Changer's Daughter

by Jane Lindskold

  “Possibly, though I have taken care to be downwind of her whenever possible.”

  “More fettucini?”

  “Please.” The Changer heaps his plate high, then adds extra cheese sauce from a tureen that stands warming over a small candle. “How long have you had wolves here?”

  “Since I founded the ranch. They have real problems, problems on a par with those faced by creatures like the griffin or unicorns.”

  “Worse in a way,” the Changer says. “Humans fear them—even the humans who claim to love them—and they know wolves exist.”

  “Right.” Frank sips red wine. “Ranchers are smart to fear wolf predation, don’t get me wrong. A wolf pack coordinates in killing its prey, making it a threat to creatures far larger than any one wolf.”

  “I,” the Changer says reminiscently, “have been a wolf.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you have,” Frank says. “You have been most things. My wolf pack has special problems.”

  “I smelled them,” the Changer says. “Man-wolves.”

  “Yes,” Frank sighs. “Werewolves. They aren’t very effective shapechangers. Their human form is primitive: bipedal but so heavily furred and with such a gross distortion of the facial features that a satyr has an easier time blending into modern society.”

  “I don’t recall,” the Changer says mildly, “a time when werewolves ever blended very easily.”

  “No,” Frank agrees. “They don’t really. They’re not a whole lot smarter than your average wolf, and in human form they’re rather short-tempered. They do make extraordinarily good wolves, though. The extra intelligence helps there. That’s why some of them survived the Middle Ages.”

  “There was an aboriginal werewolf population in North America, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, even their athanor resistance to disease didn’t stop them from falling to the same illnesses that devastated the Native Americans. And not even an athanor can resist a bullet to the heart or a cut throat.”

  “So your pack here?”

  “Is part-European, part-American. I’ve heard that there is another community in Alaska. There may be another in Siberia. I’m not certain.”

  “Are they cross-fertile with wolves?”

  “Varies from werewolf to werewolf, much as with most athanor. Lupé, the pack leader—the one who was ready to kill Shahrazad—does better than most, but most of his pups are just wolves.”

  “Athanor wolves?”

  “Not many. Not for several years.”

  “Still his get has added to Harmony.”

  “Yes.”

  They finish the fettucini in silence, then Frank goes to the kitchen and returns with a pecan pie and a carafe of coffee.

  “Dessert?”

  “Of course. You know how shapeshifters are.” The Changer smiles, and Frank colors.

  “Yes, that I do.”

  He cuts them both large wedges of pie, tastes his, then continues:

  “I rely on the werewolves to help me with many of the chores around here. They can’t feed the horses or muck out stalls—the horses get too scared. But they can build fences or do repair work on the buildings. Just for safety’s sake, I don’t pasture any of the horses near the wolves’ hunting grounds. The werewolves have a pretty good idea of what they should and should not hunt.”

  “And they have lots of experience hiding their tracks,” the Changer says. “So they protect the normal wolves.”

  “Right. The deal has worked so far, but the wolf pack has grown larger than I like. I need to keep the athanor here, but I’m trying to find somewhere I can export some of the spares.”

  “Alaska?”

  “Probably. The yeti would help them while they acclimated. The trouble is, a biologist would realize that they weren’t from the local strain. That might raise some awkward questions. I might try Siberia instead. The former Soviet Union is such a mess that no one is going to be studying wolves for a while.”

  “A great, wide world,” the Changer says, “and yet it keeps getting smaller.”

  “I know. Where are you thinking of going next?”

  “Can Shahrazad stay here?”

  “If she does, I’ll do my best to protect her, but if she doesn’t learn to stay away from werewolves and hydra, there isn’t much I can do.”

  “She wants friends,” the Changer says. “You don’t have coyotes on OTQ grounds, though, do you?”

  “Not many, not for long.” Frank shrugs. “Wolves don’t like coyotes and most coyotes have the sense to stay away from wolves.”

  “Shahrazad is still a bit of a snob when it comes to cats and dogs,” the Changer admits, “and, though she won’t say so, she’s scared of the unicorns.”

  Frank nods. “That shows intelligence. There are some foxes who might play with her. Maybe I can get her to realize that even grass-eaters can be interesting.”

  “If anyone can do it,” the Changer says, again with a smile that says more than his words, “I think it will be you.”

  Frank ignores the innuendo. “So where will you go? Back to Arthur’s?”

  “I don’t think so. From what you have told me, he is facing another crisis. Besides, I’m not one for cities.”

  Frank frowns. “I’d prefer if you were somewhere I could contact you if Shahrazad did get into trouble, not out in virgin wilderness.”

  “Why don’t I go visit my brother?”

  “Duppy Jonah? That’s not a bad idea. He’s had telephone for quite a while. I think that Vera has been working on some way to get him and Amphitrite on-line.”

  “I can fly to the Gulf and swim from there,” the Changer says. “Atlantis is being constructed in warmer waters.”

  “That would work then,” Frank agrees. “You couldn’t get here immediately, but I could reach you if I needed an opinion.”

  The Changer glances over to where Shahrazad is sound asleep, apparently unaware of the black-and-white long-haired cat that has curled up beside her.

  “I’ll explain things to her in the morning,” he says. “She must understand that I will not be here to save her from herself.”

  Frank nods. “You’re not going to enjoy that, are you?”

  “No, but it must be done.”

  8

  We are in bondage to the law in order that we might be free.

  —Cicero

  Prepared by Eddie’s message to treat their employer as if he is part-temperamental two-year-old and part-mad dog, Chris and Bill are surprised by how courteously Arthur summons them to his office a few hours after they receive Eddie’s message.

  Entering the chief executive’s office with barely concealed trepidation, they expect anything from a lecture on how useless they are or a diatribe about Eddie’s disloyalty. Instead, Arthur stands politely when they enter and gestures to the good chairs he keeps for guests.

  “Please,” he says, his British accent courtly, “have a seat. May I offer you some refreshments?”

  “Water,” Bill manages, “would be nice.”

  Chris nods agreement.

  Once they are settled with tall crystal goblets of iced water, Arthur resumes his seat behind his desk and clears his throat. It’s about then that both humans realize that they are neither about to be fired nor lectured.

  “You both are aware,” Arthur says, “of the difficulty that has arisen regarding Tommy Thunderburst’s plan to use fauns and satyrs in his stage show.”

  They nod.

  “I realized earlier this morning that I have not been consulting you as I should have. After all, we are dealing with a question of how humans will react to the presence of something they believe mythical. Certainly, as you are human, you are the best people to advise me.”

  Chris clears his throat, remembering what Eddie had said to Arthur in the letter he had appended to their own. Eddie had hit the nail on the head. How best to reinforce his argument without letting the King know that they are in collusion?

  “Well, sir,” he says, pus
hing his glasses straight on the bridge of his nose, “the fact is that ever since television was introduced, humans have been conditioned to distrust the evidence of their eyes. We know that most of what we see is a trick—whether it’s beautiful women on some soap opera or monsters on some SF special. They look real, but we know that they’re not.”

  Arthur nods encouragement, so Bill picks up the thread.

  “Back when the movie King Kong was first shown in the theaters,” he says, “they say that women fainted and even went into labor prematurely. Today, most people laugh at how fake that big ape looks, but they still scream when some computer-generated dinosaur clomps across the scream.”

  “And,” Chris adds, “even while they’re doing it, there’s this little voice in the back of their minds wondering whether these dinosaurs are going to look as fake as the original King Kong in a couple years.”

  Arthur nods again, pours himself a little more Earl Grey tea from the elegant teapot resting on the corner of his desk, and sips.

  “So what you are saying is that even if the audience members at Tommy’s show see, hear, and even smell a satyr, they won’t believe that they’re seeing anything other than a particularly well-done special effect.”

  Chris smiles encouragingly. “That’s the long and short of it. I think that even if some starstruck fan shook hands with a faun, all she’d think is ‘How cool,’ then wonder how they did the makeup so well that it didn’t show up close.”

  “You know,” Bill adds, “that handshaking could be the most dangerous part of the whole thing. When I was a kid, my folks took me to see Santa Claus. I tried to pull off his beard ‘cause I’d heard from some kids at school that Santa was all a fake.”

  Arthur raises his eyebrows. “And what happened?”

  “Santa screamed,” Bill says, laughing. “He may have been a fake, but the beard was real.”

  Arthur chuckles. “I have never gone to see Santa at Christmas, but I did meet Saint Nicholas once in passing. That is the problem with me. I know that so many things from legend are not myths. This makes it hard for me to believe that creatures as intelligent as humans could be fooled.”

  “Thanks,” Chris says dryly, “for the vote of confidence regarding intelligence, but the truth of the matter is that most people going out to a concert will have turned their brains off.”

  “Chemically,” Bill adds, “in many cases. At the last concert I attended you could get high just from the smoke drifting around. The stadium was technically ‘dry,’ but some of the kids were really clever at sneaking in stuff to drink.”

  “And the officials just let this happen?” Arthur asks, amazed. “But there are laws!”

  “Your athanor are pretty law-abiding,” Bill says, “no matter what you think from time to time.”

  “Much for us all rests,” Arthur says stiffly, “on maintaining both the Accord and Harmony.”

  “So we have seen,” Chris assures him. “But most Americans have a shaky idea of just why a society abides by laws. I was a reporter, I know. Americans may have learned about the social contract in civics class, but most view laws as inconveniences—until they want to sue someone else for breaking them.”

  “And taxes,” Bill puts in, “are looked at as an abuse and an indignity, but people still want someone to fix the potholes, maintain the parks, and pick up the trash without bothering them about it.”

  “Yes.” Arthur actually smiles. “I have seen that response often enough in the kingdoms I have ruled. So, as you analyze the situation, most humans will not believe that they are seeing real fauns and satyrs.”

  “That’s right,” Chris says. “And of those who do believe, most will be unwilling to break that illusion. They want to believe in myth and magic.”

  “Until,” Arthur says grimly, “it comes true. Then the witch hunts start.”

  “We’re not arguing with that,” Bill agrees. “Anyhow, I hung around with Georgios when he was out here this past September, and I’m not certain that human society is ready for him in large doses.”

  Arthur looks relieved to find that they, at least, are not challenging his policy of cautious interaction. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Let them do the show,” Chris says, “but suggest some safeguards.”

  Arthur starts taking notes on his computer. He nods for Chris to go on.

  “First,” Chris says, suddenly feeling the enormous responsibility of counseling a king, “suggest that Lil and Tommy play coy about just how they’ve managed this stunt. That will both increase the interest and assure most people that it’s all a scam.

  “Two, have the fauns and satyrs wear at least some stage makeup. That way if someone takes pictures with a telephoto lens they’ll see the makeup and think that it’s all just FX.”

  Arthur chuckles. “Clever. Anything else?”

  Bill nods. “Yeah. Suggest that the more rambunctious characters don’t give interviews. I don’t trust Georgios, good buddy that he is, not to drop his pants and show off his endowments.”

  “Good point,” Arthur says. “I have seen him do just that in a time long past. The woman, however, was not impressed. She was horrified.”

  “And,” Chris says, “if some theriomorph insists on giving an interview, suggest that they be misleading—something like the ‘real beard’ thing that Bill mentioned before.”

  “You mean, actually invite an interviewer to pull a beard?” Arthur says, his fingers flying over the keys.

  “Something like that. We can work out the details if the need arises.”

  Arthur looks up from rereading what he has just typed.

  “I can hardly believe,” he says, “that I am going to condone this madness. It is contrary to everything I have worked toward for the last several centuries.”

  Bill laughs. “Well, it’s not like they gave you much choice.”

  “No,” Arthur says solemnly, “and that will remain a difficulty. I can make suggestions as to their course of action, but I cannot command.”

  “Why not,” Chris suggests, “get your own man in their camp? Or at least your own faun?”

  “Who?”

  “I was reviewing the theriomorph chatroom this morning,” Chris responds. “Demetrios Stangos has been offered a job managing the theriomorphs. He’s thinking about turning it down, but if you can get him to take it, I’m sure he’ll work with you.”

  “Brilliant!” Arthur exclaims. “You both have been a great deal of help. I will call Demetrios at once. Now, return to your duties. I’ll be certain to tell you what results from our discussion.”

  Chris glances at the clock. “It’s getting near lunchtime. Eddie told me to make certain you don’t forget to eat.”

  Arthur pats his waist. “I can certainly afford to miss a meal or two.”

  “Still,” Chris says over his shoulder, as he and Bill depart, “I’ll bring in a sandwich.”

  He doesn’t know if Arthur has heard him. The King, the glow of battle in his eyes, has picked up the phone and is punching in a number.

  They meet with Shango in great secrecy, a thing that surprises Anson quite a bit, for Monamona is Shango’s city, even to its name, which means lightning in Yoruban.

  Here Shango has ruled from behind the scenes for more than twenty-five years. He has managed at least one successful change of identity in that time and amassed considerable wealth. That he should insist on a private meeting is incredible.

  Incredible or not, he insists. After a great flurry of minor illusions, skulking in doorways, and entering via side entrances, they arrive at a private residence.

  Following instructions smuggled to them by a street urchin, they go to a room on the second floor. Therein, they find Shango waiting for them. He is alone, seated in a comfortable chair with empty chairs drawn up in a rough circle. The room is hot, for the curtains are all drawn and there is no air-conditioning. The slow action of electric fans keeps the room from becoming completely stifling.

  “I warn you,�
� Eddie tells Shango, while Anson and Dakar search for hidden guards, recording devices, or other evidence of skulduggery, “that I have left messages where they will be found if I do not report back to disable them within a preordained period of time.”

  Shango, a long-necked man with smile lines about his eyes and mouth, smooths the drape of his hand-printed dansiki, adjusts the bracelets on his arms, and tries hard to look cheerful.

  “I believe you, Wild Man, Knight of the Round Table, Great Ancient of our people. I hope that you believe me in turn when I tell you that I intend no harm, no threat to any of you. Indeed, my insistence on meeting in this fashion is my first and best attempt at keeping you safe.”

  “The place seems clean,” Dakar says, dropping into one of three empty chairs that are arranged near Shango’s. “Seems the pansy has played fair with us—a shame, I was looking forward to messing up his pretty hair.”

  Shango touches his Michael Jacksonesque array of curls.

  “I am a dandy,” he says, neither his temper nor his locks the least disarrayed, “not a pansy. Ask my wives and children if you doubt my virility, though I wonder why you are so interested. What does it say about you?”

  “And a good evening to you both.” Anson interrupts the byplay. “Shango, we are here. Why this secrecy? When you and I first discussed this meeting, we agreed to meet at your office with the appropriate officials. Are you reneging on our preliminary agreement?”

  “No, but things have changed since we made our plans.”

  “Changed.” Anson frowns. “I can believe that.”

  “I have met with difficulties.”

  “And so have we.”

  “And I believe that I may not be able to fulfill my part of the bargain.”

  Shango rises from his chair in a sudden burst of energy that recalls the lightning that he wields. He brings out an ice chest containing chilled drinks and drops it into the middle of the circle formed by their chairs.

  “My hospitality is not the most elegant, but the drinks are cold and individually sealed.”

  Anson leans down and pulls out a cola from among the ice cubes. He pops it open, continuing his interrogation while Eddie and Dakar get their own drinks.