Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

Snowbird>> My family would have a long way to come. I’m not sure the non-American branch could get through Customs.

  Demetrios>> What about the Alaskan branch?

  Snowbird>> Possibly. Private plane would be our best bet. I’ll e-mail the Moderator.

  Rebecca>> Albuquerque! You can’t be serious!!

  Demetrios>> Why not? We have as much right to attend those Reviews as anyone else. I’m tired of having to hide away.

  Rebecca>> Bronson would never let me go.

  Moderator>> Just caught up. Rebecca. If Bronson won’t let you go, isn’t he admitting the failure of the King’s system? Isn’t he saying that we pay our dues to remain prisoners?

  Demetrios>> Yeah!

  Rebecca>> I suppose I could try…

  Moderator>> Snowbird. We can swing that private plane or fueling for your smaller plane.

  Snowbird>> We’re kind of tall for one of those sardine cans… Let me consult with your Aunt Swansdown.

  Loverboy>> Hey! If we all get together, we can have a party!! I’m so tired of private do’s. Babes!! ;)

  Moderator>> Did you know that Dionysus now resides near Albuquerque in Santa Fe?

  Loverboy>> Party! Party!

  Demetrios>> Keep your horse’s ass in check, you idiot! This matter has serious implications.

  Loverboy>> Party! PArty! ParTY!!

  Rebecca>> Demi has a point. There are so many worldwide issues we cannot address as we are. Human society has developed the means to destroy the world—and is destroying large chunks of it. Perhaps they need to know that others share this globe with them. Perhaps they would learn prudence.

  Moderator>> Very thoughtful, Rebecca. The King must see that our energies could be better used than on covert operations. Humanity needs us.

  Loverboy>> Party!! Whoo!! Babes!!

  “Arthur?” Some hours after the initial conference with the Changer, Eddie stands in the doorway of Arthur’s office, his computer tucked under one arm as once he carried his lord’s standard. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course.” Arthur flips off his own computer. “How are things with the Changer?”

  “As well as could be expected. He has incredible patience and focus when working toward a goal… none whatsoever for anything else. He’s taken the puppy…”

  “His daughter,” Arthur corrects sternly.

  “Right. Down to the bosque. I gave him ‘can’t miss it’ directions.”

  Arthur frowns, thinking of the Changer and a baby coyote trotting through the wooded stretch along the Rio Grande, amid the joggers and cyclists. He didn’t want to consider what might happen if anyone offered to cuddle the “cute doggy.”

  “Was that terribly wise?”

  “How would I stop him?” Eddie asks reasonably. “He’s not an easy one to cross. In any case, it’s well after dark. You’ve been working too late again.”

  Arthur glances at the clock, realizes that this is true, and pushes back his chair.

  “Can we talk in the kitchen?”

  “It might be better if we don’t,” Eddie says, shutting the office door behind him. “It’s not the most secure place.”

  Arthur nods. “Secure from whom?”

  “The Changer, maybe from Vera, maybe just because what I want to bring up is supposition rather than anything logical.”

  “I’ve grown to trust your suppositions, Eddie. If I had listened to them more carefully in centuries past…”

  “Arthur, you have a gift for self-recrimination. Stow it and listen.”

  The great king does so. After all, Eddie is right.

  Eddie takes a seat in a chair ergonomically designed for perfect comfort and immediately leans forward, eschewing the chair’s sympathetic lines.

  “I think that the Changer is wrong. I don’t think that Lilith was responsible for the death of his family.”

  Arthur cocks an eyebrow. “The evidence against her is pretty powerful. I’ve checked the license number. It was rented to an L. Prima for the dates concerned. The phone number matches with her unlisted cell phone. And, the handwriting on that note matches some of hers I have in our files.”

  Eddie fidgets. “So there’s a lot more than the Changer’s ‘catching her scent’ to go on, isn’t there?”

  “That’s right. It isn’t enough for you, though. Why?”

  “Maybe I’m too suspicious, but Lilith is of the ancient.”

  Arthur picks up a pencil and starts drumming on the desk. “True. She claims to be the oldest female human-form—Adam’s original bride and all that rot. Even if you discard that nonsense, cross confirmation makes her about the same generation as you and me.”

  “And she’s sly,” Eddie continues, “and malicious. And known for her enmity to the traditional family.”

  Arthur sighs. “She claims that she never got over Adam’s claim that woman was subordinate to the male.”

  “Whatever the reason, she’s built quite a reputation for herself over the decades.”

  “There is a point to this?”

  “You know there is, Arthur.” Eddie takes the pencil from the King’s hand. “And that drumming is driving me crazy.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “To put it bluntly, I can’t imagine that a sly ancient like Lilith would leave so clear a trail. It doesn’t make sense: her own current name, phone number, a sample of her handwriting, a car easily traced to her. She’s too good. If she was going after someone like the Changer, she’d be more careful.”

  Arthur begins to twiddle a pen, then sets it down. “You have a point. Caution is as natural to her as breathing.”

  “I’ve checked her current situation,” Eddie says. “She’s living in Santa Fe, running a gallery and helping Tommy establish his new identity.”

  “That’s right, he’s recovered and public now, isn’t he?” Arthur sighs. “Is he doing music again?”

  “Of course. ‘Tommy Thunderburst,’ part-Navajo, part-French. He’s soulful as ever. Lil sent a copy of his ‘demo’ tape—bitter, acid, loving. I don’t really care for contemporary music…” (by contemporary, Eddie means anything later than the eighteenth century) “but I could see the appeal of this.”

  “So why would Lilith be going after the Changer now?” Arthur muses. “She has a busy couple of decades in front of her.”

  “Precisely,” Eddie says. “That’s why I can’t believe that she is the one behind the killings.”

  “The Changer does,” Arthur replies. “And he won’t believe anything she says. Lying is second nature to her.”

  “And so he will confront her and kill her,” Eddie says, “and then there will be repercussions.”

  “For us,” Arthur says, “because we permitted ourselves to be swayed by such flimsy evidence.”

  “Yes.”

  “And for the Changer, for slaying her without just cause.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know, right off, but you know that many athanor grow bored. Such a game might amuse a few or…”

  “Or?”

  “Or someone desires to unsettle your kingship. You know that not everyone is happy with your policies. Some say that you play the humans’ game of using information technologies more insidiously than they do themselves—and for far less pure intentions, since you know of our existence and use the threat of human revelation to control our actions.”

  Arthur huffs. “I do not! I simply advise prudence. Humans are no longer isolated societies to be manipulated by the powerful among us.”

  “Easy, friend.” Eddie chuckles. “I agree, or I wouldn’t be working with you. So do most athanor, or you would not have their support. Your talent for leadership is not merely charisma.”

  “Thanks,” Arthur says, still piqued.

  “But there are those who have not appreciated your efforts these past two centuries. The most vocal have been eliminated, usually by their own actions. Only the subtle and creative remain.”

  “There a
re Katsuhiro and Dakar,” Arthur reminds him. “Neither is subtle.”

  “I think you underestimate them,” Eddie says, “but I agree that they do not have the manipulative spirit I sense.”

  “A trickster then?”

  “Perhaps.” Eddie frowns. “Or perhaps the Changer himself.”

  “He would not slaughter his own family!” Arthur protests.

  “Perhaps not.”

  “And he is not sophisticated enough to have gathered unlisted phone numbers and the like.”

  “How do we know? The Changer lives much of his life outside of our supervision. Just because he has not registered a human identity does not mean that he has not had one.”

  Arthur rubs his face with his hands. “I suspect we should consult Lovern on this one.”

  Eddie nods. There is something of a rivalry between Arthur’s right hand and the sorcerer, but Eddie recognizes the talent of the man once called Merlin.

  Not wanting Eddie to become affronted, Arthur hastens to continue: “Lilith is a sorceress herself, although of a different type. Moreover, Lovern can craft a truthstone for us to use…”

  “On the Changer?”

  “Yes, and perhaps to loan to the Changer so that he can confirm or deny Lilith’s innocence in a more objective fashion than just by interviewing her.”

  Eddie leans back into the chair’s embrace. “That’s a good idea. Where is the wizard now?”

  “On sabbatical in Finland,” Arthur replies promptly.

  “Contact him,” Eddie says. “Then you can consider how best to explain to the Changer that while we aren’t calling him a liar, we aren’t exactly certain that he is telling the truth.”

  “Oh, my,” quoth Arthur. “That should be fun.”

  4

  Caras vemos, corazones no sabemos.

  (Faces we see, hearts we know not.)

  —Spanish proverb

  The Journal isn’t paying Chris to investigate Arthur Pendragon, so he waits for his day off to meet with Bill. A college student majoring in computer engineering, Bill Irish has frequently saved Chris hours of unproductive research through his singular talent for rapidly locating pertinent information.

  “You know,” Bill says as he comes in the front door of Chris’s house, “I thought you were touched in the head when you asked me to check out an Arthur Pendragon.”

  Despite his name, Bill Irish is anything but. A Jamaican American, he possesses light brown skin and warm brown eyes. His shoulder-length, curly hair is habitually drawn back into a fashionable ponytail. At six-foot-one, he is several inches taller than Chris and lean to Chris’s solidness.

  “Come into the living room and show me what you have,” Chris invites, pouring them both glasses of cola.

  Accepting his, Bill sprawls on the sofa and unfolds a printout. “Pendragon Productions is registered with the state as a not-for-profit corporation,” he begins. “No employees other than the three officers are listed.”

  “Not unreasonable,” Chris says. “They may be broke.”

  “Someone has money,” Bill contradicts. “Motor Vehicles lists four vehicles for Pendragon Productions: two sedans, multipassenger van, and a trendy four-wheel drive. All are recent models and none are inexpensive. Arthur owns a large house in an expensive area. There is no mortgage—he paid for it up front and then did extensive remodeling. His credit record—as well as those of Zagano and Tso—is perfect. Wherever Mr. Pendragon gets his money, he is well-off.”

  “Is that his real name?” Chris asks.

  “As far as I could tell,” Bill says. “He’s a naturalized American citizen. His place of birth is listed as England.”

  “Maybe that explains it. Anything else?”

  Bill shrugs. “Not much. Pendragon Productions seems devoted to rather ineffectively crusading for various causes. It doesn’t fund-raise, and it doesn’t spend much money. Tso and Zagano both live on the grounds of Pendragon’s estate.”

  “Idle rich?” Chris tugs at his short mustache with his lower teeth. “Do you have a listing of Pendragon’s pet causes?”

  “Yeah. I extracted them from that nightmare of a webpage. Most are quite noble: social causes, environmental activism, government corruption, that sort of thing.”

  “Do they do their own investigation?”

  “Not that I can tell—mostly they link up others’ work.”

  “Weird. I’ll see if I can get an interview with Pendragon.”

  “Is it worth the hassle?” Bill asks. “Mr. Pendragon seems like just another New Mexico crank to me.”

  Chris grins. “The Journal likes stories about idealistic local characters. In any case, I want to find out if Arthur Pendragon is quite as noble as he seems.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  “Then maybe I’ll have a story for the front page!”

  Sitting coyote-form in the courtyard of Arthur’s adobe hacienda, the Changer scratches behind one ear and reflects on the events of the past several days. He and his daughter have been asked to stay at Arthur’s place, ostensibly so that his paperwork can be done properly. He suspects deliberate delays, but that does not bother him overmuch.

  His time has been well spent learning new dialects of Spanish and English, as well as current events so that he will not betray himself in casual conversation. His daughter, too, is thriving. A visit from a veterinarian has ensured that she will be protected against a host of potential ills.

  Moreover, his hosts have heard his warning; they are not foolish enough to believe that he will not carry it out. Nor could they be absolutely certain that they could stop him.

  Shapeshifters are notoriously difficult to kill—the true ones, at least. Not that he is invulnerable. Far from it, but over the centuries, he has memorized routines to enable emergency shapeshifts. For example, should someone shoot him at this moment, he would shift into a small, darting finch. Much of the damage would be healed in the change and a finch is much harder to hit than a coyote… or a man.

  Such a change would arouse questions, of course, but the Changer can live with that. Caution is his chosen first armor. The defenses are secondary—or even tertiary.

  Whining joyfully, his daughter comes out from under the lilac bush where she has dug her shallow earth. In the past several days, she has learned to recognize him by scent, rather than merely by shape, and consequently has become bolder. She still prefers him as a coyote, though.

  Coming up to him, she drops a length of braided rawhide at his feet. Vera purchased it for her at a pet store and, although momentarily annoyed that his daughter might be being treated as a pet, the Changer has permitted the pup to play with it. Her satisfaction with Vera’s choice is evident in the rawhide’s increasingly chewed appearance.

  Giving in to the pup’s desire to play, the Changer grabs one end in his teeth and provides resistance as she tugs at the other. Her throaty, puppy growls vanish as footsteps come toward the courtyard. The pup retreats under the lilac bush.

  Even before the Changer turns, he knows Vera by her scent.

  “Why don’t you turn into a puppy sometime?” she asks, seating herself on the edge of the patio table and tossing a chunk of cheese into the lilac bush. “She needs something her own size to wrestle with.”

  Not deigning to reply, the Changer gives the woman an ironic gaze. What does this virgin know about raising pups? He does not tell her how to perform her duties in Arthur’s business. Why does she try to tell him his as a parent?

  “I thought you might like to know,” she adds after a pause, “that Lovern has just arrived at the airport.”

  The Changer wonders who Lovern is. The human-formed tend to shift names as he shifts shapes. Recalling a couple of these tags and their scents is enough for him. He scratches again, then retrieves the untouched piece of cheese from the lilac bush.

  Dropping it at Vera’s feet, he shifts human in one surge. Politely recalling that nudity has a tendency to unsettle the woman, he reaches for one of the robes that, since
his arrival, have been hung in odd corners around the hacienda.

  “Please,” he says, belting the dark blue terry cloth with a matching sash, “do not encourage my daughter to eat any food she comes across. A common way to kill coyotes is with poisoned baits. If you teach her to accept food other than what she hunts or what I give to her, you may be responsible for her death.”

  At first, Vera is indignant. Then her expression softens.

  “I didn’t think,” she admits. “And I apologize. I won’t do it again and I’ll make certain that the others know as well.”

  “Thank you.” The Changer shapes a smile. “Remind me which one Lovern is.”

  Vera looks momentarily startled. “Mimir. Merlin.”

  “That one.” The Changer whistles coaxingly to his daughter. She comes out and he tosses her one end of the rawhide string. “Gilgamesh has summoned him?”

  “Arthur has,” Vera says, her slight emphasis on the name reminding him that etiquette demands that each be called by their given name of the moment. As the etiquette is based in protecting identities and the Changer accepts its wisdom.

  “Arthur,” he repeats. “Has it anything to do with me?”

  “Yes,” Vera says calmly. “Arthur believes Lovern could aid you. Also, your vendetta has interesting implications.”

  “I do not need that sorcerer’s help to deal with Lil.”

  Vera does not comment for a long moment, watching instead the Changer’s game of tug-of-war with the pup.

  “Perhaps not, but Arthur gives full value for your dues.”

  “Were you sent to prepare me to accept the wizard?”

  “No,” Vera says sharply. “I came of my own accord. Arthur is the first among equals here, not my master.”

  “First among equals.” The Changer’s soft laugh is almost a growl. “The old Round Table dream once more. Perhaps it will work better this time. I doubt it, but it’s a nice idea.”

  Vera says nothing, whether because she agrees or because she is affronted, the Changer does not know. Tersely, she excuses herself and departs.

  Watching her almost masculine gait (no soft roundness to those hips) the Changer reflects on what he recalls of Mimir aka Merlin aka Lovern. There are many such memories, but all are colored by one from the earlier years.