UNCLE: Trumps, Messages, and Missing Amberites
Ziactrice
Mike nodded to Tom, and wiped his huge hands on a towel before
strolling behind the curtain in back. He shortly returned with a
three-legged painter's easel, setting it up near a wall and under a
skylight. Nodding, he then dragged a smaller table to sit near it. He
returned to the bar, pours a glass of water, grabs a roll of paper
towels, and sat both these out on the prepared table.
The few Patrons of the Place here digested these preparations with a
few rooba, roobas -especially since there was no sign of paint nor
painter yet. Was Mike about to paint something? He had played the
piano once, even when his fingers looked too big for the keys, after
all.
Then the door opened and a petite lady with red-brown hair entered the
tavern. The petite Amberite smiled, fielded a few greetings from some
of the other Patrons with her usual polite smiles as she strolled to
the Bar. Behind her laid a trail of minor consternation; Ziactrice in
a white smock, with her hair tied back? She was hard to recognize in
less than full knock-out, I-took-hours-getting-ready clothing. A full
sketch book, its pages new and crisply white with youth, was tucked
under her left arm in company with a modest aluminum box of rather
flat shape.
Mike gave her his customary twinkle of eyes and smile around his unlit
cigar, then he handed her a liter bottle of Coca-cola. That was not
her usual drink; she would generally have single malt whiskey and
water, no ice. The lady just gave Mike a rueful smile that widened as
the big Irishman pointed with his chin toward a table and chair set up
over by the wall. Her smile became a big, if more than a little
puzzled, grin. Her own Irish ancestry showed clearly in her features
as her face dimpled up, on a somewhat lesser scale than the barman's.
"Someday, Mike, I am going to figure out how you _do_ that." Zia shook
her head, knowing it might take a long time to make good on that
statement. She strolled over to the table with a very puzzled but
pleased expression. Giving up on the mystery of Mike's always knowing
the right drink and situation to have ready, she sat down her drink on
the table, opened her sketch pad on the easel, and then she began to
unpack her little aluminum box.
First, a huge watercolor set of paints. Remember those in school, with
only ten colors or so? This one unfolds like a bi-folding fishing
tackle box, with about six stair-step, hinged levels unfolding. Full
of marvelous colors, all looked a bit well-used, drips and splashes
here and there. Then a few of the Patrons blink, having realized that
Zia's large paintbox of about fourteen inches high, a foot wide, and
at least ten inches deep just emerged from a flat aluminum box that
couldn't possibly have contained something that size. The one she
originally had was only two inches thick, and maybe a foot width and
breadth. It is still lying there, flat and open on the table. A few of
the Patrons closest try to sit up straighter without being obvious
enough to draw Fast Eddie's fire, to get a look down into the little
metal container. Somehow, no one seems to have quite the right angle
to see inside. At least, not without getting up and walking over
directly. Zia lifted the bigger box from the smaller, taking care to
do so sideways so she would have room. Otherwise, she seemed
cheerfully unaware of the violation of three dimensional space she
perpetrated. She slid the glass of water over, got out a load of
brushes to lineup, then took out a fine weight pencil to begin
sketching.
"Pssssst." Some Regular in the back whispered quietly, "Where's those
elves that feed on artistic effort? Shouldn't we sort let them know to
come hang out nearby if she is going to do that? Or does it have to be
a master artist?"
Ziactrice frowned, and she sat down her pencil for a brief rest to let
her fingers steady down again. Looking around for the Lensdragon, who
was not hard to spot in even the Place; she waved to him.
The fore-mentioned Lensdragon was a bit harder to find , seeing as how
he was in his more humanoid, 6-foot tall, "Lens-T'Skrang" form at
present, and not his normal 21-foot tall one. However, his current
wardrobe -- his bright gray-white sports-jacket, a rose 80's era,
tab-collar shirt, an emerald green, thin "power-tie", a cream pair of
Dockers (tm) and brown cowboy boots -- helped identify him. He was
sitting at a table near the front of the Place, going over several
sheets of re-written information based on the Intel that Master
Sergeant Gawne had faxed over from the Arbitron Building in Baltimore.
Every once in a while he would make a notation with a wide-nibbed,
felt tip pen, in a small note-book on his right. At the same time, he
was nursing a Cherry Coke(tm) and nibbling on a Roast Beef and Swiss
Cheese hoagie. The first he had gotten from Callahan, the latter was
from the 24-hour Deli directly across Route25a from the Place. To
maintain UNCLE security protocols, however, both the re-written
materials and his notes were both in his dialect of draconic, which
Dhyrclhanc was sure that no one here at the time could read.
"Hey, DC, can I ask you a few questions, please? BOYC?" She had
already left a dollar coin for the bottle Mike had given her, but she
has a small pile on the table next to her as well.
Seeing Zia wave, the immortal, adolescent hatchling smiled, or he made
what one might recognize as a smile when you've got a beak for a
mouth, and, with a twinkle in his blue-fleck-gold eyes, begins to fold
up his things, sticking the folded-up Intel re-writes into a pouch on
the inside of the notebook. After placing the notebook in an inner
pocket in his jacket, he gathered up his drink and the hoagie and
moved them all to a table next to Zia's Easel.
The painting she was working on was quite small - large Tarot card
sized, and showed a roughed-in box for the subject, and the title bar
along the bottom has a horizontal black bar and the sleeve insignia of
a Marine Master Sergeant already there in pencil outline. He turned to
his favorite Amberite (say that three times fast...) and honored her
with a formal, albeit shallow, European bow and nod of the head.
Ziactrice put her pencil behind her ear as she rose herself, and
returned the bow with her own, Eastern-style formal bow of the entire
upper body, a respectful one just two centimeters or so deeper than
the Lensdragon gave her.
"My Dear Dame Ziatrice, for you -- always. However, as you can see, I
am already fixed for both food and drink but ask your questions and I
shall endeavor to answer them the best I can." Zia can still see the
traces of a grin on his beak and, as she catches the remains of the
twinkle in his eyes, he winks at her. "But, seriously," he says while
sitting down with a flourish, "What can I do for you?"
"Call me Ziactrice, or Zia if you cannot manage the long form, please,
DC? Only fair, I've never gotten the knack of your long name any
better than you have mine. Well. It is a serious matter." She returned
to her sketch, frowning at it in concentration as she made a few minor
lines. "You're stronger and more skilled with the Lens than I am. Do
you have enough jets to break through my last shields? Er, quickly? I
have a difficulty achieving telepathy at all, and a full two-way is
still beyond my grasp. Mentor tried, once, but could not achieve it
quickly enough to preserve the shadow around us. Apparently, under
enough stress, my mind's power to change reality can be rather
explosive in reaction." The Lensdragon knows Zia well enough to tell
just how large an understatement that 'rather explosive' must have
been; she almost flinched just recalling whatever Mentor had tried.
"Nadrek isn't one who works 'quickly' in this way, but I wanted to ask
someone of his level of skill before I went clear to Connie with this.
Not sure it is worth pulling in one of them, given the problems
elsewhere right now."
Saturday, 13 October 2001, 1423 EDT - Just north of the
Mexican-American border, Texas, USA
In a small, Spanish-style home near Refugio in the Valley, a hand
moves a mouse on Ziactrice's computer. The Hubble's screen saver
vanishes to show the ICQ Instant Message beneath. It says, simply,
that the sender is not currently online, but it came from one
"Mick17". Her contact list contains 31 Micks.
The message itself says, "Master inbound. You have about an hour to
get here and do the Cockroach trick for this Earth."
The date on the message says September 10, 2001. There is no sign that
the Mademoiselle of the House has yet made her return.
Dugger
Peter Eng
----------
In article <Pf8y7.732111$NK1.67...@bin3.nnrp.aus1.giganews.com>, "Dugger"
<dug...@blarg.com> wrote:
> So, which of the nine is missing?
>
1) There are more than nine Amberites. The title of the book is "Nine
Princes in Amber," after all. No count of princesses in Amber, or Amberites
who aren't in Amber.
2) Zia is an Amberite.
Peter Eng
den...@nolunch.zipcon.net
held forth, saying:
>2) Zia is an Amberite.
And here I thought he was from Pakistan.
You *do* mean Zia Mahmood, the professional bridgeplayer, yes?
--
-denny-
curmudgeonly editor
Money talks. Chocolate sings. Beautifully.
--"The Rules of Chocolate"
Peter Eng
----------
In article <eerksts5398np2squ...@4ax.com>,
den...@NoLunch.zipcon.net wrote:
> On Sun, 14 Oct 2001 14:25:26 -0700, "Peter Eng" <dorn...@yahoo.com>
> held forth, saying:
>
>
>>2) Zia is an Amberite.
>
> And here I thought he was from Pakistan.
>
> You *do* mean Zia Mahmood, the professional bridgeplayer, yes?
>
Actually, I was referring to Lady Dame Ziactrice Keenan.
Peter Eng
--
Here, have a nit. Your choice, each one in its own little box.
Ziactrice
> On Sun, 14 Oct 2001 14:25:26 -0700, "Peter Eng" <dorn...@yahoo.com>
> held forth, saying:
>
>
> >2) Zia is an Amberite.
>
> And here I thought he was from Pakistan.
>
> You *do* mean Zia Mahmood, the professional bridgeplayer, yes?
Grin. :) Nope. I don't care for bridge. Cribbage is another story...
Smiling,
Ziactrice