Sven gives directions, ending, “Can’t wait! See ya!”
The Changer hangs up. He surveys the watching group.
“Did you listen in?”
Arthur shakes his head. “That would be intrusive.”
Anson A. Kridd grins broad and white. “But I did tape the call in case you wanted to review it. Do we erase or keep?”
“Keep.” The Changer gives his old friend a wry smile. “You would in any case.”
“Moi?”
The Changer does not respond to the banter. “Sven Trout and Louhi Maki have Shahrazad. They have agreed to release her to me in return for my surrendering myself so that they may extract an eye and a quart of blood.”
No one gasps or pales. All are well seasoned in the horrors intelligent beings can inflict upon their own. Still, Arthur stiffens—he would rather be the one to suffer.
“The details of our agreement are on the tape,” the Changer continues. “Jonathan, can I hire you to write a contract?”
“Inside an hour?” Jonathan nods. “Of course.”
“If you would, I wish you to come with me as one of my witnesses. Anson, would you be the other?”
“Certainly.”
“King Arthur”—the Changer almost sounds pitying—“you failed to protect Shahrazad. Therefore, from you I extract this promise. If I die, you will avenge me to the deaths of the two who call themselves now Sven Trout and Louhi Maki.”
“I will.”
“You will find my daughter fosterage—perhaps with Frank MacDonald—and serve as her guardian. If she proves to be naught but coyote, guard her first year and then find her a safe, isolated place and set her free. If she is athanor, guide her for her first century.”
“I will.”
The Changer nods. “You are honest, but I will have Jonathan draw this up as a contract as well.”
“Of course.” The King manages a smile. “It will protect me as much as you—though vendetta killing may cost me my crown.”
“Then wish me life,” the Changer says, “so that I may spare you the responsibility.”
When the clock marks thirty-five minutes to the rendezvous, Jonathan Wong enters with two contracts. “Sign this one, Arthur. It’s the vengeance and custody agreement.”
Arthur does not even read the fine print but signs, adding his thumbprint beside his signature.
“Done.”
“Are you ready, Changer?”
“I am.” He rises, turns to the King. “Keep my room.”
Sven Trout wishes that his interior calm matched the poised exterior he sees reflected in the windshield of his car. He permits himself a quick moistening of his dry lips, even while admitting to himself that he gets into these damned escapades mostly for the adrenaline rush.
Why else would he get caught up in things just about certain to get him killed? He’s put himself on the line again, closer than ever before. In some ways, he’s his own biggest victim.
Self-pity quiets his roiling guts just as a van he recognizes pulls into the space next to his car. Anson A. Kridd is at the wheel, his dark features unbrightened by his usually omnipresent smile. The Changer sits beside him and, when he gets out, pauses to open the sliding back door for Jonathan Wong.
Wong rises, bows formally, and presents Sven with several sheets of paper. “These are contracts my client requires you to sign over a truthstone, pursuant to your telephone agreement.”
Sven glances over the pages, then folds them and stuffs them into his pocket. “Louhi and I will need to review them.”
“Of course. Do you wish us to wait here?”
“No, come along. You can wait outside our place.”
He has his reasons. Louhi has warded the area immediate to the house against eavesdropping and intrusion. The enchantments won’t hold up against a concerted attack, but they’re better than nothing. The rented house is about a mile from the gas station. Sven tells the Changer and his escorts to wait outside and hurries in.
“They’re here,” he tells Louhi and the Head, suddenly breathless with excitement. “The Changer had Jonathan draw up our agreements.”
Louhi snaps a sheet of paper from his hand, scans it while he does the same with the other sheet; then they trade.
“It seems a fair transcription of the phone conversation,” Louhi says when she is finished. “Let’s sign it. I want the Changer locked down for midnight tonight. I’m not certain how long certain protections I’ve set up will last.”
“Right.” Sven nods toward the door. “Come along and we’ll get the swearing and exchange over with.”
Jonathan Wong supplies a truthstone as well as a tidy little item that permits him to assure that it is not being jammed.
“I had it made back during the Opium Wars,” he comments. “Very useful.”
The contracts are read, witnessed, and signed, Jonathan retaining the Changer’s copies. Then the Changer turns to Louhi.
“My daughter?”
For a moment, her expression becomes hopeful, as if she believes he has done other than ask for Shahrazad. Then it grows neutral, even stormy. Removing a garage-door opener from her pocket, she presses a button. One of the two garage doors opens and a streak of brown and gold races to the Changer’s side.
He kneels beside her, muttering soothing noises and running his hands along her flanks and head, checking for injuries. He finds the bruising caused by the collar, but little else.
“Shahrazad,” he says sternly, taking her puppy head in his hands and turning it so that she must look into his eyes.
She licks his nose.
“Shahrazad, go with Anson and Jonathan. I will come to you…” He glances at Louhi. “How long with this take?”
“You should be free by tomorrow at this time.”
“Tomorrow,” he tells the puppy. Then he picks her up and sets her in the back of the van. She droops, but makes no effort to jump out.
“There are certain items…” the Changer prompts.
Sven removes an embroidered suede bag from his breast pocket. “Here are all the items we promised you,” he says, and the truthstone does not gainsay him.
“Then the first part of our business is concluded,” the Changer says. “May my escort return for me? I do not fancy I will feel at all well when you are done.”
Sven is completely the gracious host. “Of course, of course. We’ll even have tea and cookies.”
“I think we can skip that,” Jonathan says mildly, “but we will return at this hour tomorrow evening.”
“Until then,” the Changer says, shaking each man by the hand and patting Shahrazad.
“Until then, you know it!” Anson promises.
Jonathan bows and then closes up the van.
Sven lets the Changer watch them drive safely out of sight. Then he smiles and gestures toward the house.
“Shall we go in?”
The Changer nods. Louhi opens a wooden gate and motions for him to precede her. He does so, sparing her no acknowledgment, knowing that any acknowledgment, false or true, would come far too late.
23
Non est, crede mihi, sapientis dicere “vivam.” Sera nimis vita est crastina; viva hodie.
(It is not, believe me, the mark of a wise man to say “I shall live.” Living tomorrow is too late; live today.)
–Martial
Watching from behind his curtained office window, Arthur observes the return of the van. A few minutes later, Eddie taps on his door.
“They got her back,” he says, coming in and closing the door behind him, “and she seems fine.”
“And the Changer?”
“Stayed with them, just as he promised. Anson says they can get him back tomorrow at about the same time.”
“Yes. I expected he would stay.” The King turns to face his liege man. “And yet I hoped… that he would be less honorable.”
Eddie nods sadly. “Yes. We have no reason to trust the word of Sven Trout.”
“Did the Changer men
tion the promise he extracted from me?”
“Not that I know. You’d need to ask Anson or Jonathan.”
“It doesn’t matter. I plan to keep it.”
“I know.”
There is a long silence during which Arthur paces back and forth across a handmade rug of Navajo design and Vera’s weaving. Eddie limps to a chair and takes the weight off his leg.
“Eddie,” Arthur says at last, “troubles are upon us, troubles akin to those that brought about the fall of Camelot.”
Eddie does not say yea nor nay, but listens. Arthur begins ticking points off on his fingers.
“This matter with the Changer is but one. Even if he lives, we must decide whether what Sven and Louhi have done violates Harmony. The acts of the South Americans most definitely did, but their hostage-taking was done in an effort to manipulate all athanor. I’m less certain about this last.”
“Nor I. Louhi has her long resentments against…”
“Lovern?”
“Yes, but I was going to say ‘the Changer.’ She believes herself his daughter and resents his lack of acknowledgment.”
“I had forgotten,” Arthur admits. “It is not as if there is a great estate to be contested.”
“No.”
“Another challenge we must face is how to present the deaths of Isidro Robelo and Oswaldo Barjak. Delicate and ticklish. Even those who are our supporters will frown at what could be seen as political assassination.”
“Anson would swear otherwise.”
“Who would believe the Spider,” Arthur says, “even with a truthstone in his hand? Even now, I wonder at the firmness of his support. What does he want?”
Eddie, long accustomed to Arthur’s distrust of Anson, does not bother to defend his friend, but his shrug is eloquent. Take the Spider as he is, it says.
“Don’t be angry with me, Eddie,” Arthur pleads. “I can only speak honestly to you. I am made furious by my inability to act. The Changer deserves better from me than to act in my service and then be consigned to a sorceress’s shambles.”
“I know.”
“Perhaps if I called Duppy Jonah…” Arthur muses. “He might act for his brother.”
“Does his brother need acting for?”
“A strong force camped within sight of neutral ground has oft swayed the course of negotiations in the past.”
“True. Make your call, then.”
Arthur punches buttons and after several rings a human-seeming voice with an Irish accent answers. “Who would you be wishing to have speech with?”
“Duppy Jonah.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
“Arthur Pendragon.”
“One moment, sire.”
Arthur cups his hand over the lower end of the receiver. “I’m on hold. Nice music. Waves on the beach. Whale song. We might want to try something similar here.”
Eddie frowns. “Certain parties might chose to misinterpret it as a sop to powerful allies.”
“Hm. True.”
The music stops and Arthur raises a finger to Eddie.
“This is Duppy Jonah.”
“Arthur Pendragon.”
“We seem to speak more frequently these days, Arthur,” the Sea King says gruffly. “What do you want of me?”
“To tell you that the Changer is in difficulty.”
There is a rough sound, like a strangled exclamation. Then, “Does this trouble involve Louhi, perchance?”
“It does,” Arthur admits, amazed.
“Then tell me no more. I… I have taken oath not to interfere in her business at this time.”
“You have… Oh. Very well. I thought…”
“Although I consider informing me just and courteous, King Arthur, I should not know what I have been asked to overlook.”
Arthur is too familiar with the business of trading favors and the like not to guess something of what has restricted Duppy Jonah’s actions. He tugs at his beard, trying to think of a way to enlist the Sea King’s aid if the need arises.
“I appreciate your position, sir. If there is anything you would care to know…”
“No. I will call if I need information.”
“Then if there is nothing I can add, let me at least ask after the well-being of my wizard.”
“Lovern?” Duppy Jonah’s tone becomes distrustful. “Is this all some ploy to get me to release that scrawny-shanked troublemaker into your keeping? I swear to you…”
“No, Your Majesty, no, nothing of the kind,” Arthur says swiftly, though he realizes that something of the sort had been lurking beneath his conscious mind.
“The wizard lives and breathes and is taking lessons in the wisdom of manipulating those who may one day be in the position of remembering and acting on those recollections.”
Arthur smiles grimly. “A lesson we all should recall, don’t you think, Duppy Jonah? The Wheel of Fortune turns steadily and those on the top are the ones who have the farthest to fall.”
“An apt metaphor, King Arthur, one for all of us to remember,” Duppy Jonah replies, undaunted. “Lovern has fallen to the depths of the sea. From here, he can only hope to rise.”
“Give him my greetings, if you would, good King.”
“I shall. And my thanks for the courtesy of your call.”
“My pleasure and my duty, sir.”
The connection ends, and Arthur shrugs, his sigh eloquent. “I expect that you followed all of that, Eddie.”
“Easily enough. I wonder what keeps Duppy Jonah from interfering against Louhi?”
“Some promise given, who knows how long ago or for what trifling service. He regrets it some now, will more so if the Changer comes to lasting harm.”
“I expect so. There is nothing we can do but wait.”
“I know. I’d better visit Shahrazad. I should grow more familiar with her. Carpets be damned! She’ll sleep in my room.”
Eddie chuckles. “You might be wiser to sleep in the courtyard. She is but indifferently housebroken, and coyote urine reeks!”
“No matter,” Arthur says. “The courtyard lacks a roof. I would have at least that between Shahrazad and having to answer again to the Changer for not keeping her safe.”
“Wise.”
Together they depart, flipping off lights as they go, both wondering about one whom they imagine to be in darkness.
After watching the van drive away, the Changer follows his captors into the house.
“Since you’re here of your own free choice,” Sven says, his voice as cordial as if he is discussing the menu for dinner, “I don’t see any reason for you to be imprisoned. Do you, Louhi?”
Louhi nods stiffly. She has yet to look squarely at the Changer.
“We have another colleague with us,” Sven continues. “I doubt that you have actually met. He’s lived a life of rather enforced isolation.”
The Changer refrains from guessing who this other is, although he has strong suspicions. Still, to voice them would be to play Sven’s game, and that is something he wishes to avoid. Obediently, he follows Sven down the stairs into the living room and faces the Head hanging there by its lank grey hair.
“Hardly a comfortable seat,” the Changer comments.
Before speaking, the Head sips from a straw that has been rigged so that it can drink without help. Despite its care, water trails down its chin, emphasizing the dryness of the skin.
“Wizard-wrought wight, basely born but baseless,” Mimir’s Head replies, “’til remedies woven by witch and woe will bring forth a body to bear me.”
“I understand,” the Changer says, “and does Lovern know that you are gone?”
“Lovern,” Louhi snaps, “is still captive to Duppy Jonah. Even if he knows—which I sincerely doubt—he is in no position to act.”
Without asking permission, the Changer crosses to a beige sectional sofa and slouches among the cushions as if at his ease. He isn’t, but nothing is gained by letting his captors know.
“A bit o
f luck for you, then,” he says, “that the South Americans did what they did, or did you have a hand in that, too?”
“Regretfully,” Sven says, taking a seat at the other end of the sofa, “I did not, except for encouraging them in their sense of righteous indignation. They were helpful, but we had contingencies planned to keep Lovern from interfering.”
The Changer nods. Louhi still stands at the top of the stairs, looking down from the kitchen. He can almost hear the argument she is aching to begin.
How can you love a dog more than me? Why didn’t you care for me as you did for her? Aren’t I a daughter of whom to be proud?
His answers—that he does not believe she is his daughter, that even if she is, she is clearly capable of caring for herself, and that he does not find her particularly admirable—would not help matters, so he lets the argument rage: unspoken, unresolved, unresolvable. He only regrets that he will suffer from her unrequited desire for acknowledgment.
Since Louhi will not speak, and he does not care to, conversation cannot thrive. Sven’s attempts at banter fail, as do the Changer’s attempts to gather some knowledge of what their plans are beyond his impending mutilation. At last, Sven reaches for a remote control and they watch television reruns.
Half an hour before midnight, Louhi descends from her room. She wears a black-silk robe embroidered in silver thread with arcane devices. It caresses her slender body as she walks, hinting that the robe and her suede slippers are all she wears. In one hand, she holds a slim velvet band, also embroidered in silver, a hammered-silver crescent moon stitched onto its center.
“Sven,” she says, her voice soft yet carrying, “I’m having trouble getting this on straight. Would you please tie it on?”
With notable alacrity, Sven springs to his feet and fastens the headband about Louhi’s brow. Watching the redhead trying to slip his hand inside the sorceress’s silk robe, the Changer decides that the two are not lovers. He also notes the expression of lust and envy that ripples across the Head’s features and files that knowledge away for the future.
“Changer,” Louhi says peremptorily, “come with me.”
He follows her up a short flight of stairs, twin to those leading down from the kitchen but across the living room, and into what proves to be a palatial bathroom. The fixtures are dove grey and the tile vaguely art deco. The dominant feature is a large, deep bathtub, freestanding on its own pedestal against a backdrop of windows curtained from prying eyes by climbing roses.
Changer (Athanor) Page 41
