. And now it's being recorded. I'm okay with that. *Be*
okay
with that." She turned back, picking up her own tea, even as Handal did the
same. They both sipped--
     The Tailor smiled a bit more as the two paused, and looked at their
cups.
     "What?" Westergren asked.
     "Try your tea," Handal said.
     He blinked, and picked up the mug. He sipped--
     "...oh my God that's the best cup of tea I've ever had in my life..."
It
seemed Westergren's inability to keep his mouth shut wasn't confined to
complaints or demands.
     "It really is," Handal said, still looking at the cup. "Reminds me of
my
father's tea, only better."
     "Mm," the Tailor said. "I really need to rebuild the filtration system
from scratch -- there's just never enough time."
     Clemmont cocked her head. "Do you seriously have a metatalent for
making
*tea?*"
     The Tailor shrugged. "I think we'd call it a knack. So. Bad weather."
     Clemmont nodded. "Someone's trying to kill me."
     "An occupational hazard, I would imagine."
     "This is a bit beyond the normal pale." Clemmont didn't bother with
denials. That was a good sign. It was always easier to deal with the crooked
who didn't try and convince you of their rail-straightness first. "Heavy
plasma
cannons and hardsuits on the last go-around. We lost four guards to that one
and I just barely made it to the port."
     "That's some nasty rain all right."
     "Quite." She sipped more tea, then topped up her cup. The Tailor
noticed
she wasn't adding lemon this time. "We contract all our security through
*Madraí Caomhnóra,* as I'm sure you've gathered. They're good, but quite
frankly they're completely outgunned. We need that to stop -- and I need to
have more of a sense of personal security through it all."
     "I absolutely understand. Do you have some sense of who?"
     "Who? Or why?"
     The Tailor shrugged. "I'm not in the 'why' business. Either you deserve
their attention or you don't. Either way, it's generally nothing to me.
*Who*
makes a difference though. It gives me baseline specifications and gives
*us* a
starting point for negotiations."
     "Of course. It's someone... from the Station City-States." She was
looking
at the Tailor again. Well, of course. People might not recognize him off the
bat, but absent obfuscation it was obvious he was a Stationer himself. "Will
that be a problem?"
     "Innately? No. Well, if you've managed to bring Lady Awe-Inspiring 16's
wrath down on your head I'll be glad to try my best but she'll win. But
she's
so newly installed I can't imagine it's her."
     "Might as well be," Westergren muttered.
     "All right," the Tailor said, frowning. "It sounds like we'd better get
into specifics before we go any further." With his luck, they'd installed a
new
Lady Presumptive on the heels of the new Lady taking the Oath -- and the
Ladies
Presumptive were as brilliant as the Ladies themselves, only the Tailor
hadn't
kept up on any prospective candidates for a while. When dealing with the
highest known metaintellects in the Planetary Union, it was a good idea to
get
the facts down first. If it were someone like that...
     Clemmont looked uncomfortable. "It's the Paladins."
     The Tailor paused. "Excuse me?"
     "The Paladins. The Lady's Paladins -- whatever they're called.
Specifically..." She took out her comm, bringing up a page, then tapping it
to
the table. The glassite reacted, opening a holostat with some basic
information
and a picture. She turned it and pushed it to the Tailor's side.
     The Tailor looked at the picture. He didn't bother reading the
infodump.
He knew it already. It depicted a woman in her mid to late thirties -- tall,
like a valkyrie, with auburn highlights in her dark hair. Skin almost the
exact
shade of red-gold touched light brown as Tailor's. Green eyes. She had a
sword
in her hand, wore a deep red uniform in the old Bwaha style. It had a
family crest on her shoulder, and a sash in hunting Campbell tartan pinned
to
her waist. Over her heart was a modified Bwaha Star, with the center
crystal that indicated she had been accepted into the Lady's personal
service.
     The Tailor knew her face well -- knew it like he'd seen it yesterday
instead of long years before -- not that it would matter. She was at least
as
long lived as he was.
     She was Terrilyn Marjolaine Warden of the Four Bloods. Heir to the
Admiral's Honor. Princess of the Realm Nocturne. Knight of Realms Beyond.
And, yes indeed, Founder and High Commander of the Lady's Order of Lion,
Knight, and Admiral, better known as the Paladins of the Ladyship
Awe-Inspirational.
     "I take it you're familiar with her?" Clemmont said, dryly.
     "In a manner of speaking," the Tailor said, looking back up at the
businesswoman. "How do you know it's her?"
     "Excuse me?"
     "How did you identify Marjolaine Warden as being your persecutor. Did
you catch her on vid? Scan her genome? Did it come to you in a particularly
vivid dream?" He watched for her reaction on that last one in particular.
     "She didn't try hard to hide it," Handal said. "Her insignia on the
attacking ships, for one. Intercepted orders from her on back channels. And
yes, my understanding is she *was* sighted."
     "But you didn't see her yourself?"
     "I trust the people who did."
     "Good for you." The Tailor looked at the holostat again, then turned it
around on the table and batted it back to Clemmont. "Pass."

(Part C Follows)
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