When it became obvious to both of them that she wasn't going to say anything, the staveholder spoke.
"We have come seeking Vixen the Slayer," he said.
After the last six weeks, she answered as easily to one name as the other. "Yeah, sure," Glory drawled in her hard-learned American accent, tossing her long red hair back over her shoulders and stepping back. She'd thought she was doing a solo act today, but it looked like she'd been wrong. Just like Christina not to give her all the gory details. Well, from their rig-outs, these guys looked like pros. They'd manage.
She turned back to the dressing table, reaching for her script again. If it involved strange men in pink dresses, she'd better actually read it.
"We have journeyed far from the plains of Serenthodial, through many perils, seeking you, O great warrior," the staveholder continued, stepping into the room. His companions followed, shutting the door behind them. "I am Belegir, and these are my co-Mages, Englor and Helevrin. We follow Cinnas the Warkiller, and I pray that we are not too late to seek aid for the Allimir."
"What the fu— heck is the Allimir?" Glory demanded, dropping her script.
"We are," the little one in the green robe—Englor—piped. Suddenly Glory had a terrible suspicion that this little delegation wasn't intending to appear on MTV at any time in the immediate future, and when she saw what Englor was holding, she was sure of it.
I will get somebody for this. I don't know who, but I do know that it will be very painful for them when I do.
"Look, I really love meeting fans," Glory lied, "but—" But how the hell did you get back here dressed like that without anyone stopping you? I thought Yanks were all paranoid.
Short as he was—even in a silly pink robe and wearing mascara—there was something enormously dignified about Belegir and his two companions, and weary as she was, Glory couldn't bring herself to step on that. Besides, in some sense she owed Belegir and the others: it wasn't as if millions of viewers had been sucked in by her acting ability. If the show hadn't attracted followers and a fandom, if people like these hadn't liked the show, none of this fame and fortune would have happened.
Take that how you like.
And anyway, how could it hurt her to be nice? This couldn't go on for more than a few minutes. When they were ready for her in front of the cameras, Christina would certainly appear to drag her out there and send this lot packing. And Christina had a ruthless streak to which Glory could only aspire.
"Okay. What can I do for you?" she asked, carefully stifling a sigh. If I find out this is one of Barry's practical jokes, my mate Bazza's a dead man.
Belegir drew himself up proudly.
"A terrible power has been unleashed in the land of Erchanen. Long was it prisoned upon the peaks of Grey Arlinn, until foul mischance freed it once more. Now it stalks the plains of Serenthodial, and Great Drathil is no more than an abode of shadows. We are a simple gentle people, without the arts of war, and we knew that only the greatest warrior who ever lived could help our people in their hour of greatest need. You are she."
Great grammar, Vixen thought automatically, though the rest had gone on far too long. "Terrible power"? "Foul mischance"? "Greatest warrior"? Oh, no, mate. You've come to the wrong address. I get PAID for acting out other peoples' fantasies. . . .
From surfing the Net, she knew there was a bumper crop of Vixen fan-fiction out there, most of it centering on unlikely encounters between her and Romy, but some of it indistinguishable from one of the show's storylines. And from the chat-rooms, she knew that there were people who took the show's slogan—Live the Legend!—far too much to heart. She'd seen the homemade props and costumes herself, and a lot of them were better than the real thing—or what passed for real in front of the cameras.
But how could she really blame them? She'd felt the allure of doing just that herself. It was just luck that made her one of the few who could turn her playgames into a living.
"I'm really sorry," she said to Belegir as gently as she could. "I'd like to come to your . . ." Convention? Asylum? She abandoned her search for le mot juste. "But I'm afraid I don't have any free days this year. If you want to write to the Publicity Department at Full Earth, I reckon Barry could . . ."
She stopped.
The little man was crying. He did not argue or beg. The look on his face was one of utter despair. Englor was weeping as well, and Helevrin's face was set in a stony mask.
"You're really serious, aren't you?" Glory said helplessly. Though the situation was implausibly weird, she found that she was upset for these people rather than irritated by them. She couldn't believe that such an open display of grief was faked.