After studying him for a long, tense moment, Regis returns Katsuhiro’s bow.
“Men do strange things in times of crisis,” he says, his tone that of a scholar discussing an abstract point. “Psychologists say that when a man is confronted with death, oddly his thoughts often turn to a woman. I could forgive these fools if I believed that they acted merely from fear because our city is besieged by a strange wind.”
Regis does not invite the others to speak in their own defense but continues to look at Katsuhiro. “What are your thoughts on this matter, Oba-san?”
Katsuhiro recognizes a trap when it is laid for him. Agreement is dangerous, for if he excuses the men on the grounds that they were afraid, he is saying that abuse of Regis’s rights is permissible. However, if he says that they were wrong and acted out of bounds, then he is implying that Regis’s control of his household is less than absolute.
“It is true,” Katsuhiro replies, “that frightened men often act like children or animals. However, even a child knows that his father has a strong whip hand. Therefore, frightened or not, these men were fools, for they forgot that your rights are paramount.”
Regis nods, permits a tiny smile showing a line of white teeth, and then faces the three men. Taiwo still lies with his eyes closed tightly. Katsuhiro wonders if he is truly unconscious or shamming.
“Take them to the lower rooms,” Regis says, “where they can think about my whip hand.”
The guards comply, herding three and one bending to drag Taiwo. Regis raises a hand to stop this last.
“Put him in his rooms. He at least had permission to visit with Teresa and has given me no explanation for his actions.”
Musing privately over this new evidence of Taiwo’s privileged position, Katsuhiro waits. Regis’s condemnation of the others does not automatically mean praise for himself.
“I understand that you have taken it upon yourself to leave your apartments,” Regis says.
“I was bored,” Katsuhiro counters, “and there was no reason to keep me prisoner. Certainly my manners are far better than those oafs’.”
“True. Perhaps I did not mean to imprison you. Perhaps I meant to protect you from fools such as these.”
Katsuhiro acknowledges this possibility with a short bow.
“I would prefer if you returned to your apartments and stayed there,” Regis says. “I have much to consider. However, lest you grow bored, I will send Teresa to you after she has washed and changed her clothing. She may keep you company for as long as you wish.”
“Thank you, Chief General Doctor,” Katsuhiro replies. “That would be pleasant.”
After a few more banal exchanges, they part, Regis leaving with slightly more haste than is becoming.
Something is about to happen, Katsuhiro thinks, and he wants me where he can find me. Therefore, Teresa and I must leave here tonight.
During his taxi ride in from the airport, Lovern feels mocked even by the skyline. The cabby’s route takes him within sight of the Excalibur Hotel and Casino. The tall white towers, capped in red and blue and gold, are spotlighted against the night sky, inspired by the memory of a dream that had ended in a dismal failure.
As if to remind him of his own role in that failure, the lowest of the red-capped towers houses a dramatic figure of Merlin robed in purple, dignified white beard spilling across his chest, a golden wand in his hand. He is the only member of all of Arthur’s court to be so dramatically depicted, a guardian who was lured off guard, a wizard whose enchantments were not strong enough to stave off the end.
“That’s right,” Lovern mutters, not caring if the cabby thinks him crazy, “make me feel really good about myself.”
Arriving at the hotel housing the Pan tour, Lovern finds no grand welcome, no stalwart knights to be directed into battle. When Lovern bangs on the indicated door the faun Demetrios, looking as if he has spent the last few hours shredding his normally tidy goatee, opens it.
“Lil is resting,” Demetrios explains, logging off his laptop computer. “Tommy is with her, playing music so that she will sleep. The other fauns are either asleep or on guard duty.”
“So you are to brief me?” Lovern says, not terribly pleased. He holds nothing against the faun. Demetrios is a nice creature in his frivolous way, but Lovern’s status as a member of Arthur’s inner circle demands more. Belatedly, the wizard recalls that Demetrios had been named to Arthur’s council soon after the events in September. He decides that puts a better face on it and tries to be gracious.
“Thank you for staying up.”
“You’re welcome.” Demetrios crosses to a table where some maps are spread. “Have something to eat and drink while I fill you in.”
Fatigued, Lovern agrees. At the end of the faun’s report, Lovern puts his hand out for the list of possible hotels.
“Show me which hotels Lil has already checked,” Lovern says, trying not to sound perfunctory. The sooner we find those three satyrs, the sooner I can skin them alive.”
“Surely,” Demetrios replies, although he must have been entertaining similar thoughts, “that is a bit extreme.”
Lovern grumbles, “I’m not sure about that. Do they have any idea how frantic Arthur is? He and his staff have been phoning everyone who might be vulnerable, warning them to get ready to flee, though where they’ll go is anyone’s business. We have only dreaded exposure on this scale—not planned for it.”
“What about the underwater refuge?” Demetrios asks, earning a scornful snort from the wizard.
“Atlantis isn’t ready to take refugees—it won’t be for quite a while yet.”
Demetrios nods. “I forgot. It seems like centuries since I left my peaceful orchards to join this rock and roll show, but it has only been about a week.”
Lovern has no patience for the other’s complaints. He continues griping as he scans the list and matches locations to a map spread on a table.
“If I’m here, I can’t be there advising the King. Vera isn’t answering her phone. Amphitrite says she went off for a long swim. Anson and Eddie have gone missing in Africa, and Jonathan Wong is teaching a law course at Harvard and won’t quit so close to the end of the term unless the King declares a full-blown crisis.”
“Hopefully,” Demetrios says, his tone more forceful than Lovern had thought possible, “you or Lil will find the satyrs and there will be no crisis. Certainly standing here and complaining isn’t getting us any closer to a solution.”
Lovern opens his mouth to reply, snaps it shut, and then says with what he hopes is becoming humility:
“You are right, Demetrios. I’ll keep you posted as I check each place. That way Lil won’t duplicate my efforts when she wakes up.”
Demetrios smiles and extends a hand. “Good luck.”
Even with two talented sorcerers on the project, they don’t find the satyrs until late afternoon. Part of the difficulty is the sheer number of places to look, part is that magic is dampened when the practitioner is in contact with iron or steel. Lil and Lovern can avoid direct contact, but they cannot avoid indirect.
Steel girders hold up the buildings around them. Metal mesh strengthens the concrete. Rebar provides the internal structure for apparently stone walls. Nothing is as it seems, and only the prevalence of plastic and plastic by-products save them from being completely overwhelmed by static.
As it is, Lovern can hardly believe that his reading is correct when, standing in the men’s room of a hotel a few blocks off the Strip, the divining rod in his hand jerks and twitches, pointing deeper into the building.
Lovern tries the reading again, aware that he is very hungry, aware, too, that he has forgotten to eat since a midmorning snack. The divining rod jerks again, seeming impatient with his doubt.
Bypassing the desk, Lovern strolls toward the elevator. Around him, slot machines chime and jingle. He cannot influence them, so he takes it as a good omen that one pays off when the hem of his jacket brushes against it. The round-faced woman happily sw
eeping quarters into a plastic bucket smiles at him.
He nods to her. “Your lucky day. I hope it’s mine, too!”
She beams at him. “Me too!”
Lovern’s luck holds. He gets an elevator to himself and presses the Up button. Priming the divining rod, he gives it a gentle jog at each floor. Nothing. Frowning, he checks again as the elevator goes back down. Still nothing. On the ground floor, it jerks again, toward the heart of the casino.
Lovern follows the tug, working his way around roulette wheels and slot machines, glancing wistfully toward the quieter areas where card games are being played. He likes poker. Maybe once this is over, he’ll stay overnight and play a few hands. It seems like ages since he’s had a break.
The divining rod pulls the wizard entirely through the casino, out a back door, across an area where an outdoor swimming pool has been drained for the winter, and to another gate. This is locked, but Lovern bollixes the electronics with an impatient tap of his staff.
Once through the privacy gate, he finds himself amid a collection of semidetached bungalows arrayed in groups of four around a central traffic circle. Most seem empty, but outside of one several room-service carts await pickup. From the litter of wine bottles piled onto them, he knows that he has found the satyrs.
All Lovern’s exhaustion threatens to catch up to him at that moment, but he pushes it aside. Unbidden, he thinks of Purrarr and the Cats of Egypt, of how they can lend a bit of strength when needed.
Maybe, he thinks, surprising himself, I do need a familiar.
For now, however, he must draw on his own depleted resources. Fortunately, the time for magic should be over. Locating a pay phone over by the swimming pool, he dials the number where Demetrios should still be waiting.
“I have them,” he says as soon as the faun answers, “or I believe I do. I wanted to let you know before I actually braced them.”
“That was wise,” Demetrios says, and such is the joy in his voice that Lovern actually feels complimented rather than vaguely miffed that he could be expected to do any but the wisest thing.
There is a momentary pause while Demetrios tells whoever is in the room with him that the satyrs have been located. From the sudden burst of syrinx music and ebullient cheers, at least one or more of the fauns must be there.
“Where are you?” Demetrios asks. When Lovern has given him the address Demetrios continues, “Lil and Tommy left here just a few minutes ago, heading in that general direction. I can call their limousine and send them to you. Can you wait and watch until they arrive?”
“I can,” Lovern says. “Let me give you directions for how to find this part of the resort.”
When he has rung off, Lovern returns to where he can watch the satyrs’ bungalow from the porch of an untenanted unit. After a moment, he scrounges a partial bottle of wine and an untouched half sandwich from the room-service cart.
Thus he is somewhat refreshed when the electronic gate at the far end of the bungalow complex slides open to admit a sleek silver limousine. Tommy Thunderburst is driving, his lips moving as he sings along with the radio. Lil, tense as a cat stalking a bird, sits beside him in the front seat. She gets out even before Tommy finishes parking the car. Lovern intercepts her.
“In there?” the witch says.
“Yes. I think that the other three bungalows in this quadrant are empty, but remember, we’re not alone.”
“I cannot care,” she says. “I will eat their balls for them, the stupid horses’ asses!”
Tommy, a guitar now slung by a strap around his neck, pads up and puts an arm around her.
“Lunch later, baby”—he says—“You and Mr. Wizard do something to keep the neighbors,” the toss of his leonine mane of hair includes the high-rises around them, “from seeing what will trouble their mortal minds. I’ll handle the party animals and their friends.”
Lovern nods, not liking being called “Mr. Wizard” but resigned to Tommy’s casual flippancy.
“Tommy has a good point,” he says. “The Cats of Egypt have taught me a new variation on the charm for unnoticeability.”
“That I know already,” Lil snaps. “I have been a cat, from time to time.”
Her smile is as cruel as a cat’s might be, and Lovern does not press the point. Assuming her agreement, he walks to the oval of ornamental grass and flowers at the center of the traffic circle. Lil’s high heels clicking on the pavement tell him that she is following.
Joining hands, they sit together on the little bench provided. To a casual observer, they might seem honeymooners, enjoying the pleasant late-afternoon weather.
Tommy chuckles. “That’s sweet. Give me the cue, and I’m gone to do what I can do.”
“Count four measures,” Lil says. “That is all I need.”
Lovern nods. Her fingers in his hand feel as fragile as blown glass straws. She has been pushed even harder than he has been, for she has been searching for the satyrs for over twenty-four hours. Yes, she has slept and he has not, but he doubts that even with Tommy’s magic she is very well rested.
Together they build the spell far more quickly than either of them could have alone. Yet, only the fact that both of them are tremendously talented and that both are draining power from reserves normally left untapped establishes the spell in the promised four measures. Lovern would have preferred to take longer, but he is not about to argue with Lilith, not here, at least, and not over this.
Tommy announces his arrival with a crescendo of Spanish-sounding guitar chords. He drums on the door with his boot toe.
“Hey, guys. Let me come in.”
A strained voice, male, but otherwise most unlike the boisterous tones of Georgios the satyr, replies:
“And if we don’t what’ll you do? Huff and puff and blow the door down?”
Tommy waves his hand and vines sprout from the mouths of the wine bottles on the room-service carts. They grow rapidly, thick green cables unfolding leaves, and dragging bunches of grapes behind them.
“I don’t think I need to do that,” Tommy says mildly. “Do you know who I am?”
The door opens and a satyr tumbles out, flinging himself prostrate before the young man with the guitar.
“You are the Great God Dionysus,” Georgios gasps. “And I am your slave.”
“Not mine,” Tommy laughs, turning the satyr over with the toe of his boot. He does so effortlessly, as if the bulky theriomorph is a child. “His, perhaps.” The boot toe indicates the satyr’s limp penis, “but not mine. A slave of mine would be better behaved. He would know that I give both joy and sorrow, both pleasure and pain.”
The other two satyrs have joined in the groveling. The six whores, all in various states of undress, are huddled against a back wall of the room. Vine leaves invade here as well, and heavy bunches of grapes spill from the vine-covered ceiling.
“It’s Tommy Thunderburst!” shrieks a black woman dressed in nothing but a single fishnet stocking. “I got his album.”
“I hope you like it,” Tommy says.
“I do,” the woman says. “I gotta get the new one.”
“I’ll give you one,” he promises, “but first you must do me a favor.”
“Anything!” she says. “I won’t even charge.”
Tommy reaches up and plucks a bunch of grapes. He presses them between his fingers and the juice runs free.
“This is my blood, the mark of my covenant with you,” he says, his voice a caress, “drink it and all will be well between us.”
The black woman looks shocked for a moment, but doubtless dallying with satyrs has expanded her idea of what is and is not possible. Extending her tongue, she licks the juice from his long musician’s fingers.
Tommy crushes other grapes, extends his hands to the other women. Already under his spell, they move forward, lick the juice where it drips from his fingers, down his wrists, where it spots his trousers.
Lovern, watching from where he sits with Lil, mutters softly, “That’s the most erotic
thing I’ve ever seen.”
“He is,” Lil agrees, her tone both proprietary and sad. “My Tommy. They will remember nothing now, nothing but a wonder, like maenads, though without the madness. It is the gift of the vine. One he can rarely give.”
When he has finished with the women, Tommy smiles sadly. “Now, my dearest ones, have you been paid?”
The black woman who had spoken first nods. A smile has transformed her face, making its tired charms radiant.
“Georgie-boy gave us lots of cash from a cash machine. We’re set there.”
“Dress then and go forth.”
“Master, what shall we do?” asks the little Asian girl, pulling on her blouse. “How shall we follow your way?”
Tommy shakes his head. “I have no way, not even for myself. If you would honor me, try to give more joy than pain. Sing more than you weep and when you must weep, weep well.”
This seems to satisfy them. Tommy gives them time to redon their tatty finery, to brush their hair, to reapply the cosmetics that are their pride of office. To each he gives a copy of the Pan album and a kiss on the brow. Then he directs them out by the back gate. Twilight is falling now and seems to embrace them as they walk back toward the glow of the Strip and the lives they have made there.
Through all of this, the satyrs have crouched naked and unmoving on the stoop outside of the bungalow. Tommy studies them before raising each onto his hooves.
“Personally,” Tommy says, his voice still mild, “I feel more sorrow than anger, but I don’t think everyone feels that way. Do you, Lilith?”
Lil merely smiles, but the satyrs blanch beneath their olive complexions at that smile.
“Get your belongings,” Tommy orders. He waves his hand, and the vines begin to wither, the grapes—all but one bunch he gathers in his hand—to shrivel and dry. “I will check you out over the telephone.”
“Master,” Georgios whimpers. “Protect us!”
“From Lil?” Tommy laughs. “Why? I cannot protect myself from her! How should I protect you? Still, ready yourselves, and I will do what I can to sweeten her.”
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