Changer's Daughter

by Jane Lindskold

  The Changer finds Katsuhiro and Anson outside the guardroom on the ground floor, unable to get beyond the half dozen armed men who have built a semifortified position by overturning furniture and the like.

  Anson is watching the corridor at their back while Katsuhiro trades shots with the guards. Two Nigerians he doesn’t know watch each other warily. The woman holds a knife.

  Perhaps Anson’s own gift for shapeshifting makes him hold his fire when the owl flies into the corridor from an empty room. Perhaps he just figures an owl can’t do much harm, but he does smile when the owl resolves into the human-form Changer.

  “Naked as a jaybird,” Anson says, “and twice as welcome, eh? Eddie or Dakar send you?”

  “Eddie,” comes the laconic reply. “He’s getting tired of shooting shadows and wants to know when you’ll finish messing around in here.”

  “We have a problem,” Anson says. “Six problems. We can’t get around them, and all the other ways out of the building take us across an awful lot of open ground.”

  “Six?” the Changer asks. Then to Katsuhiro, “Susano, do you have an extra gun?”

  Katsuhiro never looks away from the room he is watching, but he nods. The Changer, ignoring the Nigerians, who are staring at him with astonishment close to terror, walks over to Katsuhiro and accepts a handgun.

  “It’s loaded already,” Katsuhiro says, squeezing off a shot. “Be quick. I’ve ammo enough, scavenged from the dead, but I cannot shoot forever without something jamming.”

  “Of course.”

  The Changer walks back the way he had come, pausing only to stare at Teresa and Taiwo. “See you later,” he says in soft menace. They don’t see him wink at Anson as he passes.

  Returning to the empty room through which he had entered, the Changer contemplates shapes. He’s getting tired, but there are still floodlights operating inside the compound, so he prefers to travel quickly and in a shape smaller than a human.

  Shifting back into an owl, he grasps the handgun in his talons. When he is outside the guardroom, he finds a sheltered spot cast into deep shadow by the spotlights glaring on the open area around the building. Then he shifts back into a human and crouches low.

  Creeping around to the door, the Changer thuds his shoulder against it, making a loud noise. A shrill scream from within tells him that Katsuhiro has taken advantage of someone’s momentary inattention. No one on the wall has noticed him, so the Changer checks the doorknob. It turns easily.

  Someone must have seen the turning, because the metal-jacketed door is shot at from within. That was stupid; the door is bulletproof, and the resulting ricochet wounds someone else.

  Listening to the anguished sobbing, the Changer hazards another thump, gambling that nerves within are beginning to fray. It’s easy enough to be valiant holding your own against one man. It’s not so easy when suddenly there is an enemy at your back.

  Again there is a shot, and this time Katsuhiro calls out—in Yoruban so the guards within are meant to understand his words—“Throw the grenade now! I’ve got this side covered!”

  Grinning sardonically, the Changer heaves a rock through the already cracked pane of glass set high in the guardroom door. The sound of shattering glass is completely drowned out by screams and gunfire. He waits patiently. After a moment, Katsuhiro calls in Japanese:

  “I think I have them all. Mind checking?”

  The Changer, still watchful of his back and of the men patrolling the wall (though most of their attention seems to be for the darkness without, from which death comes with uncanny ease) obliges by opening the door, standing back, and then, when no further gunfire ensues, dropping low and peering through. He sees six men, dead or dying.

  “All clear,” he says, “but hurry.”

  The two Nigerians, herded by Anson, come quickly, but Katsuhiro hangs back.

  “I thought I might get my sword while we have the upper hand,” the Japanese explains.

  Anson sighs and mutters something about Katsuhiro’s change in philosophy being too good to be true, but he doesn’t protest. The Changer studies Susano.

  “Or, knowing that I am here,” he says, “you hope that I will get your sword.”

  Katsuhiro shrugs, not at all embarrassed. “It’s in the master suite,” he says, and gives directions. “I would owe you much if you would help me.”

  The Changer nods. “Yes, you would.”

  When Katsuhiro bows, accepting the debt, the Changer shrugs his shoulders preparatory to shifting shape one more time.

  “See you outside,” he says, and is gone.

  Stinky Joe is the first to push out from under the spell with which Louhi has ensorceled the Other Three Quarters Ranch. From his favorite perch in Tugger’s hay rack, he drops onto the horse’s broad back. The athanor horse does not open his eyes, does not even shudder his skin, just stands there splay-legged, so deeply asleep that his nose brushes against the sawdust bedding in his stall.

  Stinky Joe takes a few worried licks at his shoulder. He might not be one of the Cats of Egypt, steeped in magic, but he is cunning, streetwise, and very, very old. Within the time it takes to shake the last persistent cobwebs of sleep from his brain, he has resolved to find Frank.

  Entering the ranch house, the cat finds the same unnatural stillness that had reigned in both stables and barnyard. The clouded leopard sleeps before the cold fireplace, looking like an exotic rug. A pair of ferrets coil on an ottoman. Birds that should have awakened with first light continue to drowse with their heads beneath their wings.

  Worried now, Stinky Joe streaks toward Frank’s room. He leaps over the menagerie sprawled around the sleeping saint and lands squarely on Frank’s chest. But for a slight “oomph” of exhaled breath, Frank sleeps on.

  Joe butts his head against Frank’s cheek and is rewarded by a stirring. He butts again, hard enough to bruise, and Frank mutters a string of nonsense syllables. Reluctantly, for he views Frank as one of his many charges, Stinky Joe unsheathes the claws on his right paw and whacks Frank soundly on his rather prominent nose. This time, Frank’s eyelids fly open, and he sits up so rapidly that Joe must jump to one side.

  “What the heck!” Frank expostulates. “Joe? What’s wrong?”

  Even as the cat explains, Frank notices the light streaming in through the gaps in the window curtains, feels the stiffness in his muscles, and realizes that he has slept far later than he had intended. Usually the animals will not let him oversleep—being far too aware that he is the one who feeds them—so Frank realizes that Stinky Joe is telling the truth. Something has bollixed both him and his many-headed organic alarm clock.

  Pushing a still-sleeping jackalope to one side, Frank swings his feet to the floor. Shuffling into his slippers, Frank hurries to the room where Wayne should be sleeping. The door is open, the room empty, and the young coyote who was guarding the door gone.

  “Damn!” Frank curses. He’s about to hurry outside to see if there is any sign of Wayne, when Stinky Joe yowls, drawing his attention to the door that is always kept closed. It is ajar now, and when Frank hurries inside he sees that the mouse cage is empty. The ground squirrel remains in his cage, staring up at Frank from mismatched eyes that are empty of anything but vague curiosity about the lateness of breakfast.

  Moving automatically, Frank fills the rodent’s food dish and checks that it has sufficient water. Then, closing and locking the door behind him, he heads outside. The haste is gone from his pace. He no longer expects to find either Wayne or the mouse. He just hopes he won’t find Shahrazad a crumpled heap of lifeless fur in some corner.

  “Wake the others,” he tells Stinky Joe. “Start with the dogs. I need them for tracking. I’ll need a raven or jay to do some scouting.”

  Stinky Joe blinks at him, catlike, considering whether or not to take orders, then flicks the broken tip of his tail in acknowledgment. After all, breakfast will be further delayed if Frank doesn’t have help. He does ignore Frank’s priorities, waking the felines firs
t and delegating them to help him wake the others. It is far below his dignity ever to deal with dogs.

  Meanwhile, Frank has gone outside, ignoring the cold November winds that whip through his pajamas and chill his feet through his slippers. One of the trucks is gone. That’s simple enough. He also finds the marks of the griffin’s talons and hind paws in the snow, side by side with the marks of small coyote paws. The snow coverage is scattered, so he cannot read the full story; however, he sees enough to draw some uncomfortable conclusions.

  Sending a jay to warn the werewolves and unicorns, he goes inside. Tugger can feed the horses. It’s long since that Frank rigged something to that purpose. The other animals can wait a bit longer. He needs to phone Arthur.

  “Pendragon Productions, Chris Kristofer speaking.”

  “Chris, Frank MacDonald. I need to speak with Arthur.”

  “Arthur Pendragon,” the King’s ringing baritone says a moment later. “How’s the situation?”

  “Bad,” Frank says bluntly. “You might want to leave Chris on the line to save you from having to brief him later.”

  “That bad,” Arthur says. There’s a click, and the sound takes on the slightly hollow sound of a speaker setting. “I’m ready. Both Chris and Bill are with me.”

  Succinctly, Frank sums up his discoveries. The long silence on the other end tells him that his auditors fully understand the seriousness of his report.

  “How,” Arthur says, and it is evident that he is struggling to sound mild, “did Louhi manage to accumulate so much power without your noticing?”

  “I’m not a wizard,” Frank says. “She is. I fed her and cleaned her, but otherwise had little contact with her once she seemed settled into being a mouse. If she was hiding something from me, I’d never know.”

  “But what about...” The King pauses. “Wait. I think I understand. The Cats of Egypt and the Raven of Enderby, all of whom are magically inclined, have been away from the ranch for over a month now.”

  “And the less magical cats for at least ten days,” Frank adds. “She may have grown bolder without them present.”

  Bill Irish chimes in. “Can you check her cage, find out if there’s anything to indicate how she did this?”

  “I can and will,” Frank answers. “I can take this phone with me to that room. Meanwhile, I’m worried about Shahrazad. Can you contact the Changer?”

  Arthur clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s gone to Africa on some business for me. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but the last time we talked, the werewolf’s murder drove everything else out of my mind.”

  “Africa?” Frank asks.

  “Nigeria. Several of our people, including Eddie, have been out of touch, and there’s been some strange windstorm. The government’s denying visas, so I needed someone who could...”

  “Right.” Frank sighs. “Damn. I was hoping we could get him here in time to track her down. As I said before, my guess is that she went after Louhi with the griffin. If we could find her, we should find them.”

  “If they stole Frank’s truck,” Bill reminds, “you can report it to the police. They might find it—especially if you say that the thieves are dangerous, y’know, make up something about them assaulting you when they took the truck. You should be able to fake it.”

  “That’s an idea,” Arthur says slowly, “but we don’t want to attract the police’s attention. Who knows what Louhi might do? In the past, she’s been capable of turning men into pigs when they annoy her. I’d hate to add another anomaly.”

  Frank agrees. “The police might also spot Shahrazad and the griffin. Also, if Louhi is aware that she is being followed, she might alert the police.”

  Bill clears his throat. “I hadn’t thought of that. Still, she isn’t going to say a mythological beast and a coyote are chasing her, is she?”

  “No,” Arthur says, “but she might weave a glamour so that the police would see them as something else—dangerous animals or something. I don’t know what she can do, but she has been capable of malice in the past.”

  “Right,” Bill says. “I’m new to this.”

  “Frank, I’ll get Lovern to try to find them,” Arthur promises. “Louhi may have some sort of shield up against scrying, but Shahrazad and the griffin won’t.”

  Chris cuts in. “Your Majesty, Lovern is in Las Vegas. When Lilith called to say they’d found the satyrs, she said that he was exhausted and staying on.”

  “Locate him right away,” Arthur commands. “Tell him to get back here and why. Bill will brief you later if there is anything more.”

  “Right.”

  “Is there anything more, Frank?” Arthur sounds hopeful.

  “Well, I’ve been studying Louhi’s cage. On the side of her wheel that faced the wall there are some complicated runes scratched into the plastic.”

  Arthur gives a low whistle. “A wheel with runes. That sounds like what we’re looking for. Can you copy what it looks like or photo...”

  Bill interrupts. “Why doesn’t he just express mail the whole thing? That way Lovern can check it out personally.”

  “Great! The voice of the twentieth century speaks. Can you get it to us overnight, Frank?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll have you kept posted as things develop.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do the same, though, to be honest, I hope there aren’t any more developments.”

  “Me too, but I expect that that’s too much to hope for. Thanks again, Frank. Keep a weather eye on the Head.”

  “Stinky Joe just showed up, and he’s settling in to watch the Head. I think he’s offended by the chaos in his kingdom.”

  “Him and me both,” sighs King Arthur. “Him and me both.”

  The air crackles around Shango as he looks down at the mess on his office floor. He is as full of barely restrained electricity as he is of barely restrained temper. Last night had been a cascade of bad news.

  First, he had gone by the old Belgian factory where Anson had told him this Oya resided. He had planned to enter via the door on the roof, then kidnap this Oya and at least one of her human associates as hostage against her good behavior and cooperation.

  He had the situation choreographed in his imagination and was looking forward to seeing the wind drop, to his armies moving forward shouting “Kabiesi!”, proclaiming him, not that fool of a mayor as ruler. It had been too long since he had been so hailed, but with the mayor’s death—a thing he intended to arrange as soon as he had Oya securely in his keeping—he would be the natural successor.

  But his plans had become ashes, for when he had made the laborious climb to the top of the factory and had eased open the rooftop door he found the place uninhabited. Sneaking down the stairs, he ghosted through the sleeping family who occupied the second floor, but though he looked down onto many sleeping faces, he did not find Oya, nor did he find any of the athanor.

  He did find something that creased his brow with worry. One of the men had the same features as Taiwo, one of his tools, and thus must be Kehinde, Taiwo’s twin. One of the women looked to be Aduke Idowu, Taiwo’s wife. It troubled him that Oya had taken up residence with people so closely related to one of his tools. What did she know? What did she suspect?

  Forgoing a hostage, for he had no idea who was dear to Oya and who was not, Shango went up to the roof again. He was preparing to climb down when he saw the white flash of gunfire and heard its fainter report, both coming from the direction of Regis’s compound.

  Cursing under his breath, he clambered to the ground, running so that he would be at home when the report of the disturbance was brought to him. He arrived only moments before the messenger and covered for his being up and fully dressed at a time when a respectable minister would be asleep by hollering at the messenger.

  “See! You are so slow that I am awakened and have time to ready myself before you even drag your loathsome feet across my doorstep. Take a message to the chief of police!”

&nbs
p; He scribbled the message, demanding that an elite squad be prepared for his use and that the off-duty men be awakened and ready for combat. The exhausted runner hurried off, and Shango took a few minutes to gather his favorite weapons, including a set of thunderstones. These he would use only as a last resort—for like any athanor he has learned to dread anomalies—but a burst of lightning from the sky had turned the battle for him more than once.

  But when he met his elite squad and raced to Regis’s compound, he was too late. Over half of Regis’s guard was dead, both the night squad who had been on duty and those who had been awakened by the first shots and hurried to back up their fellows. Katsuhiro Oba was gone, as were Taiwo, Teresa, and Regis.

  Shango spent a bloody hour searching building by building, room by room, turning over corpses to confirm for himself who was present and who was not. The Balogun did not have time either to mourn or to meditate on the ramifications of the night’s activity. He barely managed to choke out appropriate responses to Shango’s questions and to check off each of the dead on a roster he carried on his clipboard.

  At last, leaving the Balogun in command, Shango returns to his house. Only after he has dealt with the host of panicked requests and reports that await him can he escape to his private office and consider what to do next. He can’t decide whether to scream or rejoice when Regis steps from concealment behind a door and bows before him in insolent humility.

  The Chief General Doctor is smeared with sewer filth, explaining how he had escaped the compound where so many had died in his defense.

  “Hello, boss man,” he says in broad pidgin accents. “And what for we doing now?”

  “You fool!” Shango bellows. He forgets himself, forgets his plans, forgets how useful Regis could be in the future—both as a control on those superstitious Nigerians who will be ready to tremble before the God of Smallpox and as a researcher into new and more terrible biological weapons.

  Forgetting all of this, Shango strikes his hands together. A bolt of lightning, jolts out from where his hands meet and it hits on the carpet just in front of where Regis stands. The proximity of the electricity wipes the insolent grin from the human’s face.