Changer's Daughter

by Jane Lindskold

  “Not great, señor.” Jesus shrugs. “It is winter, you know.”

  “I know it’s winter,” Wayne grumbles. Then he brightens. “But it beats shit having the cows out here tearing up the government’s land while my pastures recover.”

  Jesus remains discreetly silent. He might even agree, but he’s learned from long experience that volunteering his opinion is a good way to invite a harangue.

  “Anything you and your boys need out here?” Wayne asks. The question isn’t from kindness. He’s paying the three Mexicans to keep an eye on this herd and on four others he has out in this general area. Ever since unexpectedly severe winter storms a few years back wiped out several hundred head of cattle in southern New Mexico and northern Texas, the insurance companies had gotten snippy about paying off on cattle that they felt had not been properly overseen.

  “Perhaps, señor, a couple of good horses,” Martinez gestures at the hilly land with its arroyos and sudden drops. “There are places the truck cannot go easily.”

  “And you don’t want to walk,” Wayne grunts. “We’ll see.”

  They’ve come up to the area where Wayne’s government land borders on the Other Three Quarters Ranch. To Wayne’s displeasure, since he’d counted on running his cattle all through the area, he sees that a new fence has been strung along the boundary.

  “When’d that go up?”

  “Almost as soon as we brought the cattle.” Jesus waves his hands expressively. “It went up like magic. We were greatly surprised.”

  “Magic, eh?” Wayne grunts again. “Just good American technology, barbed wire and posts.”

  Seeing what looks like a potential weak point in the fence, he stops the truck and walks over, Jesus trailing politely behind. Wayne pulls experimentally at the wire, decides that it’s set more securely than he had thought, and is about to retreat when he catches sight of something in a shady hollow amidst a cluster of rocks. There’s snow there, just a little, left over from an early storm.

  Stepping on the bottom strand of wire, and raising the middle, he climbs through the gap. Martinez, more respectful of property lines—other than those dividing nations—waits, lighting a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket.

  Several steps take Wayne to the hollow. He crouches and inspects his find, feeling a sharp thrill of elation. It’s a track, just a single track, but he’s been a hunter since he was a boy of six and can read sign like a scholar reading Latin.

  Wayne’s certain what he’s looking at is a canine track, but something about the shape makes him certain that it’s not a dog track. It’s too big to be a coyote track. That almost certainly makes it just one thing—wolf.

  He puts his finger in the track, feeling its depth, guessing its age from the amount of blown snow and degree of icing. It isn’t brand-new, must have been made a couple of days ago, but wolf! Here, on his own land, or what might has well be his own land. Wolf!

  Thoughtfully, he creeps back through the fence, already making plans. There will be no trouble at all if he shoots a wolf on his own land. Even in those places where the bleeding-heart conservationists are trying to reintroduce wolves, provisions have been made to permit ranchers to protect their property.

  “Come on, Hey,” he says, walking briskly toward the truck. “We’ve got more land to inspect.”

  “Sí, señor.” Wayne is too excited to hear the hint of mockery in Jesus’s voice, a nasal intonation like that of Pancho in the Cisco Kid. “I come.”

  “I’ll even let you drive.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  Wayne hardly listens as Jesus reports on the condition of the surrounding land, of the herds wintering on them, of the availability of water. He only asks one question.

  “Any problem with predators?”

  “No, Mr. Watkins. On this land we have not even seen a coyote. On the other parcels, some few coyote, maybe some wild dogs, nothing else, not even a mountain lion.”

  “But nothing on this piece?”

  “No, señor. We have seen nothing.”

  Wayne debates letting Jesus in on his secret, decides not to. It’d be just like a greaser to shoot the wolf before he does.

  “Well, keep a careful eye out. I’m worried about those dogs you mentioned. Let me know if you see any tracks at all but don’t”—Wayne turns a gimlet eye on his foreman—“don’t shoot anything unless it’s actually attacking the cow. Let me know first.”

  If Jesus thinks this odd, he doesn’t say anything. Still, Wayne feels a need to clarify.

  “If it’s dogs, we don’t want you shooting somebody’s hunting dog out for a bit of fun. So don’t shoot anything, unless you’ve let me get a look at it first.”

  This time Jesus barely, just barely, cocks an eyebrow, but his tone is as respectful as ever.

  “Sí, señor. I understand. No shooting of anything, unless it is actually attacking the cows.”

  “Good.” Wayne thinks that he’d better change the subject. “I’ve been musing over your request for horses. I’ve got some, but it occurs to me that just over the way is a horse ranch. Maybe MacDonald’d be glad to move some stock. I think when we’re finished here, I’ll just mosey over, introduce myself, and find out what might be for sale.”

  And maybe, he thinks, just maybe I’ll be able to get a line on this wolf.

  13

  No one knows the story of tomorrow’s dawn.

  —African proverb

  “The fuel truck just drove right past us.” Swansdown looks across the field toward the main road, puzzlement on her broad, pink, yeti features. “I don’t understand. That’s the third delivery truck to miss us this week.”

  “Third?” Lovern shuffles into the room, a cup of rewarmed, stale coffee crooked in his hand. “Really?”

  “Really. UPS, Schwans, and now this.”

  “I didn’t think the road was so badly marked.”

  “It isn’t,” Swansdown says. “I had the Raven of Enderby go down and check. The sign’s as clear as daylight.”

  Lovern looks around for someone, anyone, he can send after the oil truck, realizing in shock that he is the only human-form in the place.

  “I’ll go after the truck,” he says, trying hard not to sound put-upon, though that is precisely how he feels.

  After that minor crisis is solved, he retires to his study, picks up the phone, and hits the first number on his speed dialer.

  “Arthur,” he says, when he has the King on the line, “I can’t go on like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “I am running out of staff, and the jobs keep pouring in. I need help, experienced help.”

  Arthur’s sigh huffs through the receiver. “Who do you have there?”

  “I have one yeti, cats, and a raven. In a few days I’ll be down to the cats and the raven.”

  “That’s all?” Arthur sounds surprised, and Lovern realizes that the King doesn’t realize how attrition has decimated his staff.

  “That’s all. Frank MacDonald is on his ranch—leaving me at the mercy of the cats. Lil Prima and Tommy Thunderburst gave me a couple of weeks. Now they’re back to making pop music.”

  “Pan,” Arthur retorts mildly, “is getting very good reviews.”

  Lovern ignores him. “Swansdown has been here for weeks, but she needs to get home to her family. The weather up north is going to get impassible pretty soon—even for a yeti.”

  “And?”

  “And! There is no ‘and’—other than the cats and the Raven of Enderby, I’ve been on my own. The Head is a ground squirrel. Louhi is a mouse...”

  Arthur interrupts. “Remember, my wizard, both of them have been ruled out of Accord. And even if they had not been, neither of them would have been likely to work with you in any case. You made rather firm enemies of them both.”

  “I’d take my chances with either of them—or both,” the wizard says defiantly, “if I could get them here. I’d even take Loki Firebrand if I was certain he was still alive.”
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  A long pause follows this, then Arthur says in the distinct tone of one who is changing the subject:

  “There must be someone else who is magically adept. Oswaldo Barjak had talent—untrained but true talent. Surely there are others like him who would be grateful for the opportunity to work at your side.”

  “Barjak is dead,” Lovern says bluntly. “One of the reasons he wasn’t trained was that there are too few adepts remaining. The Accord’s insistence on secrecy has put quite a damper on our recruiting those who are not athanor.”

  “Don’t you start griping about that, too!” Arthur snaps. “Just answer my question. Is there anyone out there who might have some scrap of talent you can use? Name names. I’ll handle the recruiting for you.”

  Lovern remembers he is speaking to a king and moderates his tone. He’s made his point anyhow.

  “Names. Let me think.” He hums, deliberately mimicking “hold music.” “All right. Here are a few: either of the sea monarchs—if you can get them.”

  “I doubt it. Give me someone more under my control.”

  “Anansi.”

  “He’s in Nigeria. I’ll see what I can do to get him back.”

  “Garrett.”

  “Tough to say. He views his medical work as more important than anything else.”

  “Tell him this would be saving lives—athanor lives.”

  “I’ll try.” The King doesn’t sound confident. “Next?”

  Reluctantly, Lovern switches to the distaff side. “Patti Lyn Asinbeau.”

  “Possible. If I can get her off Wall Street during a bull market—or is it a ‘bear market’?—anyhow, during a market when the fighting’s fierce. If I get Patti for you, you have to promise to deal with her temper.”

  “Get her. I’ll try to remember that she needs to think she’s in charge. Next: Alice Chun.”

  Arthur grunts. “That’ll be harder. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her on other matters for a few weeks. Her agent keeps saying that she’s working on her next book and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Other matters?” Lovern sounds vaguely horrified that Arthur is concentrating on problems other than those associated with the Academy.

  “Minor,” Arthur soothes. “Anson said that I should get another woman in my cabinet. I thought that since Alice was once a reigning monarch, I should ask her first.”

  “Another woman? You already have Vera!”

  “That’s what I said, but Anson sees things differently, and I did ask for his advice. I’ll try harder to find Alice. Anyone else?”

  Lovern pulls at his beard with his teeth. “That’s all I can think of, right now.”

  “Won’t any of the theriomorphs do?”

  “I hadn’t thought,” Lovern admits. “For so many of them, their magic is innate. Yes. The tengu might be a help—and since they have a human form, we won’t need to hide them as we have Swansdown.”

  There’s a faint thumping sound. Lovern knows that it’s Arthur drumming on the desk with the eraser end of a pencil. The familiar sound warms him.

  “Well, Lovern, if you think of anyone else, give me a call. Meanwhile, I’ll get started with this list.”

  “Thanks. And please put out the word that this is not and can never be a factory to create magical amulets. We don’t have the staff. If anyone wants to enter into an apprenticeship—that’s different.”

  “Right.” The King has been telling everyone this, but it hasn’t stopped those so long imprisoned by their shapes from hoping. “Now go have a nice cup of tea and then get back to work.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” After hanging up the phone, Lovern permits himself a few more minutes of self-pity. He’d never imagined that at this stage of his long and illustrious life he’d be facing such problems!

  Sighing deeply, he rises from his desk and, ever attentive to royal commands, goes and makes his nice cup of tea.

  The room is windowless, but features two doors. One is a trapdoor in the ceiling that leads up to the private quarters of Chief General Doctor Regis. The second, set in a more traditional fashion in the wall, exits into the sewer tunnels beneath Monamona. This second door is invisible from the tunnels. Only those who know where it is can find it.

  Currently, those number two: Regis and Percy Omomomo, Minister for Electricity in Monamona. They have met there, as they have met many times before, each seated in a straight-backed chair, each with arms resting on a small square table. Their only other furnishing is an electric lantern hung from a hook on the ceiling from where it casts sharp black angular shadows.

  “I don’t like this new development,” Regis says. “It is inexplicable.”

  “Not to mention inconvenient,” Omomomo agrees. “You have your business circle gathered and then this! Now, no telephone, no radio, no communication. Maybe you set your plague out too soon, na?”

  “I don’t think so,” Regis says stubbornly. “How else was I to inspire the correct level of fear and obedience? That Japanese would not work with me without such coercion.”

  “Maybe true,” says Omomomo, toying idly with one of his gold earrings. “Maybe not so true.”

  “It is true!” Regis insists. “This Katsuhiro Oba almost frightens me, he is so intense. It is like having a lion in a cage. As long as the bars are strong, he is held, but if a bar breaks...”

  The doctor makes a gesture like the swiping of a paw, claws extended.

  “But now he work w’ you?”

  “Unless he sees another alternative. Meanwhile the others will become restless. For now, they are enjoying a little holiday, with women and ample food. Give them a few days, though, and they will be wondering what coups might be happening while they play here.”

  Omomomo nods. “That is a problem. Not only in their imaginations, either. Remember what happened to General Yakubu Gowon?”

  “Who hasn’t heard the tale? How humiliating to find out that you have been deposed over the BBC while you are making great noises about your importance at an international conference!” Regis frowns, runs a hand through his reddish hair. “That is why I am keeping Katsuhiro locked up. The only one I have permitted to visit him is Taiwo Fadaka, who you have vouched for personally.”

  “Good.” Percy Omomomo straightens his elegant shirt.

  It is a mystery to Regis how the minister can come to him through the sewers and remain so elegant—a minor mystery, true, but it annoys him, for it reminds him that Omomomo, of all his tools, is the one least under his control.

  Regis glowers. “What are you doing to fix this problem?”

  “I have many men at work,” Omomomo promises, “both those on the city payroll and secret informers of my own.”

  “But what can they do about the wind!”

  “Maybe nothing about the wind, but much about controlling the situation. Already, most of the food coming in is in our hands. Meantime, I have men loyal to me at all the checkpoints surrounding the city. If the wind stops...”

  “When the wind stops!”

  “Very well. When the wind stops, we will be the first to know. They have radios, so as soon as there is no interference, I will be one of the first to know. You will be the second.”

  “But this wind!” Regis rises from the straight-backed chair and begins to pace. “Where did it come from? Could it be some new superweapon of one of the first world powers?”

  Omomomo shrugs. “I don’t know. As I say, I am trying to learn.” He looks at Regis, shrouding his gaze beneath hooded eyelids. “Some in the streets and the markets, they are saying that this is caused by the orisha.”

  “Nonsense!”

  Omomomo chuckles. “You don’t believe in gods?”

  “No! I am a man of science!”

  “But your men think you one of the orisha. They think you the King of Hot Water, the Ruler of the World.”

  “It has been a useful ploy, one that commands more obedience than any bribe or threat. That is all.”

  Regis doesn’t think anything
will be served by telling Omomomo that there are times he does think he is Shopona born on Earth. His mother’s family had been members of Shopona’s cult before it was banned by the government and continued to worship in secret.

  Regis had imbibed the worship with his mother’s milk... along with—he believes—the AIDS that will someday kill him. Before he dies, though, he will have his vengeance for that, for his mother’s prostitution to the white man who abandoned them both. Shopona has promised him this in his dreams.

  “Still,” says Omomomo, rising gracefully and adjusting the beads around his neck until they fall just so, “watch your men carefully. You have played at being a god. If they think the other gods are rising against you, then maybe they not fear you so much. Then maybe you have trouble with more than your caged lion of a Japanese.”

  If Regis hears the threat beneath those silky words, he chooses not to respond.

  “A good thing to remember,” he replies with a curt nod. “As for you, if you find a way out of the city, contact me at once. We may be able to work this to our advantage. Becoming the heroes of Monamona may be the perfect stepping-stone to our larger plans, don’t you forget that.”

  “I don’t,” says Omomomo. “Not ever. Why else do you think I work with you? Like you, I have plans for Nigeria. Great plans both for the nation and for myself.”

  “It’s been two days since the wind started,” Dakar growls, pacing back and forth. “Two days and we haven’t learned anything!”

  Anson, sprawled on the one of the beds, a plate of moi-moi resting on his belly, scoops up a helping of the bean pâté before answering.

  “I don’t know about that. We have learned a great deal, just not about the source of the wind.”

  At that moment, like an actor responding to his cue, Eddie bursts in, “I think I’ve got something!”

  Dakar wheels, lightly for such a large man. “This had better not be a trick.”

  Eddie shakes his head. His dark face is shiny with sweat, lightly appliquéd with dust. He holds a scrap of paper in one hand.

  “No, I leave the tricks to Anansi. This is just plain boring patience and a touch of luck.” Crossing to a plastic pitcher filled with cold water, he pours himself a glass as he continues. “You know that my beat was the churches and temples.”