Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  “You did ask for my opinion.”

  “And you’re testy.”

  “I can’t be. I’m a woman. I don’t have the cojones.”

  “Bitchy, then.”

  “You say the nicest things.”

  “You didn’t like my poem!”

  “You asked for my opinion. I gave it to you.”

  Oswaldo draws a wide, dramatic swath through the page with a felt-tipped pen from his breast pocket.

  “I have destroyed it, now. Satisfied?”

  “With that, but I am growing worried.”

  “Why?”

  “We left Vera and Amphitrite in the rain forest three days ago. Isidro promised that Arthur would accept our terms immediately. Still, despite phone call after phone call, nothing has been achieved.”

  Oswaldo drums at the armrest of his chair with his pen. “I know, and I have tried to divine what Arthur is doing. Unhappily, his doings are blocked from me.”

  “Actively?”

  “No, he has long had charms in place. Why else should he keep his pet wizard?”

  Cleonice, who knows professional jealousy when she hears it says, “I wonder if we were foolish to return Lovern?”

  “We could not hold him long. I do not know the secret that Louhi wormed from him ages past and she wouldn’t share it.”

  “You asked?”

  “I did.”

  “Ah.”

  Oswaldo continues, “Nor could we strand him with the others lest they draw upon his magical skills. We could only return him and make necessity look like good politics.”

  “Yes. I still wonder if we were right. Perhaps we should have killed him and sent his body back as a warning that we were not to be trifled with.”

  “Hotheaded blood-drinker,” Oswaldo says almost fondly, “you spend too much time as a jaguar. Killing hostages only convinces the enemy camp that you will not treat fairly.”

  “I don’t necessarily agree.”

  “I know, but I also know that you were overruled on this point. Besides, he is ancient. His death would greatly diminish Harmony.”

  In a perfect universe, at this point Cleonice would say, “I still think we shouldn’t have left them at such and such point on the river.” Oswaldo would answer, “But they are near to such and such landmark. We can find them easily.” Anson, possessed of the location of the two missing athanor would swing off, locate the Changer, and they would head to the rescue.

  Sadly, the universe is not such a tidy place. Instead of worriedly confiding in Oswaldo, Cleonice turns on him, her patrician features distorted with anger.

  “You’re nothing but Isidro’s puppet, did you know that?”

  Oswaldo starts up from his seat, no longer the indolent, almost foolish scribbler, but every rounded inch a man of power.

  “So! Do you wish to bear my shaman’s curse?”

  “I apologize,” Cleonice says sulkily.

  “Good.”

  Oswaldo does not seat himself again, but, picking up his notebook, turns toward the interior of the house.

  “I am going to check with Isidro on the developing situation.”

  “It won’t have developed,” Cleonice predicts.

  “Nonetheless.”

  Anson A. Kridd listens and is pleased. He knows what tack he will take when the Changer returns. All that is left is to make certain that he knows if Isidro or his allies depart.

  Swinging gracefully to the top of a palm tree, he sets his subconscious to listen for any sign of departure. Then, curling into a small, furry ball, he gets some much-needed sleep.

  He is awakened by a red-and-blue macaw landing in the palm fronds beside him and croaking rudely. Uncurling, Anson scratches vigorously, then leads the way downward. He detours to retrieve his string bag and thence to the alley outside. Happily, the shadowy area is deserted.

  The only difficulty with animal forms is that, beyond generalized warnings which even humans can learn to understand, there is no ur-beast language. Although capuchins (like coyotes and ravens and macaws) are remarkably verbal, their speech does not contain the sounds for the concepts he wishes to communicate.

  He shifts back into human form and stands in nonchalant nudity, waiting for the Changer to follow suit. The other does so immediately.

  “We make quite a pair, eh?” Anson says wryly, “brown man and black standing naked in an alleyway. What might the police say?”

  “Nothing,” the Changer comments, “for we would run and as soon as we rounded a corner there would be only a monkey and a macaw. Now, enough foolishness. I have gained a reprieve from storm. What have you?”

  “A plan,” Anson says. “I must return human for it. If luck and paranoia are with me, it should gain us the information we lack. Cleonice and Oswaldo both are unhappy and afraid because of Arthur’s unwillingness to treat with them.”

  “I should imagine that Isidro is no happier. Do you need me for your plan?”

  “Not for this stage,” Anson says. “First I will flush our game, but I would be happiest if you were along on the hunt.”

  “I shall. Where would you have me wait?”

  “In the garden. There is a patio. I shall get them to take me there, so you can overhear what passes between us.”

  “And if you do not come out?”

  “I shall. They will not wish to hold me.”

  “Very well. Dress and be about your business.” With a small shrug, the Changer becomes macaw once more and flies to the top of the wall at the mouth of the alley, keeping watch as Anson dresses and tidies himself.

  “Your clothing,” Anson says softly as he passes beneath the macaw, “is in the string bag. You should be able to lift it.”

  “Good luck,” the macaw croaks, in the strange, almost human voice that parrots possess.

  “See you.”

  Anson tidies his attire, then inspects his face with the help of a small pocket mirror. Certain that he looks as natty as possible in this humid climate, he strolls up to the gate.

  A stocky man with Indian features comes to the gate. “What do you want? No solicitors,” he says in accented Portuguese.

  “I am here to see Isidro Robelo,” Anson replies calmly. “You may take my card in to him.”

  He hands one of his business cards, to which he has added the handwritten line On Arthur’s bidding, to the guard. Then he waits outside the gate, whistling softly to himself and glancing about as if this is his first glimpse of the place.

  The gatekeeper returns three minutes later. “He will see you. Follow the path to the house.”

  “I thought he might,” Anson says, smiling warmly. “Thank you for the directions, my good man.”

  The gatekeeper locks the wrought-iron gate behind him and takes a post where he can watch the road. Evidently, Isidro expects trouble. He will be disappointed.

  Isidro himself meets Anson at the door. Oswaldo stands a few steps back. Cleonice is nowhere in evidence.

  “Come in, Anson,” Isidro says heartily. “We are rather surprised to see you here.”

  Anson allows himself to look just a little bit arrogant. “You certainly didn’t expect Arthur to come himself, did you?”

  A flicker of Isidro’s gaze tells him that the revolutionary had hoped for precisely that. Pretending not to notice, Anson continues, “Eddie is still not agile enough for travel, and Lovern was somewhat reluctant to renew his acquaintance with your hospitality. With Vera missing, that left me.”

  Isidro nods as if he had expected this all along. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We can sit in the parlor or perhaps you would prefer an office?”

  Anson pretends to shiver. “Actually, I was wondering if you had somewhere not air-conditioned where we could sit? I have been in the heat all day and the change is not healthy, especially for a tropical creature like myself.”

  “There is the veranda,” Oswaldo says, looking up from the book he holds. This time, Anson is certain, he has been listening, not reading.

  “If
that would not be too inconvenient…” Anson says.

  “Of course not,” Isidro agrees heartily. “We cannot have you uncomfortable.”

  He commands a servant woman waiting discreetly in the background to bring drinks. Then he leads the way.

  “Cleonice, I regret to say, is not home at this time. I hope you can speak your business with the two of us.”

  “One would be enough,” Anson says, hoping to feed the dissension he had overheard earlier, “if it was the right one.”

  Privately, he suspects that Cleonice is prowling in jaguar form in the gardens, alert for any possible attack. He hopes that the Changer is wise enough to stay out of her reach and away from her nose.

  They take their seats on the rattan furniture beneath the veranda’s striped canopy.

  “I am here to inquire for Arthur as to precisely what you expect from him,” Anson says, sipping casually.

  “I told him over the telephone,” Isidro says a bit testily. “We provided a detailed platform at the Review. We wish it to be put into action.”

  “You really expect Arthur to grant all of that?” Anson chortles. “Come now, it is beyond his power. He is not an absolute dictator, able to command resources of magic and money at a wave of his hand. At best he is a coordinator of other people’s talents. True, yes, he has money, but so do many of us. The things you really want—the magic, the skills of our ancient warriors, those are not his to command.”

  Isidro frowns, drawing his brows down. “He can command Lovern, who is the greatest of our mages. Lovern can teach Oswaldo, who has talent. He could offer favors to bring others into our service.”

  “You,” Anson says brightly, “have wealth enough to offer payment. You must have learned that such is not enough. Certainly some of the hottest heads among us would be happy to act as mercenaries, but that is not what you want, eh? You want the gentle souls like Frank MacDonald or the Smith or even Vera.”

  Anson nods in agreement with his own sagacity. He wonders if Isidro is foolish enough to believe that Vera is gentle. Celibate she may be, but she is a woman of real passions.

  “We want what we said in our manifesto!” Isidro insists.

  “So you say, but who is to say that the King will grant your wishes?” Anson becomes menacing, a poisonous spider. “You have taken a member of his household and a fellow monarch hostage. You have shown no respect for rank or kinship. You have put yourselves outside the law that governs us all—you are outside of the Accord. Take care that you don’t find yourself declared out of Harmony as well.”

  Isidro’s jaw drops. Oswaldo is making no pretense of reading his book. Outside in the garden, a jaguar screams impotent rage. Anson continues, “Perhaps if you throw yourself upon the King’s mercy, you may keep your lives, but even that I will not promise.”

  He sees the awakening of panic and then hope in the others’ manners. Poor fools. Like children who seek to test the limits of their parents, they had not realized until this very moment what a monumental transgression they have committed.

  “Arthur may take mercy on you,” he says, knowing full well that Arthur cannot, “but I will not promise even that. Your best hope is if Vera and Amphitrite live and are returned by you. Even then, I cannot promise.”

  Oswaldo starts to protest, then sinks back, his book slipping from nerveless fingers. Isidro has lost his eloquence.

  Anson rises, allows himself to be shown to the door by the two men. Isidro mumbles a polite farewell.

  “You may leave a message for me at the Hibiscus Suites,” Anson continues, still on his dignity. “Good evening to you.”

  “Thank you for coming by,” Oswaldo manages. “You have been most informative.”

  “I think we now understand each other,” Anson says. “Good luck to you.”

  He saunters out, nodding to the gatekeeper as he goes. Sadly, he imagines them summoning Cleonice, telling her what they have realized, frantically planning how best to throw themselves on Arthur’s mercy.

  But they have angered the sea, and the sea knows no pity, not for the sailor who loves her, nor the child drowning in its grasp.

  The brother of the sea, sea-born son of that element, now perches in the treetops marking their comings and goings, their plans and conferences. He will follow them on red-and blue-feathered wings, wherever they may go. The Changer does know pity, but like any wild thing, he has none to spare for the foolish.

  20

  Keep your course. Wax fat. Dishonor justice.

  You have power—now.

  —Aeschylus

  Sven Trout walks in the main door of Los Cuates restaurant. Outside, the snap and bang of the occasional firecracker reminds everyone in earshot that today is the Fourth of July. He likes Independence Day: fireworks, loud parties, drunks, barbecues, hot weather, and a sense of undeserved holiday.

  After all, none of these fools had done anything to earn “American” independence. In 1776, New Mexico was a Spanish possession that wouldn’t become a state for years to come and, even today, its people cling with great pride to that history which predated adoption into the Union.

  Yes, he likes Independence Day. That is why he has arranged to meet Monk and his two tengu buddies for an early lunch. After lunch they’ll head off for Dukes’ Stadium to watch some minor-league baseball. Later, there will be fireworks.

  Sven has a way with fire, and he plans that this show will contain no duds, that every cherry bomb will be an ear-blaster and that every multicolored rocket will burst with exceptional brilliance. Yes, he is looking forward to this evening.

  He’s even mailed Arthur a few complimentary tickets, representing them as a freebie from the King’s bank.

  Looking around, he locates the three tengu sitting in a row on the wooden bench along one wall of the entry foyer. They look rather like slightly wild Japanese teenagers, all clad in white tee shirts and blue jeans. Monk even has a pack of cigarettes rolled in his shirtsleeve.

  “Have you put us on the list to get a table?” he asks.

  “Sure have,” Monk says. His tee shirt is one of those you only see in Japan; English words are boldly printed in red and black. They look cool, but they don’t make much sense.

  Sven reads aloud: “‘Apple. Pizza. Love. Gotta Have It!’ Interesting.”

  The tengu casts a critical glance over Sven’s own sartorial splendor and evidently finds the dark purple cotton trousers and lavender button-down sport shirt lacking panache.

  “Hey, it beats most of what I’ve seen here. If I see another shirt printed with a soulful ‘Native American’ cuddling up to a couple of wolves, I think I’ll flip.”

  Sven nods and politely turns his attention to the other tengus’ attire. Laughing Enemy (he uses the name “Roy” in conversation) wears a shirt emblazoned with a wide-eyed girl done in classic anime style. She wears nothing but a yellow-striped bikini and tiny horns poke out of her mass of green hair.

  Joyful Wrath (or “Hiero”) apparently doesn’t share Monk’s dislike for southwestern style. His shirt is airbrushed with one of Catlin’s depressed Indians, a pink-and-orange sun symbolically setting behind him.

  The waitress calling out “Monk” saves Sven from the need to comment. Instead, he motions his guests in front of him, feeling vaguely as if he is meeting with a yakuza sponsored JV gang.

  When they are seated in a booth, Sven orders frozen margueritas all around, along with an appetizer of guacamole. The tengu study the menu with solemnity. Food is always an important issue. If the waiter is surprised at the magnitude of their order, he is too harried to remind them that Los Cuates believes in generous portions.

  The background hubbub is loud enough that Sven feels quite safe discussing business. “So, are you having fun with Arthur?”

  “We were having plenty,” Hiero says. “Then he stopped answering the phone.”

  Monk clarifies. “We were serenading him at all hours with a humbling composition of our own making. Without Lovern around, we could even spy
on him from the balcony and check his reaction. Apparently, he forgot to reset the wards’ exclusivity programming after the Review.”

  Sven loads a chip with red-chili salsa. “Why did you stop once Arthur didn’t answer the phone? If you could sneak into the hacienda…”

  Laughing Enemy titters. “We did, a little, but he didn’t even notice us. Something big was going down.”

  “Huh?”

  Monk clarifies. “A couple of days ago, the hacienda started resembling a war room. I snooped and gathered that something had happened to Vera and Amphitrite.”

  “Not really!” Sven exclaims, surprised to learn of mischief not of his making.

  “Really,” Monk continues. “Lovern came back from Brazil alone. Later, Eddie and Anson went out past midnight.”

  “Did you follow them?”

  “No,” Monk grins, “but we know where they went, anyhow.”

  “Where?”

  “They came back alone in the morning, but went out again midmorning to fetch the Changer and his pup.”

  Sven’s eyebrows vanish in his hairline. “But you told me that they’d left for the hills!”

  “They did. Apparently Arthur needs the ancient’s help.”

  Thinking of blood, Sven asks, “Is he still there?”

  “Didn’t see,” Hiero replies. “We stopped bugging them.”

  Sven is aghast. “You did what!”

  “We stopped,” Roy repeats. “It’s one thing to harass a bureaucrat so he doesn’t get too full of himself, but Arthur was concentrating on helping a couple of our people.”

  Seeing that Sven is still surprised, Monk cuts in. “We tease to keep people humble, but if our teasing is going to hurt Vera and Amphitrite by distracting Arthur from his work… Don’t you get it?”

  Sven, who has much less wholesome reasons for his tricks, manages to nod and smile. “Of course. You did just fine.”

  Sven’s mind is whirling, and he feels an almost physical pain that he doesn’t know enough about the situation to exploit it. Still, he cannot suddenly depart without making his too-clever tools suspicious.

  With mock heartiness, he applies the edge of his fork to the fiery carne adovada burrito the waitress sets before him.