Changer's Daughter

by Jane Lindskold

  “Bosh,” Arthur says, rather rudely.

  “I agree, sir,” Chris says. “The meteorologists are somewhat hampered in their investigations since the Nigerian government is not permitting any travel at all into Monamona. In fact, they have cordoned off a five-mile-wide area surrounding the city.”

  Arthur cocks a brow at this. “They’re worried about it, then. Note the advantages of a totalitarian government.”

  Chris, who now knows something of Arthur’s frustration with his own inability to govern the fractious and strong-willed athanor, chooses not to take this last too seriously.

  “The Nigerian government is worried, sir. I decided to find out—just for academic interest—how much trouble I would have getting a tourist visa. I was refused flat out.”

  “Oh? Any evidence that they are deporting tourists?”

  “The opposite, sir.” Chris frowns. Both Anson and Eddie have been among the humans’ strongest supporters. “I can’t swear to this, but, judging from various factors, the government is preventing people from departing.”

  “What factors?” Arthur snaps, not in temper, but as a battlefield commander would request information.

  “Nigeria has always had an active tradition of news reporting,” Chris says, “something I remembered from one of my journalism classes. I’ve hunted up on-line news from the area and learned that Lagos airport is temporarily closed to international flights. The official story is that something is out in one of the control towers. As of now, no one is reporting differently, but I thought it rather odd.

  “I checked further and learned that hotels in Lagos are filling up. When I asked why, I was told that the borders with Benin, Niger, and Cameroon are closed. Again, the official word is that troops are being diverted from their usual posts in order to maintain the cordon around Monamona. Therefore, they aren’t available to provide routine customs on the border. However...”

  Chris licks his lips and flips a page on his notes. “However, the news services in those border countries report an intensified Nigerian military presence on the borders.”

  “Oh, my!” Arthur says. “And all because of a windstorm?”

  Chris shrugs. “That’s all I could find out. I’ve sent a copy of all my notes directly to your computer.”

  “Thank you.” Despite his evident worry, the King smiles graciously. “You have done a fine job. There are certainly advantages to having a reporter on staff. Keep trying to get through to Monamona. This storm may disperse, and it will all be a tempest in a teapot.”

  “Right.”

  As Chris leaves, he hears Arthur pick up the telephone.

  “Lovern...”

  He closes the door behind him. Arthur doesn’t think this a tempest in a teapot. Neither does he. The question is, what is it and, perhaps more importantly, what does this mean for their friends?

  Aduke has overcome the feeling that she is going to slip into undignified hysteria, but she admits to herself that she is quite confused. That response seems safe, far safer than acting as if everything is normal.

  Still, she wishes that she understood more of what Oya and her new associates intend to do. When she does learn, she realizes that there are times when ignorance is bliss.

  They have gathered once more in Oya’s conference room, all three of the newcomers, herself, and Oya.

  “I’ve spoken with Katsuhiro,” says Anson, the one Oya had first addressed as Eshu, “and he is comfortable for now. Regis has taken his sword, and he wishes to reclaim it before he leaves.”

  “Not Kusanagi!” Oya says. “I am surprised that he permitted such an insult!”

  Eddie, the only one of the three newcomers who had not been associated with the name of one of the orisha, and so the one with whom Aduke paradoxically feels both most and least at ease, shrugs, his expression wry.

  “I suspect that Katsuhiro was not given an opportunity to protest the loss. That says our opponents did their homework.”

  Dakar, who rather frightens Aduke with his mountainous size and tendency to bellow, thumps the tabletop with his fist.

  “How much homework would it take?” he grumbles. “Katsuhiro teaches both kendo and kenjitsu—as well as other martial arts.”

  Aduke has already noted that sometimes Dakar speaks of this Katsuhiro with a grudging respect and sometimes as if he hates him. She wonders at the relationship between these three men—and theirs with Oya. Certainly it is more complicated than mere tribal affiliation or nationality, yet she senses that it is something like that, too.

  She wonders, too, why Oya has included her in these meetings. Certainly she has nothing to contribute, and she can tell that her presence makes all of them, but especially Eddie, guard what they say.

  “Very well,” Oya says, “if your friend will not leave without his sword, his sword must be found. Did you have any luck in that direction, Eshu?”

  “’Anson,’” the thin man corrects gently. “Here and now I am ‘Anson.’ Eshu does not have the most savory of reputations in these civilized days.”

  Dakar chuckles. “Satan. That’s who the Christians and the Moslems think Eshu is. What stupidity! They would have been better to think of him as the angel Gabriel.”

  Anson shakes his head. “Eshu’s skin is too black for them to see him as an angel, though he has been a messenger between gods and men. However, I am Anson A. Kridd, and that will be ample trouble for our enemies. Now, we have decided that Katsuhiro will seek his sword, and I will attempt to visit him again tonight. What can we do in the meantime?”

  “Our problems,” Eddie says, “are like the Worm Ouroborus, biting on its own tail. The city faces famine and riot unless the wind wall is dropped. However, if the wall is dropped, the smallpox may spread.”

  “Will spread,” Oya says firmly.

  “Will spread,” Eddie corrects himself. “However, if we do not do something about the smallpox, it will spread anyhow. This city is not Lagos in population, but it is not small. Most of the younger members of the population will not have been vaccinated.”

  He looks at Aduke. “Have you been vaccinated?”

  She nods.

  “When my baby...” Her voice falters, but she swallows and goes on, “was ill the doctor gave me something.”

  “And your family?”

  “Yes. All the members of our household.”

  “That’s something,” Eddie says. “What a thoughtful doctor. I wonder how he knew what he was looking at? In its early stages, smallpox is often confused with chicken pox—a disease most children get.”

  “He was a very old man,” Aduke says, almost defensively. “I think he had seen the like when he was younger.”

  Oya leans forward. “Leave her alone, Eddie. She’s a victim, not a criminal. Remember, too, that smallpox was rampant in Nigeria until the late 1960s. Many doctors will recognize it.”

  Eddie doesn’t apologize. “One more question, Aduke. Did your baby contract smallpox here or in Lagos? You did say you lived in Lagos with your husband before coming here, didn’t you?”

  Aduke nods. She can see what he is trying to learn.

  “I’m not certain, sir. We visited here frequently, but I first noticed that he was ill when we were at home in Lagos. Baby was so fussy that we came here where I would have family to help me tend him. My sister Yetunde is married to one of my husband’s brothers, so I am doubly related to them. When after several days Baby grew no stronger, Taiwo’s mother consulted a babalawo and his verses directed her to the old doctor.”

  Proud that she has managed this recitation without breaking down, she stops before she must relive the tremendous hope she had felt when the old doctor had come. He’d seemed so wise, with his white hair and sparse beard, a worn leather doctor’s bag clasped firmly in his gnarled hand. She doesn’t want to remember the despair that had followed when, despite the doctor’s best efforts, Baby had grown worse.

  Mercifully, Eddie does not ask more, perhaps because Oya is glowering at him, her eyes h
olding all the lightning that she had stolen from Shango.

  “Thank you, Aduke,” Eddie says. He looks at the others, his expression bleak. “So, despite whatever we do here, Lagos may already be infected. If it is, the infection will spread outward.”

  Oya shakes her head, causing the cloth of her head wrap to snap as if in a high wind. “If we accept that train of thought, we are defeated before we begin. Our battlefield is this city. Let us concentrate on what we can do here.”

  “And do something,” Dakar agrees.

  “We have electricity again,” Eddie says, “but no telephone. That means we cannot rely on help from outside.”

  Anson nods. “I am the only one of us who can get inside Regis’s compound without being detected. Therefore, I must be our scout.”

  He looks at Oya, “Unless you, lady, have some other magical tricks?”

  The very matter-of-fact way that he speaks of magic makes Aduke feel once again that her reality, a reality bolstered by the knowledge so carefully learned in school and at university, is as fragile as a soap bubble.

  “Oya controls the winds,” says Oya, “and can be quite fierce as well, but I do not think that she has any gift suited for reconnaissance.”

  Anson shrugs. “Then if there is to be scouting, the scout is to be me.”

  Dakar grumbles. “I cannot wait longer. I will go join one of the police patrols. Perhaps I will hear something that we can use. I, for one, do not think that this quick mobilization of the militia is coincidence. Someone was prepared for a crisis, whether this one or another.”

  “A coup?” Oya asks.

  “Why not?” Dakar answers, eyes narrow with distrust. “It is practically the traditional way for the Nigerian government to change hands.”

  “Go then,” Anson says. “I think you are wise.”

  “That’s a first,” Dakar says.

  Eddie says, “That leaves me as backup for Anson. Oya?”

  “I will speak with the wind,” she says, “and learn what I can. When the time comes for us to move against Regis, perhaps Oya can prove once more that she is the wife more dangerous than the husband.”

  “Which,” Anson says, “brings us to the matter we have been skating around.”

  “Shango,” Dakar says.

  “Like you,” Anson says, “I have wondered at this quick readiness of the local military. The electricity is back on. Perhaps that is enough to ask of him.”

  “Then you don’t trust him,” Eddie says.

  “Do you?”

  Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know. We don’t need him yet, so why take more risks? We’re taking enough as it is.”

  He looks at Oya as he says this, and Aduke feels anger on her friend’s behalf. Oya’s expression, though, remains as expressionless as windswept sand, so Aduke holds her peace, still wondering if they have been wise to put so much trust in these three strange men.

  Oya has another surprise for her.

  “Why don’t you three move into this part of the factory? I have spoken with the old Malomo Fadaka and she is willing, especially since I have hinted that you will bring food with you and everyone is worrying about the possibility of famine.”

  Aduke has already noted that Anson eats constantly, so she is not at all surprised when he chuckles.

  “I might have a sack or two of something laid by against a midnight snack.” He turns to his associates. “What do you think?”

  Dakar shrugs. “I go for a soldier. Whether I report here or there means nothing.”

  Eddie is more cautious. “We could bring harm to these people.”

  To her astonishment, Aduke hears herself answering: “The babalawo predicted that my family would face many evils. Perhaps we will bring harm to you!”

  Eddie looks at her with respect. “I can risk that. In any case, Anson’s comings and goings have caused some comment from our landlady.”

  “There may be other advantages as well,” Oya says mysteriously. “Do you need help with your baggage? Aduke’s brother drives a lorry.”

  “Yes. That’s a good idea,” Anson says. “No one will think anything of the lorry coming, and so our arrival will be unnoticed by your few neighbors.”

  “Then it is settled,” Oya says. Standing, she dusts off her hands like any housewife in all the world. “Come, choose what rooms you want for yourselves.”

  Trailing after, Aduke wonders why, since everyone else is treating this as routine, she feels as if something terribly momentous has just occurred.

  Georgios is proud of himself, really proud, of the way he’d handled this affair. The last time he’d been out on his own he hadn’t been out on his own, not actually. He’d been shepherded here and there, by Demetrios, by Monk, by members of Arthur’s staff.

  Oh, it had been fun, had shown him what he was missing, but what they wanted to do he hadn’t really wanted to do, or at least not much. Looking at girls can be fun, especially when your looking has been restricted to gazing from a distance for so long. It doesn’t compare to touching girls, though, and that had been ruled right off-limits.

  Georgios had agreed then (well, except for some discreet fanny pinching and a couple of gropes in the fun house at the Fair), because he’d been as nervous as the rest of them about the consequences. But now the rules have been changed. Humanity is going to learn about the athanor sooner rather than later. He figures he’ll be in the vanguard.

  First step had been checking the local directories for limo services—no need to worry about finding taxis or driving yourself in a strange city that way. Like most theriomorphs, he has credit cards. He also has an excellent credit rating. Computer programming is one of those jobs where you can telecommute. It had been a good new career option when video porn had supplanted most of the written stuff.

  After the limo had been arranged, Georgios had bribed the concierge to recommend a good place to pick up hookers. Escort services were out, as were houses. He wanted girls who had no support system, except maybe the kind of pimp who wouldn’t care who took the girls for a ride as long as the pay was good.

  And would he and his buddies ever take those girls for a ride! He gets hard just thinking about it.

  The other three satyrs agreed to cover for him, Hunk, and Stud in return for a promise that they’d get nights out of their own. Georgios had rented them some top-grade porno flicks as thanks—and because no one in his right mind would try to roust them from their viewing, thus providing yet another level of cover.

  Waiting until most of the tuckered-out Pan crew has retired to their rooms, Georgios leads his stalwart pals down a fire stair to a back door that lets out into a parking area.

  The limo driver is a jaded-looking fellow, a balding white guy with freckles and jug-handle ears. Even his neat chauffeur’s uniform can’t make him look like anything but the kind of guy who is stuck driving cars for other people. He’s affable enough, though, even more affable when Georgios presses a couple of crisp twenties in his hand.

  Directed to keep his eyes forward, the driver pulls down a privacy screen of some sort. Their first stop is a liquor store, where they send the chauffeur in for some bottles of jug wine. Unlike the fauns, who are often connoisseurs, most satyrs just like to get drunk.

  A bottle in his hand, Georgios grabs the ceiling mike and tells the chauffeur to take them cruising along the Strip, then to where they could find some action. He’d been a bit worried about their fancy stretch limo being noticeable, but it isn’t particularly so. Most of the type who hang out here have seen it all before—or at least like to act like they have. The late hour probably helps.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Hunk enthuses, his gaze firmly fastened where a candy-apple red-vinyl miniskirt stretches across a pert behind. “Baby, baby, baby!”

  “There! There!” shouts Stud, pointing to a pair of tits, bouncing high and round in a fluorescent green tank top. “I’m gonna lose it just looking!”

  Georgios hears himself moaning and panting at the parade of pulchritude. At first
he doesn’t see individual women, just fantastic parts barely concealed by low-cut blouses, tight skirts, and tighter pants. His hand is busy, automatically working to ease a tension that doesn’t often have another outlet. He pulls it away with an effort.

  “Do some looking, boys!” he says. “Here’s the candy shop, and you get to stick it in the jars!”

  After a few passes up and down—passes that mark them out as serious shoppers to the women on the stroll—they each choose. Hunk remains faithful to the candy-apple red skirt, but Stud can’t decide whether he wants a voluptuous black girl in a tight leopard-print jumpsuit or a sloe-eyed blonde wearing denim cutoffs that would have made Daisy Mae blush.

  “Take ‘em both,” Georgios suggests. “You can afford it. We can pass them around for everyone to sample, like at a Chinese restaurant.”

  Inspired by his own imagery, he chooses one Asian beauty and a redhead whose legs won’t stop. Hunk then insists that he needs another girl, and the fluorescent green halter joins the order. The chauffeur helps with the negotiations in return for another tip, and the girls pile into the back.

  “Stop for more wine, then take us to a no-tell motel,” Georgios orders, his hand up the redhead’s skirt and his fingers squeezing the Asian’s small breast. “Clean room, big beds, maybe something to get wet in.”

  “Right! About fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.”

  Georgios manages something vaguely articulate around the large peach-colored nipple he has in his mouth before letting go of the microphone. The limo starts to move. He barely feels the motion, getting ready for a ride of his own.

  Demetrios is uneasy. He can’t say why. Rationally, it is because this is one of the few nights in recent centuries that he has spent away from the protection of his home. True, home has changed several times over those years, but it has been a long time since he has voluntarily left that safety.

  The trip to Albuquerque had been the first time and then he had laid the groundwork with great care. Also, he had known that Arthur and the Accord—the same Accord whose validity Demetrios was challenging—would protect him from discovery. Odd, now that he thinks back, how eager he had been to change things when the change had seemed unlikely to happen. The closer they had come to confrontation, the more he had wanted to back off. Only momentum and dear Rebecca’s constant reminders of how much they had to gain had kept him going at the end. This trip is different. He feels as if he has been drafted—literally pushed before a powerful elemental force over which he had no control. Maybe when he has the fairy dust that Lovern has promised he will feel safe.