“Thanks,” she says. “But I’ll start packing—just in case.”
Never one to wait when action would serve, Katsuhiro Oba begins the morning by opening the door to his prison apartment and stepping into the corridor.
Anansi had visited him the night before, bringing with him a small, comparatively lightweight handgun and a box of ammunition. The Spider had been visibly wearied by the effort, grateful for the honey-coated dates and cold moi-moi that Katsuhiro had saved for him. He had promised to return again, bringing more ammunition and more news.
The former would be welcome. The latter was certain to be disturbing, as all news from Monamona had been thus far. More than ever, Katsuhiro looks forward to taking action against those who would use disease as a weapon against defenseless civilians.
This step into the corridor is the first part of his campaign. The four guards, accustomed to his passive acceptance of captivity, are slow to reach for their weapons. Katsuhiro has no wish to take them on with his comparatively small gun and bare hands. He doesn’t doubt his ability to win such a combat, but he is not willing to reveal the gun just yet.
He has taken two steps down the corridor, heading in the general direction of Regis’s office, when one of the guards orders him to halt.
Katsuhiro doesn’t even pause, continuing his unhurried departure. Behind him is a muttered conference, then the same guard yells:
“Stop where you are or we’ll shoot!”
The sound of automatic weapons being readied punctuates this statement.
Katsuhiro had been prepared for this. He turns slightly, not cringing, but as a shogun would have turned to stare down some courtier whose manners were less than perfect. After subjecting them to a stare from eyes fully as dark as the guards’ own, but made hidden and mysterious by their slant and the concealing fold of the eyelid, Katsuhiro frowns.
“Will you?” he asks. “Are you certain that Chief General Doctor Regis would be pleased? I am the key to an important business deal. If I die, you may make apologies for him to his honored guests.”
Uncertain, the frontmost guard lowers the barrel of his rifle slightly, the tip wavering. Katsuhiro swallows a snort of disgust, maintaining instead stiff arrogance.
“I am bored with my rooms,” he continues. “With patience I have waited there three full days with hardly any company. I shall not wait a fourth.”
Turning his back on them, he continues to walk forward. After the first three steps, he knows that his bluff has worked. They fear Regis’s anger and, as of yet, Katsuhiro is showing no inclination to escape.
From Anson, Katsuhiro knows that the telephone system is out and that the wind is cutting off all but limited radio communication. Therefore, he is not surprised to hear the head of the guard detail designate one of his men as a runner to go inform Regis or the Balogun of this new development. Of course they speak Yoruban, which they do not realize he understands.
The runner does not go by Katsuhiro, but takes a stairway at the other end of the corridor. The Japanese files this information against future need.
“Permit us,” says the chief guard, coming up beside him, “to act as your escort, Mr. Oba.”
“I shall,” Katsuhiro agrees haughtily. “I wish to stretch my legs, then to speak with someone. Perhaps Taiwo Fadaka.”
The guard nods, smiling the broad, insincere smile of one who is very nervous.
“This way.” He barks orders in Yoruban to another guard, telling him to learn if Taiwo is in the compound.
Katsuhiro finds this interesting. He had thought the younger man privileged. Now it seems that he may also be trusted.
Escorted by his remaining two guards, both nervous enough to shoot him if he does the least thing that strikes them as peculiar, Katsuhiro takes a leisurely stroll about the compound. Much of this he has seen and noted before, but he will not pass up the opportunity to refresh his memory. The walk also gives him his first clear glimpse of the wall of wind enclosing the city.
The upper regions, though fairly clear of dust and debris, are still visible to the naked eye, swirling currents distorting and filtering the sunlight. It looks quite formidable and Katsuhiro, who is a pilot, ventures to guess that any aircraft attempting to penetrate the wall would be badly battered, if not completely ruined.
Complaining of the heat, Katsuhiro insists on being permitted to continue his stroll indoors. The guards, relieved that he has not yet made any effort to escape, agree with alacrity. They are completing their tour of the ground floor of the main building when the first runner returns. He reports that both Regis and the Balogun are absent but that the next in command has agreed to let Katsuhiro continue his walk as long as he makes no effort to escape.
They have walked though the second and third floors when the other runner returns. In language lewd and bawdy, he explains that finding Taiwo had taken some time as the young businessman had been taking advantage of Regis’s absence to avail himself of Teresa’s body.
Another walking dead man, Katsuhiro thinks. Or perhaps Teresa has shown him mercy as well.
Somehow, remembering the fury he had glimpsed in the beautiful woman’s eyes, he doesn’t think she will have done so.
By now he has seen as much as he can easily commit to immediate memory. Several areas provide promising places to hold his sword, including an armory, a vault, and Regis’s own quarters. His guards, of course, believe him ignorant of the areas significance, hurrying him away with the curt explanation “Restricted area.” They don’t know he understands Yoruban, however, and their conversations with each other told him all he needed to know.
Katsuhiro is willing to bet his life that Kusanagi is in one of these three places. Indeed, when the time comes to retrieve the sword, betting his life is precisely what he will be doing. Raising the odds for success seems prudent so he snaps at his escort:
“I desire companionship. Have you located anyone—Taiwo or one of Regis’s other business associates, perhaps? I would even settle for speaking with that woman Regis sent to me.”
The tone of command works the trick, that and the fact that his guards have decided that he is not interested in escape. They confer and decide that they had better not give the Japanese access to Teresa, as she is Regis’s own property, but that Taiwo can do no harm.
Katsuhiro is somewhat disappointed, but hides it well. Striding along, he draws maps in his head, maps that he will pass on to the Spider when the other calls on him tonight.
“I must admit, I see no way around it, but I dislike doing it. I am already in his debt. I have no desire to be in anyone’s debt, but in his, perhaps, least of all. It is impossible to know what he will want in return.”
Arthur sighs. He had called Chris into his office as soon as the human had arrived, even before the other had reached his office, needing desperately to talk out this problem before the day grows any older.
Now the King toys with the pot of hot tea set on his desk, adds a minuscule amount more to his cup, sighs again, rubs his beard, and continues:
“But I see no way around it. I must ask the Changer for a favor. I cannot risk that our people are waiting for me to send them aid.”
Chris Kristofer, seated in what has become “his” chair in Arthur’s office, nods. He has spent the last day or so garnering every scrap of information he could about the windstorm surrounding Monamona, Nigeria. He now knows the force of the storm winds, their patterns of dispersement, and their basic characteristics. That all the meteorologists who have offered their opinions—officially or otherwise—have admitted to being stumped has been no great comfort.
“An airplane,” Chris says, “even if we had one flown in illegally from Benin, the border country closest to Monamona, could not penetrate the wind. Nigeria is not permitting tourists, and most other requests for entry are being closely scrutinized. As you have said, you need someone who can enter the country illegally and unnoticed.”
“And,” Arthur sighs, “someone who can blend int
o the population once inside.”
“And,” Chris prompts helpfully, “work completely outside the human population if necessary. That severely narrows your options. Are there other shapeshifters who might suit the bill?”
“There are others,” Arthur admits, “but none who I could be certain would do the job as well. The Changer is unique among us in the range and variety of his forms. He is very... old.”
Chris wonders at the awe in Arthur’s voice when he says that single word. Old. What is “old” to a person who once ruled in ancient Egypt, whose deeds are recorded in the oldest written epic known to humanity?
Intellectually, Chris knows that the Changer has been around a lot longer than Arthur, but his frame of reference gets shaky when asked to accept a man who was old when dinosaurs walked the Earth. Maybe Arthur’s frame of reference gets shaky, too.
“Call Duppy Jonah’s palace,” Arthur says, “and see if you can get the Changer to the phone. I’m going to call Lovern and tell him what I intend.”
Chris places the call and when he signals that the Changer is waiting Arthur switches lines. Demonstrating a trust that Chris had not expected, the King motions for him to remain and switches the call onto intercom.
“Changer,” Arthur says, his measured tones showing nothing of his anxiety, “this is Arthur Pendragon.”
“Arthur,” acknowledges the Changer’s deep, gravelly voice. He offers nothing more, and after a polite pause the King continues:
“I am calling to beg a favor of you.”
“Blunt. Ask.”
Chris thinks it rather courteous of the Changer to substitute “ask” for Arthur’s “beg.”
“A situation has arisen in Nigeria...” Concisely but completely, Arthur reports the situation. “I am concerned about those of our people who are there: Anson, Eddie, Dakar, Katsuhiro, and, if last reports remain correct, Shango. Would you locate them, tender them aid if needed, and help them to depart if required?”
The Changer doesn’t pause. “What are you offering?”
“Favors.”
Chris can see the effort Arthur is making not to sigh. He understands why. What the King is offering is, within the athanor economy, the equivalent of a blank check with at least six zeros drawn in and room for more.
“If you ask a favor of me,” the King continues, “I will grant it as quickly as possible. I can intercede for you with another member of the Accord. In such cases, I cannot promise alacrity, but I can endeavor to achieve it.”
“Fair,” the Changer replies, “but you have always been fair with me, Arthur.”
“Then you will go?”
“On one condition.”
“Ask.”
“If I die while undertaking this job for you or as a direct result of it, you will transfer whatever credit I have earned with you to my daughter, Shahrazad.”
“Done.” Arthur nods crisply, though of course the Changer cannot see him. “Would you have me send a copy of a contract? I believe Vera has effected some computer access in your brother’s palace.”
“No. Your word is enough for me. Besides, I want to get going as soon as possible. Tell Frank MacDonald that I will be out of touch for some days. Shahrazad is with him.”
“I shall. Thank you.”
“Anson is my friend. I respect the others in varying degrees. Besides, I have not seen anything like this windstorm you describe for a long, long time.”
“You’ve seen!” Arthur begins excitedly, but the Changer has hung up the phone.
“Do you want me to try and get him again?” Chris asks, his finger on the redial button.
Arthur looks thoughtful. “Yes, but the Changer would have told me what he suspects if he wanted to. There is no bullying him. He’s tossed me that crumb, whether as comfort or clue I don’t know. If Lovern wasn’t so blessed busy, I’d have him look into it, but I suppose it’s academic.
“Speaking of Lovern’s problems,” the King continues, dismissing the Changer’s cryptic statement with visible effort, “have you or Bill had any luck tracking down possible candidates for the Academy?”
Chris shakes his head. “Bill keeps coming up blank on Alice Chun. My time has completely focused on the windstorm. Now that that’s settled...”
“As best as it can be for now,” Arthur interrupts.
“Yes, sir. Now that that’s taken care of, I can help either you or Bill with your recruitment efforts.”
“Help Bill first. I’ll send you a part of my list.”
“Yes, sir.” Chris rises, knowing from Arthur’s tone that he is dismissed.
“And Chris?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t mention my conversation with the Changer to anyone, please. Tell Bill, but no one else. If anyone calls asking about the windstorm, direct them to me.”
“Sire?”
Arthur acknowledges the question in Chris’s tone and posture, though the human does not articulate it further.
“The Changer may have been hinting that the storm is being caused by one of our own. If he was giving me a warning, I do not wish to ignore it.”
“Thank you, sir. I understand.”
“And Chris?”
“Yes, sir?”
“‘Arthur’ is fine. You’re doing a very good job.”
“Thank you... Arthur.”
When the Changer tells Duppy Jonah that he is leaving and why, the Sea King nods and wishes him well, but he cannot resist a parting cut.
“Are you certain you have not become Arthur’s lackey?”
“Positive,” the Changer says. “I have my reasons for going. Had I learned of this independently and all things were equal, I still would have gone. To have Arthur owe me favors for assuaging my curiosity pleases me.”
Duppy Jonah laughs. “A safe journey to you then, brother.”
Amphitrite embraces him, her expression serious. “And do be careful. We have enjoyed your company. Shall I say farewell to Vera for you?”
“I’ll do it myself,” the Changer says, his tone a bit brusque. “My route carries me that way.”
He doesn’t know if they believe him, but at least they are wise enough not to tease him. With great strokes of his triton tail, he arrives at the site of Atlantis. Vera is in counsel with a rather extraordinary electric eel but excuses herself when the Changer asks for a moment of her time.
“I’m going to Africa,” he says, “at once. Arthur’s business.”
“Africa!” She makes the connection immediately. “Has something happened to Eddie?”
“I don’t know. Neither does Arthur. That’s why I’m going.”
Vera, part of Arthur’s privy council, doesn’t ask for details. Either the King will give them to her or not.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” the Changer says, “since I don’t know when I’ll be back this way, and I have enjoyed our visits.”
“Thank you.” Vera’s cheeks color slightly. “I have, too.”
“Good.”
The Changer starts to move away, preparatory to shifting into something that can cover the distance to the west coast of Africa as quickly as possible. He pauses and returns.
“And you should know something.”
“Yes?”
“You are beautiful.”
Vera, who has been called wise, saintly, valiant, and brave, but rarely beautiful, stares at the ancient athanor. He isn’t mocking her.
“Beautiful? Me?” She gestures at her mermaid form. “This is just Lovern’s art.”
“Do you think I look at shape, Vera?” The Changer laughs softly. “Me? You have not always been beautiful, but you have become so. You should know this, because I may be the first to notice, but I will not be the last. Take care.”
He is gone then, a surge of his tail, a blur of motion, and then a lean, aquadynamic shape perfectly made for tirelessly covering distance beneath the water. Never mind that the creature it belonged to has been extinct these ten thousand years or more. No one but a few fish will no
te the anomaly, and they cannot tell anyone who will be troubled.
Vera hardly notices the Changer’s new shape, though once she would have shaken her head with disapproval at anyone taking such risks. Now her mind is on other things, other types of changes.
“Take care,” she calls after the departing form. Then, ever practical, she returns to her conference with the eel.
Bill Irish is waiting in the office he shares with Chris Kristofer when the other returns. Bill’s expression is somber and, despite its warm brown color, his face is definitely pale. Without a word, he hands a printout to Chris. The compact paragraphs spell out a problem both of them had dreaded, but had never really believed would happen.
Chris falls back into his chair, his eyes never leaving Demetrios’s report. When he finishes, he looks at Bill.
“I just got off the phone with Demi,” Bill says. “The satyrs have not returned. Demi’s exhausted and frantic, but is steeling himself to go tell Lil and Tommy what has happened. He asked that we tell Arthur.”
“Right.” Chris stares at the paper. “Can they handle the problem on their own? Isn’t Lil supposed to be some sort of witch?”
“She is,” Bill agrees, “but I think Demi’s more afraid of her reaction than he is of Arthur’s. Besides, this is a serious matter for the Accord. Demi’s too honest to want it swept under the rug. Even if it’s resolved without a crisis, Arthur should know what has happened.”
“Right.” Chris thinks of the King, whom he had left in relative peace. “I’d better get onto this right away.”
He squares his shoulders and heads back to Arthur’s office. He hopes that the Changer is swimming as fast as he can. Now, more than ever, he wishes that Eddie were here. He suspects that Arthur is going to wish it even more.
17
He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.
—William Shakespeare
This time the meeting is held not in an empty house but in a deserted office building. Eddie and Anson have just given Shango a much-edited version of what they have learned. Since Shango might hear of Oya himself, they reluctantly have told him something about her, lest he learn of her or of their relocation and wonder.
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