“I am sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Michael said quickly, turning to Chris. “But—”
“Yes, it’s time for dinner. We will be sitting with Marcy and Stuart and a few of the other Americans. Let’s get going.” He led the way, with Michael and Stuart falling in behind him.
“It is like, such an honor to actually meet him,” Stuart whispered. “I can’t believe you’re actually training with him! You are the luckiest guy, like, anywhere!”
This time, Michael did roll his eyes.
* * * *
Marcy Teodor turned out to be a tall, solidly built woman with a crooked nose but beautiful, expressive eyes. She was elegantly dressed in a long black skirt and a cunningly tailored tuxedo jacket which gathered around her breasts, a perfect frame for the smoky jade of her necklace. She shook hands like a man, though, and ruffled Stuart’s hair in greeting exactly as though he were an Irish Setter. Michael felt suddenly grateful for the dignity Chris allowed him most of the time, and tried to keep from grinning.
Seating took time, as elegantly dressed slaves escorted people to the glittering tables. There was a subtle ‘cowboy’ motif in the formal service; and when people discovered touches like the wire-wrapped lasso which encased their napkins, there was muted laughter. If there was any sign of how the debates went, it was only that a few people seemed even more formal than usual. Men and women acknowledged each other with nods, and bows, by standing, and by extending their hands. Michael couldn’t even keep up with the messages they were sending to each other, as some men rose for all women and everyone rose for some senior Trainers. He saw Geoff across the room, accompanied by what looked like a knot of young people, some trainers, and some spotters.
When Ken Mandarin swept in, eyes turned, as she intended. She was wearing tails, with a formal white tie, and a top hat that would have done Dietrich proud. Behind her were her pair, wearing nothing but matching shirt cuffs, black loin cloths, and starched collars with satin bow ties. They were remarkably pretty—and funny, too. Just exactly the kind of silly costume that people expected to see at a formal banquet of slave trainers. And Ken knew it, too—she laughed her way through the room, pausing only to blow kisses to various friends. When she was seated, she waved her slaves away, and they took her hat, collapsing it in a flourish that actually got applause.
“What would we do for laughs without Ken?” Marcy said. But her eyes were slightly hooded; Michael could hear a certain tension in her voice as well. But before he could ask anything, he was pleased to see his new friend Tucker approaching to take a seat, with Alexandra on his arm. It was very strange, feeling so much in the center of things yet being in the minority, only part of the American group.
After the men at the table seated themselves again, Chris leaned slightly toward Marcy and said, “You know, there’s no need to be angry with Ken. You’ve known her longer than I have, she’s a good friend. And she doesn’t mean harm.”
Marcy harrumphed and watched her wine poured with a critical eye. “No, she doesn’t mean it, but come on, some of what she said was uncalled for. She almost accused you and everyone who supports you of being fascists. That’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
Chris shrugged as he laid the napkin in his lap. “I’ve been called much worse. She feels threatened. Frightened people often say things they regret later. I’m supposed to meet with her to discuss this tomorrow, and then I have a play date scheduled sometime in the evening. Join us. Bring your puppy and don’t let a disagreement spoil an otherwise good relationship.”
“My, you’re busy,” Alexandra joked.
Chris looked up at her with a mix of warmth and respect that Michael could almost feel across the table. His eyes looked tired, but he was clearly keeping himself focused. “I’m following your recommendation to socialize,” he said.
Marcy laughed. “Oh, you’re one of those all-work-and-no-play people, aren’t you? Somehow, I’ve gotten that impression from your reports. Tell you what, if Ken says it’s OK, I’d love to come play for a while. And Stuart here hasn’t been out in company yet, it’ll be good for him.”
Finally, Michael saw someone who could be as easily embarrassed as he was. Stuart almost turned purple, he blushed so deeply. It deepened the difference between his fair skin and fair hair. He cleared his throat and took a drink of water amid the slight, knowing smiles.
“So, I see the whole goatee thing made it to New York,” Marcy said, leaning back a little to get a better look at Chris.
“I have...a thing?” Chris’s pause was priceless, and if Michael wasn’t already feeling a little heat run up his collar, he would be giggling hysterically. As it was, Alex was laughing.
“Oh, God, yes—sometimes I think there isn’t a male in the Seattle area over the age of twelve who doesn’t have a little chin fuzz on him. Look at Stuart here!” She grinned and winked at the young man, who was now stubbornly paying attention to unfolding his napkin. “Yeah, there’s a thing all right. Somehow tied into that depressingly exciting music they’re churning out in basements while they drink their two dollar cups of coffee.”
Chris sighed. “I must admit I haven’t been paying attention to modern trends as much as I should.” He eyed Michael with mild amusement. “Coffee is two dollars a cup and I have a...thing.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as I make it out to be,” Marcy said. “At least it looks good on you.”
And that was something in which Michael could take some satisfaction, at least. It was just over a month ago when Rachel and Alex had both complained to Chris about his full beard, and Michael had caught him upstairs getting ready to shave it off.
“Don’t take all of it off,” Michael had suggested. “Let me do something, it’ll look hot.”
Chris put down the old-fashioned straight razor he had been honing and looked at Michael in that rare way that meant he was carefully considering it, and Michael rushed ahead, eager to be of interest.
“I can barber, really!”
“You can use one of these?”
“My dad taught me when I was fourteen, and Uncle Niall uses one, too. I can shave your nuts, if you wanted me to, without a single nick.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he almost choked. “Oh my God, I don’t believe I said that.” But apparently Chris thought that was funny.
“All right,” Chris decided. “I’ll sit by the window. And I’ll let the women of the house decide if what you do is acceptable, and what to do to you if it’s not.”
For once, Michael was confident in his abilities. With a flourish, he heated a towel, worked up a thick lather in the enameled mug, and went to work in a way that would have made his Italian uncle, the family barber, proud. He carefully trimmed Chris’s hair, thinking of the photos in the latest men’s magazine that he had been admiring. Chris had a surprisingly simple haircut, but it wasn’t the best for his face. As hairs fell around the chair, Chris seemed uninterested, the perfect customer, quiet and allowing his head to be moved easily.
When the haircut was done, Michael worked at removing most of the beard. He trimmed and shaped Chris’s mustache, and when he was finished, looked critically at the results. Now, instead of a simple parted hairstyle with loose curls, Chris had a short-top with a little flair—the front cowlicks curled up and then down again over his eyebrows. His slightly straight cut and deliberately longer sideburns gave his face more length. And the close-cropped goatee looked pleasingly masculine yet a little dandyish, too. It was all even, very precise. Michael found some gel in the bathroom and ran a little of it through Chris’s hair with satisfaction.
And when the trainer looked at himself in the mirror, he fingered the goatee with suspicion, but then leaned back and nodded. “You’d best add this skill to your file,” he said simply.
Michael lived for praise like that. It was even better when Rachel pronounced it beautiful and Grendel and Alex approved.
Admit it,
Michael thought, looking at Chris as the conversation continued.
It looks good on you, and you like the attention. Never mind that the little space-cadet brat sitting across from you has the exact same cut.
Michael hid his laughter with a fit of coughing and was rescued from explaining it when the first course began to arrive.
The meal was sponsored by the Canadian branch of the Marketplace. Not, as Michael had first thought, by the trainers alone. “Hell, we couldn’t afford McDonald’s for this crowd,” Benjamin had joked. “There’s only seven of us here out of maybe twenty-five trainers in all!” But each geographic segment of the Marketplace took turns sponsoring special meals and events in honor of their trainers, to showcase both their best properties and various cultural items of interest.
For example, the meal itself was arranged of dishes prepared by slave chefs from different cities in Canada. Sweet, fresh salmon with an herbal dressing, wild greens arranged with a rich foie gras, a variation of cock-a-leekie soup with a spicy taste from the wild garlic that was shaved over the top—each course had its home region and chef identified, leading to the beautifully arranged crispy ducks with Saskatoon berry compote. It was a delightfully decadent menu, but that was expected.
As if to compete with the food, the service staff was perfection itself. How could they not be? Every eye in the room rested on one team of servers or another at all times, watching movements, listening for sounds of discontent, pointing out a handsome body or a sensuous mouth.
Multi-lingual wine stewards discussed vintages while their juniors poured; servers of all genders laid plates down without a sound, smiled pleasantly but not engagingly, encouraging the diners to ignore them. Michael watched his table mates as closely as he could without being obvious. Alex, Tucker, and Marcy were comfortable with and amused by the service and the servers. Chris was rating them, when he bothered to look at them at all. And poor Stuart spent half of his time being delighted how things appeared and disappeared while he looked away, and the other half making the servers have to sway gently out of his way as he gestured broadly or leaned in the wrong direction. Marcy whispered corrections to him from time; Michael knew what they were because of the remarkably familiar way that Stuart realized how he had misbehaved, immediately corrected himself, and then fell silent in quiet self-annoyance. But it never took long for his natural exuberance to have him acting up again.
Chris ate sparingly, and as the meal progressed, Michael became aware that his trainer looked exhausted. He didn’t stumble over words or let his attention wander too much, but when he sat back in his chair he looked almost ready to let his shoulders sink into the back. As Michael watched, he realized that Chris’s reactions were slightly off, too. It was strange, to be sitting there and studying Chris so closely, but Michael actually shivered when he realized that no one else at the table seemed to notice. Even Alex, often engaged in a cheerful conversation with Tucker, didn’t give Chris more than the attention she usually did—friendly and slightly commanding, with just a touch of teasing. Michael wondered if Chris had in fact gotten any sleep the night before, and then wondered what to do about it. It seemed pretty clear—but it would be ballsy, especially for him.
In the slight lull after the main course had been cleaned away but before the dessert, Michael leaned over and said softly, “Sir, you asked me to remind you about your appointment this evening.”
The corner of Chris’s mouth tugged up, and he nodded. “Quite right,” he said. “I’ve been preoccupied. Ladies, Mr. Tucker, I’m afraid I must excuse myself from your company for this evening.”
“Busy, busy,” said Alex with a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chris.”
When Chris leaned forward to rise, Michael intercepted the eager-to-please slave who stood by and got up to take Chris’s chair himself. Chris nodded and said “Thank you, Michael,” and Michael felt a pleasant warmth in the words. “You may stay for the festivities if you wish. Please extend my sincere regrets to the Urquharts for missing their demonstration.”
“Thank you, sir, and I will,” Michael said, and watched as Chris slowly made his way out of the room.
Nicely done,
he congratulated himself, as he took his seat again.
Stuart looked at him, wide eyed. He leaned over and whispered, “You’re being trained in the old Anderson style, aren’t you?”
Michael nodded casually.
“Oh, wow!” Stuart slumped a little and then corrected his posture with a look of chagrin.
Michael decided that a little touch of worship felt just fine. He smiled in what he felt was an indulgent way, and then turned to Alexandra. “What do you know about the entertainment tonight, Ms. Selador?”
“A display from the Urquharts was all I heard,” she said, looking toward Tucker. “The animal trainers?”
“That’s them,” Tucker agreed. “Saw them settin’ up kennels in the back, so I’m bettin’ it’ll be your typical dog ’n’ pony show!” He laughed heartily. “But tomorrow it’s the Japanese trainers’ turn up at bat, and I must admit I am dreadin’ the very thought.”
“Why?” Michael asked.
“What with the sittin’ on the floor, drinkin’ hot wine, and eatin’ raw fish, that would be more than enough for me,” Tucker replied. “But you know what their entertainments usually are? Skinny gals in pancake makeup plunkin’ on long guitars and wailing like stuck cats.”
Marcy laughed so hard she almost choked, and Alex shook her head sadly. “Oh, Tucker, really. It’s not that bad. Besides, it could be much worse. They could have—karaoke.”