Changer (Athanor) (41 page)

“Certainly.”

After placing his call, Sven continues, “Several
tengu
attended the Lustrum Review.  A few I have been courting in my persona as Moderator; a few others came to support Katsuhiro Oba if his feud with Dakar Agadez flared.”

“No luck there.”

“Not for them, but for me.  They were pretty bored and testy.  One ‘Monk’—his Japanese name is a tongue twister—I had a pretty good read on from the chatroom.  I didn’t let on that I was the Moderator, of course, but I did let on that I thought that the stuffy sorts could use some shaking up.”

Louhi smiles.  “And, since
tengu
are already inclined to think that way…”

“Don’t overlook the artistry of my manipulation…”

“He took to the idea.”

“Precisely.  Monk and his fellow
tengu
will be performing the trickster parts.  If they are caught, their ‘confessions’ will lay the groundwork for September’s Event.”

“Very nice.  Meanwhile, you will be free to take on other tasks.”

“Like getting the Changer’s blood.”  Sven chews his lower lip.  “I thought that we were going to get our vote of no confidence right at the Review, but Arthur calmed them down.  He even had the South Americans eating out of his hand by the end.”

“Too many of our people are too centered on their own needs,” Louhi says, fully aware of the irony of her words.

“Yes.  It’s probably good that the vote didn’t happen.  There would be no reason for anyone to support
me
.  In September, things will be different.”

“They had better be,” Louhi says.  “You’ve made some big promises.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Sven replies.  “The Head will have his body.  I will have my throne, and you will have the Changer’s attention.  One big happy triumvirate.”

“You sound so certain.”

“Why not?”

A knock announces the arrival of Sven’s meal.  He goes to the door, but when he begins to sign the bill to the room Louhi clears her throat.  He fishes out his wallet and pays the man in cash.

“That was cheap of you,” he says, lifting the cover off of his plate of
huevos rancheros
.

“I’ve extended you enough credit,” Louhi says.  “Now I want some results.”

The morning following the Harmony Dance, nearly all of the hacienda’s guests take their leave.  After the last load is driven to the airport by Anson, the remaining residents gather in the courtyard for lunch.

“I’m going to take the pup away from the city,” the Changer announces.  “No purpose is being served by our remaining here.”

Arthur and Eddie nod agreement.  Lovern frowns.  Perhaps only Amphitrite, sitting beside her at the teak table in the courtyard, notices Vera swallowing a protest.

“Do you think it is wise?” Lovern asks.  “I will be escorting Amphitrite on her South American tour.  This leaves Arthur rather thinly protected.”

“Arthur’s safety is not my business,” the Changer replies calmly.  “As far as I can tell, he has not been threatened.  You have, Eddie has, I have, but Arthur and Vera remain untouched.”

“For now,” Lovern intimates darkly.

“That is not my business.  My daughter is.  She is growing too large to live in a courtyard and far too unguarded with humans.  I will not encourage behavior so counter to survival.”

“We still don’t know who planned the attacks!” Lovern protests.

“Nor do I see any evidence forthcoming,” the Changer says in a low growl.  “Despite the trouble we took to bring that foul Head here, it has been little help to you.”

“There are magics to guard against scrying.”

“I know.  I have often wished I possessed them.”

“I’ll offer a trade—an antiscrying amulet against your remaining here a month longer.”

“No.  An amulet would not shift with me; therefore, it would be of limited use.”

“But…”

Arthur gestures regally with one hand.  The gesture is slightly diminished in that he holds a sandwich.

“Enough, Lovern.  The Changer has bided with us over a month.  He is right.  We have eliminated possibilities, but we have not found a solution.  I am of the opinion that the attacks were an attempt to unsettle this household before the Review.”

“By whom?”

“Perhaps the South American contingent.  Our being unbalanced would have worked to their advantage as they made their appeals.”

“But stooping to near murder?”

“Such tactics have been used before.  They will be again.”

The others had listened in silence.  Now Eddie cuts in, “Nothing has happened since the Review began.  I agree with Arthur.  Our enemy had set a time limit of the Review.  Now that it is past, all should be well.”

“Sycophant,” Lovern mutters.

“Excuse me?” Eddie asks stiffly.

“Nothing.”

“If you are so worried,” Eddie says, his tone making quite clear he had heard, “why don’t you stay here?”

“I must escort Lady Amphitrite to South America,” Lovern replies, “as well you know.  The consequences of harm to her are such that I cannot leave her unguarded.”

Amphitrite smiles prettily.  “My husband is quite protective.  I cannot answer for his temper.”

“Can’t someone else go?” Eddie says, clearly enjoying toying with the wizard.

“Who?”

“How about Anson?  He’s quite a world traveler.  Has a few tricks up his sleeve, too.”

“That’s what I fear,” Lovern says darkly.

“Vera?  Certainly you aren’t going to say that she is less than competent.”

“True, but she did not give her oath to the Sea King.  I did.”

Eddie rubs his hands together briskly.  “Then you’re in a bit of a bind, aren’t you?”

The Changer scratches under his chin, enjoying in an abstract fashion the squabbling his simple announcement has generated.  Vera turns to him.

“When are you going?” she asks.  Her voice is quite steady.

“Tonight, I think,” he says.  “There is no need to delay.  If someone can drop us off, we would have several hours to find a place to hide until day.”

Arthur nods.  “That won’t be a problem.  I can drive you myself if no one else is available.”

“Good.”  The Changer’s tone does not acknowledge that he is aware of the great honor which has been offered.

“But where do you want to go?” Vera presses.  “Surely not back where you were before?”

“No,” the Changer says.  “I have been considering my old hunting grounds and comparing them against current maps.  There are large portions of the Sandia Mountains that are either park or reservation land.  That should do.  With summer coming on, I would prefer not to be out in the plains.”

Lovern looks hopeful.  “So you are going to stay close to Albuquerque.”

“For now.  Shahrazad would be endangered in ranch lands.  She isn’t afraid enough of people to avoid traps and poison.”

“The Sandias begin the eastern edge of Albuquerque,” Arthur comments.  “If you’re looking to keep her away from people, wouldn’t it be better to range farther?”

“Yes.”  The Changer’s yellow eyes narrow.  “But I haven’t forgotten our enemy—even if he has forgotten us.  I want to be near enough to join you if you get a lead.”

Vera brightens perceptibly.  “Then we can visit you!”

“I’d prefer not.”  The Changer’s tone is not cold, but nonetheless his words wilt the smile from her face.  “My goal is to teach my daughter to be a wild thing.  If I have my way, she will never interact with humans again.”

Conversation moves to other things.  With Anson’s return, the party breaks up.  Vera goes to her office and shuts the door firmly behind her.

As the Changer walks toward his room, Lovern follows him.

“Changer,” he says when they are alone in the hallway.

“Yes?”

“I saw Shahrazad at the Harmony Dance.”

“So did I.”

“You realize what that means.”  When the Changer does not answer, the wizard forges on.  “She is athanor, not just coyote.”

“I know.”  The Changer’s expression is sad.  “But a long time may pass before we know if she is anything other than a potentially long-lived coyote.  Why do you think I want her to know how to live wild?”

“True, but…”

“No ‘buts,’ Lovern.  She must know how to be a coyote.  Otherwise, she has nothing but her life, and life, as we all know, is a very fragile thing.”

In the forests of Oregon, Rebecca Trapper sits and stares out of a window set in a frame of earth, hidden from view by misdirection and a light screen of brush.  She does not appear to see the towering pines or the clouds that scud above their tops.  Nor does she look upon the crystalline waters that cascade from the waterfall that conceals a hidden exit from their home.  Her usually warm, brown gaze is blank and empty.

“Becky?”  Bronson Trapper’s voice is rough yet tender.  He shambles into the room, bringing with him the scents of leaf mold and mink musk.

Rebecca does not answer, nor does she move when he comes and places a huge, hairy hand on the silky black fur of her head.

“Becky?”

She turns slowly then, looking up at him as if the effort to move her head is almost too much.

“What’s wrong, sugar bug?”

“It’s over.  That’s all.”

“The Review?”

“Yeah.”

Bronson considers her response.  He had followed this Review via the new computer modem and satellite-dish link to the live video; it had given him a more comprehensive coverage than had been available even five years earlier.  

The pictures on the video monitor had reminded him somewhat of when his second cousin (or was that third?) had lived nearby.  Viola had the rare gift of scrying and had summoned up segments of the Review in a pool of water spread with oil.  They had used the then-new telephone technology to comment on the action.  When Viola had married a Tibetan yeti, the scrying had ended.  Bronson had not really missed it.

As technology had caught up with magic, he had taken to recording the Review, skimming the meetings via tape and fast forward, then sending his comments in.  He’d done the same this year, but now that he considers the past week, he remembers that Rebecca had barely budged from her computer while the meetings were in session.

“Are you unhappy with any of the results?”

“A little.”  Rebecca’s gaze returns out of the window.  “I thought that Arthur might have to change some of his policies.  In the end everything stayed the same.”

Bronson frowns.  “I wouldn’t say that.  The new committee to distribute funding for ecological issues is quite a monumental change.  I never thought I’d see Arthur agree to make anything like that official rather than merely voluntary.”

“That was a good thing,” Rebecca agrees.  “Do you think that the Sea Queen’s presence influenced the King’s decision?”

Bronson considers.  “Yes, I do.  Her rather forceful presentation that no landmass is as isolated as land dwellers would like to believe made an impression even on
me
.”

“And she was pretty, wasn’t she?”

“If you like skinny, bald, blond creatures”—Bronson chuckles—“which I don’t particularly.”

Rebecca turns from the window, rising all in one movement, surprisingly lithe for a creature of her height and bulk.

“Bronson, the members of my chat group have been talking about taking a trip to Albuquerque in September.  I want to go.”

“What?  Why?”

“Because Albuquerque is where Arthur is.  We wanted to go for the Review but decided that we really couldn’t pull it off in the summer.  Too many of us need to wear heavy clothes to cover our…”  She searches for a word, her expression bitter, “Our inhumanity.”

“Nonhumanness,” Bronson corrects sternly.

“Arthur acts as if we are inhuman—somehow less than those who can wear a human shape.  Would he have listened to Amphitrite if she had shown up with a fish tail and eaten raw herring?”

“Probably.  The sea is a powerful force.  Its monarchs are not to be taken lightly.”

“Still, she chose to wear human-form.  Even the
tengu
and the Changer himself wore human-form.  The time has come for Arthur to face that some of our people are not human.”

“None of us are human, Rebecca.”

“You know what I mean.”  She begins to pace, clenching and unclenching her long-fingered, simian hands.  “Arthur and his ilk pretend that they are humans—just the better, longer-lived models.  They ignore those of us who threaten that illusion!”