“Ard Ri will be acceptable, lassie.”
Knew this translated into High King in Gaelic, not because I was up on the language but because one of my BFFs from high school, Sheila, had been all about the languages, and this was one of the many things she’d told me that had stuck. Realistically and based on powers alone, Algar was a higher king than anyone in our galaxy. But in terms of the title, and knowing him as I did, had to figure that he was merely enjoying the joke of making everyone call him a high king, rather than feeling that he was.
“That would be Madame First Lady or Queen Katherine,” Vance snapped. “If we’re calling you Ard Ri, Mister Garrison.” Clearly Vance knew some Gaelic, too. Also clearly, he wasn’t pleased with this turn of events.
“Oh, but she said to be informal, laddie,” Algar said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Ard Ri Al it is,” I said before Vance could give the cutting retort I could see forming.
Algar chuckled. “That will be acceptable. Now, do you accept Algarria’s offer of a family of our most precious royal pets, or do you not?”
“I do.”
“And will you keep them with you at all times?” Algar was staring right into my eyes.
Not that I needed the hint. For whatever reason, Algar felt that I needed to have eight least weasels hanging about. So least weasels I would have. “Yes, I will.”
“Good. We’ll put them into their standard traveling coach for the speech.” Algar trotted over to the crate while Vance and I both stared at each other.
“Um . . .” I was again at a loss for words. Because I’d stupidly thought that Algar had meant keep the least weasels with the rest of the animals or in our bedroom or something.
Vance recovered first. “We can’t have the First Lady hauling rodents with her to the President’s speech.” He didn’t have to say the words “career death” aloud—I knew what the press would do with the idea of me trotting around with some least weasels like they were corgis, even the press who liked us.
Then again, I trotted around with Poofs and Peregrines all the time. The Poofs usually hung out in my purse and the Peregrines were able to go chameleon, so most people didn’t know they were there. Possibly and perhaps I could do similar with the least weasels.
“They’re mustelidae, Vance, meaning they’re a lot like the sentient beings from Beta Eight. Meaning that we have to be careful not to insult any of our allies, Ard Ri Al, by carrying around smaller versions of themselves as pets.” Or whatever they were actually supposed to be.
I didn’t say less sentient—I’d been shown quite clearly over the past few years that all the animals I had hanging about, both Earth native and interplanetary galactic, were all smart. They might not think and reason like humans, but stupid they were not.
Algar turned around, holding what I could only think of as a large, blue, velvet hatbox with airholes in it. “They won’t notice them, lassie. At least, as long as you keep them with you.”
I gave up and heaved a sigh as I reached for the Royal Least Weasel Hatbox Carrier. “Gotcha. What are their names?”
“Oh, they’re for you to name.”
“Of course they are. What do they eat?”
He shot a smirk at Vance. “Rodents. Among other things. They’re carnivores.”
“Just like all the rest of our animals. They’ll fit right in.” The carrier wasn’t too heavy, which was nice. Contemplated how I’d explain this to everyone. Decided not to. “So . . . guys . . . what say we don’t share that we have a family of least weasels with us? At least until after Jeff’s speech and all the rest of that dog and pony show.”
“You want me to lie, Chief First Lady?” Walter sounded unsure that he could.
“You’ve managed before, Walt. When the stakes were high enough.”
“How are the stakes high about this?” Vance asked.
“Wow, Ard Ri Al’s really thrown you off your game. Jeff needs this particular wrinkle like he needs a hole in his head. And telling the others is just a slight delay in their telling him. I can explain the Ard Ri easily enough—we’re appeasing, what, four hundred or so micronations by accepting their representative and allowing him to join us. He sits somewhere close to me,” because I knew without asking that Algar expected to be close to me for whatever reason, “and we solve a micro issue.”
“I see what you did there,” Vance said, sarcasm knob at seven on the one-to-ten scale. “However, if you’re expected to bring these animals with you, that’s less easily explained.”
“I’ll figure something out. I just think that, under the stressful circumstances, we need to kind of lay low about all of this. Until after the event. Then we come clean to everyone. Basically, we’re not telling them the full Ard Ri Al situation for about two hours or less. What could go wrong in that time?”
Everyone, Algar included, gave me the “really?” look. The least weasels were probably giving me that look from inside their Royal Hatbox. “I don’t think we have time for me to list all the possibilities,” Vance said.
Walter nodded. “This is a prime opportunity for our enemies, Chief First Lady.”
“Plus, it’s you,” Vance added. “Weird, strange, embarrassing things happen to you all the time, despite everything I and the rest of your team do to circumvent them.”
“I resent that. I can’t deny it, especially at this precise moment, but I do resent it.”
“I’m sure your fine Secret Service will prevent any issues,” Algar said soothingly.
“Speaking of whom, Walt, where are all my security teams?” And everyone else. I’d sent out the “potential invader” warning—we should have been mobbed by people by now. Frankly, we should have been mobbed by people by the time Algar had shown me the least weasels, let alone by this point. And yet, we were alone and I didn’t hear anyone waiting in the hallway.
Walter looked surprised by this question. “Where you told them to be, Chief First Lady.”
Other than the kids and the Alexis sisters, I hadn’t told anyone to be anywhere or do anything today. I’d given the “intruder alert” signal but I hadn’t told anyone else what to do. I’d kind of assumed they’d know what to do without my having to spell it out, since it was their job, all of their jobs. “Um, refresh my memory, just for fun. Where did I tell them to be?”
“On the Carpet.”
CHAPTER 6
THE CARPET WAS THE Secret Service term for the underground parking garage where the Presidential motor pool was housed. And I hadn’t told anyone to meet me there. But clearly Algar had. Someone who could make tens of thousands of people believe there was an active Operations team wouldn’t have an issue circumventing all the security I’d tried to activate.