Gareth recognized the type of room, but this wasn’t the same one he had visited with Morty and Xiomber. That had been a tower on the other side of town, if he remembered the layout of the streets correctly. It had all been culture shock at the time, and then meeting Keelee and getting tasted by a Grace for the first time.
He still shivered at that memory. Grace were weird, with tentacles instead of hair and vertically-slitted eyes, like a Nari, but otherwise could pass as a human, if they wore a hood.
But those tentacles…
What must it be like to be able to smell, taste, and touch with dozens of acutely-sensitive fingers at the same time? No wonder they all seemed to grow up to be artists, to live in a world that rich with sensory input.
Gareth had followed Baker into the room. It was big. Twenty meters on a side, with five meter ceilings, which was rare, even for Vanir offices. Two sofas on one side. A triple-mirror on the other.
This only differed from Jorghen’s shop in that there was an desk with a computer console making the third point of a triangle. And a young Grace officer operating it. He looked up with a smile as they entered.
“Constable Baker,” he nodded. “What can I do for you today?”
“Explorer Dankworth needs to go undercover, here in Londra,” she said, gesturing for Gareth to walk closer to the man. “I need him to look like a mid-range punk, capable of fitting in with a party crowd while still looking like a tough guy. He’ll be armed, so put an ankle holster into the mix.”
“Fop or grinder?” the man asked, losing Gareth in the process. “Londra’s nightlife is running down those two paths, this year. By next year, historical reenactments will be the rage, according to the fashion designers I’m in touch with.”
Baker surprised Gareth by turning to study him, green eyes squinted in appraisal.
“Let’s go grinder, right now,” she replied. “But keep his measurements in the system in case we need to kick him out a second outfit on the fly.”
“Will do,” the Grace officer said. “Explorer, if you could move to the scanners?”
Gareth complied. Unlike Joghen’s system, this one didn’t have the light at the top that apparently looked inside his brain.
Gareth stopped and turned to the officer.
“Last time, there was a light,” he said, rapping on the top of the center mirror. “Right here.”
“You’ve done this before?” Baker was suddenly standing right there. “Been hard scanned for a new outfit? Where?”
“Here in Londra,” Gareth said. “When we passed through Orgoth Vortai on the way to Hurquar. I thought I included that in my report?”
“You did,” she nodded. “But I didn’t realize that it had brain-scanned you fully.”
“Is that a problem?” Gareth asked. “He pulled the outfit I wanted out of my subconscious.”
“Do you remember the name of the place?” she pressed. “The name of the tailor?”
“Jorghen,” Gareth said. “Last name unknown. Never saw him, as his console was in a different room and we talked over the house comm. Tower somewhere on the south side of town.”
“Interesting,” she said, reaching for her comm. “You get done and I’ll talk to Grodray. Somebody might need to have a chat with this tailor.”
Gareth nodded, a little lost, and turned back to the mirrors. He stood perfectly still as the other agent worked his controls, until there was an image of Gareth in all three screens. Instead of steel-blue, he was wearing mostly black, highlighted with emerald green.
Black, shiny, leather boots came up almost to his knees, done with green laces. Knickerbocker shorts met them in the middle over black socks, the pants baggy but not jodhpurs in cut. These used a black and green tartan pattern with a little gold thrown in. Looking close, the fabric appeared to be a really nice wool, like a Scottish Laird might have worn.
The jacket was a blazer, sort of, except it had poofy patch pockets attached to the front instead of them being inside slits. Three buttons covered the front with a narrow lapel, but only the middle button was hooked. Instead of a dress shirt with a tie, he was wearing a black, knit pullover that tucked into the pants behind a brown, leather belt.
“Where’s the holster go?” Baker asked abruptly, bringing Gareth back to the job at hand.
“Tucked into the bottom of the shorts,” the Grace replied. “Accessible via the clasp that hold the knee hitch closed and generally concealed by the pleat and gather on the thighs. Are you right handed or left, Dankworth?”
“Right,” he said, watching the Grace type something into the keyboard.
Gareth stopped himself from speaking. If this was a grinder, what must a fop look like? He had been expecting leather with chrome spikes, or something equally outrageous. This was almost something he could take golfing, if he could get the man to add threads for spikes to the bottom of the boots.
And he looked good.
But the best part was the new beret. It was huge, almost a tam-o-shanter in size, done in a coarse, black wool, with a gold medallion on the left side and a pair of feathers poking up that looked like they came from Stellar’s Jays, bright, fierce blue.
“You like?” Baker asked, suddenly standing right next to him.
“I do,” Gareth replied honestly. “Rugged but distinguished. I could wear that outfit many places without being self-conscious.”
“Good,” she smiled wickedly. “Because you’re going to be bait.”
Gareth suppressed a shudder at the way her voice sounded.
But who ever asked the worm how he felt?