Just as Chris had been the one to locate him, calling casino after casino, then bullying a staff member to check the card tables, so he had been the one to meet the wizard, to brief him on the situation, to run a few errands for him.
When he had arrived, Lovern had looked so tired that Chris doubted he could be any help. A meal or two and time away from the debilitating metal frame of the aircraft had helped, but when Wayne and Louhi had arrived, he had still been worn—so worn that he had not detected the lurking presence of Shahrazad and the griffin.
The estate’s wards only cover the buildings, not the sprawling acreage surrounding them, but from what Chris had learned, if Lovern had been at his best, he would have been able to sense the newcomers.
All of which makes his transformation into vigor all the more astonishing. Tense and excited, the wizard badgers the King.
“What has Louhi done wrong?” he asks for the third or fourth time. “That’s all I want to know.”
Arthur sighs. “As we have discussed before, her controlling the human Wayne Watkins is against the policies of the Accord. I know, I know”—he holds up his hand to forestall Lovern’s interruption—“Louhi is not a member of the Accord. We ourselves ruled her out of Accord as punishment for her role as Sven Trout’s accomplice in the doings last September. However, her manipulation of the human has led to the death of two athanor: the werewolf, Lupé, and the son of the Raven of Enderby.”
“Dark-Feather,” Chris provides helpfully.
Arthur nods. “Those two deaths are on her head—and after the losses we suffered in September, Lupé’s death is one that Harmony can ill afford.”
With undiminished enthusiasm, Lovern surges back into the argument.
“But we don’t know for certain that Louhi was responsible for the deaths. Yes, she may have drawn this Wayne Watkins to her, but we have no proof that she commanded him to kill.”
“However,” Arthur says, “if she had not drawn him to her, had not provided the protection under which he moved onto the OTQ land, he could not have gotten past Frank’s guardians to do his damage.”
“We don’t know that!” Lovern protests.
“None of Frank’s charges has died on his own land from anything other than natural causes,” Arthur counters, “in all the time he has owned the OTQ. I think that statistics are in Frank’s favor.”
Lovern remains defiant. “I’d say he was due for some bad luck.”
“The ‘bad luck,’” Arthur replies coolly, “was that he was kind enough to take Louhi into his house.”
Lovern changes tactics. “He wouldn’t have had to take her into his house if she hadn’t been transformed into a mouse.”
“True.”
“And that transformation was unauthorized by the Accord.”
“True again.”
“And even then,” Lovern persists, “no one made him take her in. She could have been set free.”
“From the earliest reports that Frank sent me,” Arthur says, his patience wearing thin at last, “Louhi and the Head both were little better than automata for the first several weeks of their transformation. Without his protection, they would have been eaten by the first cat who found them.”
Chris is startled by a rough-edged feminine voice coming from one of the other chairs.
“Most certainly, they would have,” agrees Purrarr, queen of the Cats of Egypt. “We hunted most enthusiastically after Sven Trout, and many a rat was eaten in the days that followed his escape. A mouse is even easier prey.”
Lovern glowers at the cat. “Who invited you in here?”
“No one,” Purrarr says equably around licks to her tail tip. “They say a cat may look at a king. I wanted to look.”
“And listen!”
“And listen,” she agrees, sitting up to paw at her whiskers. “Why did you ask for us to be brought here if you didn’t want our input?”
“Your magic is useful,” Lovern replies shortly. “I wanted you here in case I needed to draw on your support.”
Purrarr stares at him from unblinking eyes. “We are not amulets to be drawn on at your will, Ian Lovern. We will have our say in how our magic is used.”
“Everything,” Lovern mutters, “is a goddamned democracy these days!”
Chris swallows a laugh. The more he sees of athanor government, the more it seems more like poorly controlled anarchy to him. Remembering Demetrios’s e-mail report of the satyrs’ adventure, he has to swallow another chuckle. Then he feels a sudden chill. What had happened in Las Vegas is only funny because Lovern located the satyrs before, say, the hotel had grown unhappy with their antics and called in the local police. What if they hadn’t been found?
Arthur is saying, “Lovern, you have tried long enough to convince me that Louhi is guiltless. Accept that I will not agree. However, you have raised a question in my mind. Why did she come here? Why did she break out of Frank’s keeping rather than merely inform him that she was unhappy being a mouse?”
“I”—Lovern hesitates—“I haven’t asked her. I wanted to straighten this out with you before I did.”
“Then,” Arthur replies, rising from his desk and stretching, “I think we should ask her. Purrarr...”
“Yes, Arrthurrr.”
“Will you and your vanity provide security against Louhi’s escape if we take her out of her coffee tin?”
“Delighted.”
“Then let us convene in...” Arthur frowns, considering. Chris takes the hint.
“Bill and I could have one of the larger conference rooms set up in time for a meeting right after lunch.”
“Good. We need a big room if the griffin and Swansdown are to be present, and I’d prefer that everyone who wishes to do so be present. Otherwise, we run the risk of being accused of passing secret judgments.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
Lovern tries to speak, but Arthur waves his hand. “Enough, my wizard, enough. I need time to clear my head. Chris?”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Any word from Eddie or the Changer?”
“None yet. I’ll stop to check the e-mail on my way to get Bill.”
“Thank you.” Arthur stands, dismissing the meeting. As they file out, the King saves a gracious nod for Chris. “You’re doing very well, you know.”
Chris grins. “Someday, I’ll even get used to talking cats and to griffins arriving out of nowhere.”
“I doubt it,” Arthur says ruefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever grown accustomed to it, and I’ve had a lot longer to try.”
Anson A. Kridd is feeling very good.
This trip has not been as much fun as he had hoped it would be. He’d been looking forward to taking dear Eddie out of himself, to get him back to those irresponsible days when he’d been just Enki-dinki-dinki-du, wildman of the Sumerian plains. Of course, Anson hadn’t known Eddie then, but that was part of his reason for wanting to get to know him that way now.
But he doesn’t want to think about that at this moment. He’s cool and clean in one of Taiwo’s suits. (The Changer, bless his furry little hide, had defied anomaly and gone to get him one from Taiwo’s room at Regis’s compound). His mind is full of information he’d gotten from a long interview or two with Taiwo. Slipping from sunbeam to shadow on the street behind him are Dakar and Katsuhiro. They’re so busy watching him and not being seen themselves that they don’t notice the fourth member of their little parade.
Funny, those two, always looking for a fight, always needing a fight, and deep down inside as good as gold and far, far nicer than he himself is. He has seen too much to be really nice.
Eshu, the woman Oya had called him, and while this is not the time for that name, Anson really does identify with Eshu, trickster god, messenger god, bringer of what they got coming to those who got it coming. The people of Monamona have been sacrificing to the old gods of Yorubaland, and every sacrifice sets aside a portion for Eshu.
Anson figures they’ve got a big return coming to
them.
Arriving at the electrical plant, Anson glances toward the roof. A dove sitting up on the edge bobs a few times and makes a soft, purling noise. Anson doesn’t speak dove, but he doesn’t need a translation to know that the Changer is saying: “Shango’s here. Regis is here. Have fun.”
Anson likes the idea of the Changer saying that last. Most of the athanor see the ancient as dour, but Anson suspects that the Changer has a sense of humor, one shaped and molded by all the centuries he has spent as various animals, but Anson doesn’t doubt that it is there. The Changer loves, and love is impossible without a little sense of humor.
Swaggering to a side door, Anson motions aside the two big Yorubans who frame the entrance. They’re dressed in khaki trousers, khaki shirts, khaki socks, black boots and belts. Shango’s lightning bolt is drawn on an armband with red marker.
The slightly broader of the two blocks Anson by the simple expedient of stepping directly in front of the door.
“Who are you?” he demands.
“My name is my own business,” Anson says haughtily. “I am here to see the minister.”
“We have been told to let no one in,” the solider replies.
“Then I am no one,” Anson answers, before he realizes that this would be out of character for self-important young Taiwo. “I am an intimate associate of the minister. My name is Taiwo Fadaka.”
The two soldiers exchange glances. Anson presses his point. “And the minister is waiting for me.”
“One moment,” the spokesman says reluctantly.
Anson expects him to depart, leaving his fellow on guard, but all he does is knock slowly four times. A voice, slightly muffled by the thickness of the door, calls, “Yes?”
“A guest for the minister. On the list.”
“Let him pass then.”
Inside, Anson is hustled along utilitarian corridors to an equally utilitarian office. Probably, he thinks, the plant manager’s office on quieter days. Shango sits at a metal desk, Regis stands in a corner to his left and slightly, but only slightly, behind.
Anson does not waste time. As soon as the door has closed behind him, he widens his eyes and lowers his voice.
“Minister,” he begins, then he glances at Regis, stops, looks uncertain. This should be convincing. Taiwo had told him freely about his recent problems with Regis. “I need to speak with you—privately.”
Shango hesitates.
“I have a message only for your ears.”
Shango still remains silent and Regis stirs, looking cocky, certain of his high place in Shango’s esteem.
“I was told to tell you one word if you were unwilling to hear me,” Anson presses, glad that Taiwo is such a conniver.
“One word?” Shango cocks an eyebrow, and Regis sniggers. “One word?”
Anson nods solemnly.
“Then say your magic word,” Shango orders, breaking down as Anson had known he would. Shango has many virtues, but like most storm gods, patience is not one of them.
“Athanor,” Anson replies, speaking it carefully as if it is a newly learned, meaningless sound.
“Who gave you this word!” Shango demands.
“That is part of the message.”
“Tell me the rest!”
“Only if we are alone.”
Shango glances at Regis. “Leave us.”
Regis’s smugness melts from him. He looks hurt and offended. Anson is pleased. The word had been chosen to serve two purposes. The first was to prompt Shango to hold a private conference. The second was to test whether or not Regis was an athanor. Had he been so, doubtless Shango would have insisted that he stay, perhaps even revealed who he was. Regis’s dismissal confirms what Anson had already suspected. Regis is not athanor and, therefore, unprotected.
“Leave you?” Regis bleats.
“Step outside until I hear what this stubborn puppy has to say,” Shango says, his tone barely conciliatory. “I’ll summon you back immediately.”
Regis scowls but does as he is told. Then Anson makes a great production of sidling close to Shango and speaking his message in a whisper.
“The Japanese gave me that word. He demands that you meet with him at the Grove of the Gods. Otherwise, although he will still reserve his revenge on you...”
Anson pauses, as if temporarily forgetting a memorized message. He waits until he has the pleasure of seeing Shango fidget, then he goes on, “I mean, he will personally take his revenge on you but he will also report your doings to something he called an Accord. He said to remind you that this Accord is rather sour about kidnapping these days.”
“Is that all?” Shango demands.
“Basically. If you go, he’s willing to deal with you personally. If you don’t, he’s going to ruin your reputation as well.”
“He won’t kill me,” Shango says, as if speaking to himself, “not if he wants the Accord’s favor.”
“The Japanese said nothing about killing you,” Anson replies, “but he insists that you come to him.”
“But the Grove of the Gods is such a public place!” Shango protests.
“All the more reason,” Anson coaxes smoothly, “to believe that he does not plan to kill you.”
Shango spends the better part of the next five minutes considering his options, muttering to himself, and finally removing from a cabinet in one corner of the office an ornate double-bladed axe and a beaded-leather pouch.
Anson recognizes the axe as Shango’s personal weapon, the equivalent of Katsuhiro’s sword Kusanagi, but he imagines that Taiwo would be a bit confused.
“You’re not bringing that, are you?” he asks, carefully phrasing his words so that if Taiwo has been shown the axe sometime in the past Anson’s imposture will not be revealed.
“I am,” Shango says shortly. “Tell Regis to be prepared to attend on me, then fetch one of the long raincoats from the locker in the front room.”
Anson nods and does as he is bade, carefully masking his elation beneath an expression of polite confusion. Only when they have left the protection of the electrical plant does he say to the dove who has been fluttering behind them:
“We’re coming. Tell the warriors to be ready.”
The dove coos and flutters off. Shango looks at him in astonishment.
“You’re not Taiwo!”
“No. They made offerings to Eshu,” Anson replies. “Eshu has heard them.”
Regis starts at this, then slinks closer to his master’s side. Shango snorts in disgust.
“So it is not just Katsuhiro who awaits.”
“No, several of the Accord are gathered.”
Anson does not bother to mention the extra shadow who has followed them to this point. Let her flitter after if she wishes. By his way of seeing things, it is her right.
Shahrazad sits on a chair between the griffin and Frank. She has been listening to babbling voices for so long that her head aches. First Arthur talks, then Lovern, then a cat, then a yeti, and then Frank. Then Arthur starts talking again. When he finishes, Chris brings forth a coffee can and gently takes the white mouse, Louhi, from it.
The sorceress does as Shahrazad has seen her do before, making a ghost of herself around the mouse. And then the ghost talks!
Shahrazad grumbles to herself and chews the edge of her chair. She is angry, frustrated, and impatient. As far as she can tell, the gist of the argument is whether or not Louhi did anything wrong in enchanting Wayne and, if she did wrong, what can be done to punish her.
Louhi, of course, sees the matter differently. To her, the wrong is that she was transformed into a mouse and forced to live in a cage. She dismisses Frank’s protest that he would have set her free if she had asked by furiously asking what good would her freedom do her if she was just a mouse.
The talk goes round in circles this way for a long time, and Shahrazad grows angrier as she chews on the chair seat. The only interesting development, to her way of seeing things, is that someone—probably one of the cats—has figured o
ut Shahrazad’s role in changing Louhi into a mouse. Shahrazad is pleased to have this recognized. By her way of thinking, it was a good day’s work, better only if she’d been permitted to eat mouse, ground squirrel, and rat as she had planned.
So the talking goes on. When the meeting breaks for lunch, Shahrazad hopes that the others are as tired of talking as she is of listening, but after the meal the athanor troop back into the conference room. Shahrazad wants to go run on the grounds, but the griffin and Frank convince her to stay: the one because daylight is not a safe time for coyotes, the other because he actually thinks she is learning something from all this chatter!
Something more than eating must have gone on during the break, however, for even Shahrazad, prepared to chew her chair some more, is aware of an altered tone.
“So we are prepared,” Arthur says, “to offer a compromise. Louhi will be given what she wants most—she will be unlocked from her mouse form. In return for that service, she will grant Lovern a year of her time, during which she will work at the Academy as both teacher and enchanter.”
Shahrazad is appalled. They can’t undo her mousing! She likes things the way they are! As before, when anger fills her, she becomes aware of that odd channel to the part of her mind she has used twice before: once to transform others, once to transform herself. The power is there, rich like the smell of something rotting, full of potential. She need but reach out, and Louhi will be locked even more firmly into mouse form.
Perhaps she should sidle up there, as if drawing close to watch. Then her jaws can snap, and Louhi will cease to be a problem for anyone but Shahrazad’s stomach.
Liking this coyote plan, she is slipping to the floor to carry it out when a terrible bitter taste floods mouth and her mind. It is somewhat like the fear she had felt when she had seen Louhi first arise from the mouse but stronger, so strong that it chokes her.
Shahrazad tries to swallow the bitterness, to fight it back, to tell which of the magical creatures gathered here is responsible for inflicting this upon her. Then she realizes the flavor is not completely unfamiliar.
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