A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

Three times to repeat the song; that was what Dharinel had taught him. Once to make the pattern, twice to set the pattern, three times to bind the pattern. For really heavy work, he’d repeat his melody nine times—or, more rarely, five—but this wasn’t heavy work. There was nothing riding on whether or not anyone “heard” his call, there would be no grave consequences if no one answered. He had been careful in being so completely species-nonspecific that it was even remotely possible that something from Underhill might answer the call. He didn’t think any of the Sidhe lived in New York City—they lived in Los Angeles and San Francisco, but so much more of New York was man-made than either of the other cities, layers and layers of infrastructure descending as far below the surface as the skyscrapers stretched above, that he doubted they could stand it. He hadn’t even specified “in the building,” only “nearby”—and for Sidhe or other Underhill creatures, “nearby” could be quite some distance away.

  Not that he wasn’t being cautious; the other half of his “call” was very specific. Nothing would “hear” him that didn’t have what Dharinel called “good intentions.” These were not the kind of “good intentions” that the road to Hell was allegedly paved with—more like a healthy set of ethics and morals. Nothing would hear or respond to Eric’s music that would harm him, willingly or accidentally.

  It was no longer a difficult proposition to hold all those components of his magic in his mind—but it was rather like being a skillful juggler. It required intense concentration, and he kept his eyes closed to maintain that concentration right up to and through the final note.

  And as the last breath of that note faded, Eric heard a quiet tapping, just loud enough to catch his attention.

  But not from the door. From the window.

  Surprised, he opened his eyes, wondering if the wind had blown some bit of debris up against the frame of the open window that was making the tapping sound. But he knew there were no trees that close to his windows. Maybe a pigeon? That was possible. If the last tenant had been feeding them. . . .

  What the hey, there’s bread in the kitchen.

  He walked over to the window to see, still thinking of pigeons, so it was with a profound shock that his eyes met another pair of eyes on the other side of the frame—dark, wide, and set in a fanged grey face beneath a pair of waving, batlike wings. And just to confirm that it was no accident, beside the face was a claw-like hand with a single talon extended, tapping once again on the frame.

  1Glass-paste

  TWO:

  A CALLING-ON SONG

  If this had happened a couple of years ago, before Eric had the unique experience of having an Elven Knight appear in his apartment and scare the crap out of him, been worshipped by Nightflyers, chased by Unseleighe Elves and become a Bard, he probably would have put an Eric-shaped hole in the door on his way out. By now though, he had seen so many arcane and outré critters that having a monster staring at him from his fire escape, wanting to come into his apartment, was not going to frighten him. It was a surprise, even something of a shock, but it didn’t frighten him.

  If it had happened the last time he was in the World Above he might still have come at it with either a baseball bat or a sword. He hadn’t known how to protect himself, not really, and his grasp of magic had been rudimentary at best. He had tended to assume that anything he didn’t already recognize—or which hadn’t been properly introduced by someone or something he already knew—was dangerous. And that wasn’t an unreasonable way to operate, given all he’d been through. Paranoia was not a bad thing, in the appropriate degree.

  But that was then. Now he had the responsibility that magical ability brought. He didn’t act without thinking. He observed and thought before he did something. He had enough power and the control over it to protect himself for a limited time against almost anything. And he had the ability to call reinforcements quickly, which was even more important. All these factors gave him a level of calm he wouldn’t have had before, but his time Underhill had made some deep-laid changes in Eric’s psyche, had made him realize that his mind could work faster than his body, and that there generally was time to take in and process information before doing something, because acting without thought usually led to doing something that might prove to be very stupid.

  So he had taken in a lot of information with his first glance at the visitor outside his window. It wasn’t as large as shock had first made it appear; only half the size of a human, though that didn’t mean it couldn’t be dangerous. Still, there were other considerations as well.

  First of all, he had noted the eyes; there was no anger or aggression in them. Granted, a professional killer would probably look just as calm before he killed you, but at the moment, Eric couldn’t think of any enemy he’d made Underhill that would have the motivation to send an assassin after him.

  Second, the creature was just sitting there tapping on the window frame. And even if the window had been closed, from the look of it, if it wanted to get in to attack him, a sheet of glass wasn’t going to stop it.

  Third, it appeared to want to be invited in, rather than just walking in through the open window. Now, all vampire mythology to the contrary, most nasty critters could cross a mortal’s threshold without any problem; he hadn’t had time to set up the heavy-duty wards that would stop it. So there was a very high probability that this thing—whatever it was—was friendly. That it had, in fact, answered his call. So what if it wasn’t necessarily the kind of drinking-buddy he’d assumed he would get? After all, he hadn’t specified species—just someone he’d like to know, and who’d like to know him.

  So, after the first jolt of atavistic fear, Eric carefully put down his flute and walked slowly over to the window. The thing grinned at him as it saw that he was going to let it in, and he noticed a few more things about it.

  One, except for its big dark eyes, the creature was a uniform, textured grey, all over, just like granite. Right down to the soot smudges and patches of lichen.

  Two, the gargoyle that perched on his corner of the building just outside his window was gone. Or to be perfectly accurate, it wasn’t where it had been. It was on the fire escape outside his window, bat-wings, fangs, ape-like arms, and all.

  “Hi,” he said, extending his hand cautiously (the creature did have some formidable talons, after all). “My name’s Eric Banyon—”

  “Sieur Eric, Knight and Bard to the court of the Queen of Elfhame Misthold, don’t you mean?” the creature asked, in a thick accent that was part Bronx, part Irish, and all cheerful, raising what would have been an eyebrow if it had any hair on its uniformly granite-colored exterior. It took his hand in its for a firm but not overly aggressive handshake, and stepped through the window. Its hand was surprisingly warm and dry, though rough and hard as granite.

  “Or is it that you aren’t much of a one for titles and all?” It didn’t wait for an answer. “I ain’t, so that’d be all right with me. Greystone, at your service. Glad you whistled, Eric me fine laddybuck. I was trying to figure out how I could do my job without you noticing that I was moving. Or gone; sometimes, y’see, I got to leave, and I figured you’d catch on that I wasn’t there pretty quick.”

  The gargoyle released his hand, and Eric blinked. “Job?” he said carefully, then woke to his duties as a host. “Please, would you like to sit down? Can I get you anything? A drink? It’s pretty hot out there.” So what do I offer a gargoyle to drink? I’d think they’d get kind of tired of water.

  “Yes and yes, and me thanks t’you.” Greystone plopped himself down on the floor and stretched his wings luxuriously. “Water—more of yon yuppie-water, if you please. Take the acid taste of the smog-wash out of me mouth.”

  Just goes to show I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Eric fetched two more bottles of a different (and more expensive) variety of water. The best he could offer would be nothing compared to the waters of Underhill, after all, and any gargoyle he met would be more than familiar with Underhill, after all. At least it ought to be.


  Greystone accepted his offering with a grin and an appreciative smack of the lips as he drank about a third of the bottle in a single gulp.

  “Ah!” he said with enthusiasm, while Eric took a seat on the couch. “Now that’s more like it! Clean, clear—you wouldn’t believe what city rainwater tastes like these days.”

  He drank again and put his bottle down on the floor beside him. “Well, Eric Banyon, and did you think you’d come to live in this grand building all by accident? Not hardly. Yon cold-spell was an amusing little conceit, but I’ll admit I didn’t think you’d have the balls to make a calling-on song; that took some brains and some moxie, I’m here to tell you.”

  Eric took a careful sip from his own bottle before replying. He had the feeling that he needed to phrase his questions carefully. “You say I didn’t get this apartment by accident?”

  The gargoyle nodded.

  “So why did I end up here?”

  “The building chose you, lad, what do you think?” Greystone nodded wisely. “That’s the long and the short of it. No one comes here that Guardian House doesn’t want; that’s the way it was built. It felt you enter the city, and it made its own calling-on song to bring you here. That’s why you went for a walk, and that’s why you found the building and saw the sign. The building manager just serves the building’s needs. When it has a vacancy, Ms. Hernandez waits until someone shows up who can see the For Rent sign—not everyone can, but you’ve probably guessed that by now. That’s why it’s called Guardian House. One of the reasons.”

  A building that picks its own tenants? Boy, that’s a new one! “Why choose me?” Eric persisted. He wasn’t alarmed; he was quite certain that if there had been anything ill-omened about this place, Kory would have sensed it. And the name—Guardian House—sounded as if it were a force for Good, at least. “Is it because of the magic?”

  Dharinel had warned him it would make him visible to all kinds of creatures that didn’t have the time of day for an ordinary mortal, but Eric had already had a taste of what that was like.

  “A bit.” Now Greystone seemed to be picking his words carefully. “Most people who live here aren’t witches, sorcerers, or even mages—not the way you are, me lad—they’re just people with a very singular talent for living, and certain gifts to be nurtured. Most of ’em are artists, but not necessarily the way most people think of artists. Oh, there is a fair crop of painters, writers, musicians and dancers, but there are others who do things like—like putting exactly the right people together. Or who can make computers do things that’d bug your eyes out. Or who’ve got the gift of healing the mind and body together. The city needs people like that, and this building—this House—needs them too. They make things and people around them happy, and the House lives on that happiness. It’s a living thing, not just a bunch of plaster and stone, and happiness is food and drink to it. So it shelters the special people it finds and protects them in exchange for their happiness—it’s like that arrangement with the little fish and the seaflower.”

  “The clownfish and the anemone?” Eric hazarded, out of his memories of some half-forgotten National Geographic special, and Greystone nodded.

  “What about the people who live here who are mages. Do they know about the House? About you?”

  “Only four of them do. Ms. Hernandez’s one, of course. And, no disrespect intended, boyo, but each one of the four of ’em could blow you into powder and not have to think about it.”

  Greystone waited to see what Eric’s reaction was, but Eric just shrugged. It was hardly news to him that there were other magicians out there who were much more powerful than he was. What surprised him was that four of them lived in the same building, as mages tended to be as touchy and egotistical as . . . well, as professional musicians.

  The gargoyle seemed satisfied with Eric’s response, for he continued. “As for the other four, they know about me, of course, since I—well, we, me an’ the lads—are their security system.” The gargoyle smiled smugly. “And sometimes guard dogs. Stuff they need to worry about won’t even show up on a camera, like as not, but we’ll sniff it out before it ever gets within a block of here.”

  “Why?” Eric asked. “I mean—why do they need you?”

  He realized as soon as he asked the question that he really didn’t have any right to know the answer, but Greystone didn’t act upset. He laid one finger along his nose and leveled his gaze at Eric.

  “I’m telling you all this for your protection, lad. Maybe those four can blow you into powder, but you’re streets ahead of the rest in the House. The four—well, they take care of things Out There, in the city. One’s a real cop, the rest, well, you wouldn’t know they were special. But when bad things happen out there, bad magical things, sometimes they need to get taken care of, and the four of them do that. That’s the real reason the House was built, grown, whatever you like—to shelter the Guardians. There’ve been as few as one and as many as nine here at once. And that’s why we’re here, me and the lads, to watch while they’re sleeping. But the four of us can’t stop everything, and sometimes when bad things come looking for a fight, they don’t much care who’s in the way, or take the time to sort out the Guardians from the bystanders.”

  Ain’t that the living truth. Eric thought over the possible implications. “So something coming after one of them might mistake me for the right target?” he hazarded. There had to be a reason Greystone was telling him all this.

  “Might. Not likely, but might. So you get to know about the House, and about me.” Greystone grinned. “You did a calling-on for a friend, you know. I hadn’t figured on letting you know about all this so soon, but I couldn’t pass up such an open invitation.”

  Eric grinned back; he liked the feisty little fellow! In fact, he couldn’t think of a better answer to his call. “Do the four mages you mentioned know about me yet?”

  “Ms. Hernandez, of course. The other three will figure it out in the next couple of days if she doesn’t tell them first,” Greystone said complacently. “Now don’t you go get cocky now that you know about them, mind! They’re not here to babysit you—you’re expected to defend yourself against anything you get yourself into. That’s only fair—they’ve got a deal more to worry about than you, any day of the week.”

  “Oh, believe me, I’ve learned my lesson!” Eric assured the gargoyle hastily, with a shudder as he thought of some of the things he’d done out of ignorance in the not-so-distant past. And if I never see another Nightflyer again, it will be just fine with me! “At least, I hope I have.”

  “You did all right with your calling-on song,” Greystone assured him kindly. “Just keep thinking cautious and conservative, and you’ll be all right.” He grinned again. “Anything else you want to know?”

  He wanted to know who the other three mages were, but he had the feeling that Greystone wouldn’t tell him. “You’re a sort of magical security system—how do I know if there’s trouble around?” Eric finally asked.

  “I’ll tell you,” the gargoyle informed him. “You’ll hear me in your head. I’ll tell you what the danger is, and give you my best guess on what to do to avoid it. After that, you’re on your own. If you don’t do what I tell you to, that’s your problem, and you handle it.”

  “Fair enough,” Eric acknowledged. They both finished their drinks in friendly silence, then Eric slam-dunked the empties into the trash basket near the kitchen door. “Can you be a security system and hang out with me at the same time?”

  “Sure,” Greystone replied firmly. “I have to be able to do that—multi-tasking, you mortals call it. Sometimes I sit out there and read a book, if it isn’t raining. Ms. Hernandez lets me borrow hers. And P— One of the others gave me one of those little FM ear radios. I used to use a set of headphones until some smart-ass photographer took a picture of me wearing them and it got into the paper, but that little one hardly shows.”

  Just what I was hoping to hear! “In that case,” Eric said, as the gargoyle wa
tched him with a look of expectant anticipation. “How about popcorn and a movie?”

  Greystone had good—and sophisticated—taste for someone who sat on the edge of a roof all day every day. After a quick scan of the movies Eric had bought to go with the new DVD player, he chose Bullets Over Broadway. “I have to tell you, laddybuck, sometimes it’s downright frustrating sitting out there, listening to a line or two from this or that, and not able to even catch all the dialogue.” Greystone shook his head sadly as Eric unwrapped the DVD and loaded it. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sat up there and thought about flying down to a window and taking my chances on being spotted.”

  “Well, if you get bored at night, even if I’m asleep, just come in the window and channel-surf or load a tape or something; I’ll leave the window unlocked,” Eric promised him. “I guess you’ll take care of any burglars that happen by.”

  Greystone sighed happily. “Somehow we’re never bothered with that sort of thing,” he said innocently. “Blessed if I know why. But you’re sure it won’t wake you?” he asked, anxiously. “I’ve got good hearing, I won’t play it above a whisper, I promise.”

  “It won’t wake me,” Eric assured him. “Honest. My last roommate never slept to speak of, and he used to run the tube or the stereo all night long. He was pretty considerate about volume, but some of his friends weren’t, and they’d drop by any time they felt like it. I learned to sleep through entire parties.”

  “Ah, the Sidhe are not always thoughtful guests, now, are they,” Greystone observed shrewdly, then turned his attention to the screen.

  When the movie was over, Eric’s sides hurt from laughing. Since it was his choice next, he put in a copy of Riverdance, which had Greystone tapping his talons in time to the music almost immediately.

  “You could do that,” Greystone said when it was over. “You could play with that group, right this moment. You’re good enough. Why don’t you? Why are you wasting another couple of years going to school when you don’t need to?”