A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

  The geisha took the elvensteeds’ reins and led the horses toward the wall, vanishing before they reached it.

  “Come.” Chinthliss beckoned, smiling.

  They followed him back up the long flight of stairs. Beyond the curtain was . . . a palace. High windows opened onto vistas of exquisite gardens that seemed to stretch into infinity. The walls were covered with painted murals done with such skill that it was hard to tell where the real garden ended and the painted one began. Beth tried not to gawk.

  “I trust you will find these poor accommodations to your liking,” Chinthliss said, stopping in front of another set of double doors. These were of sandalwood, carved and oiled until they gleamed like gold. They opened at a touch.

  “Thank you,” Beth said. “You’re very kind.”

  The dragon smiled. “And now I will leave you. Do not hesitate to summon any of my servants to see to your needs.” He bowed.

  Beth stepped inside, Kory following. The suite was decorated with as much lavish ornamentation as the rest of the palace, but was obviously scaled to human size and needs. There were Western-style couches and chairs, a bookcase filled with books, and at the far end of the room stood an enormous canopy bed. Golden dragons twined about its ebony posts, and the hangings were all of scarlet silk embroidered in gold. In the center of the room stood a table filled with covered dishes. Whatever they contained smelled wonderful.

  “My,” Beth said.

  “We are safe, for now,” Kory said. His sword and armor had vanished, and he was dressed in more ordinary clothes. He approached the table and lifted one of the silver covers.

  “Hey, look at this!” Beth had gone through the doorway to the right of the bed. She was standing in a bathroom that any Roman emperor would have killed for. A tub big enough to do laps in stood in the middle of the room. “Big enough for two,” she said invitingly, when Kory joined her.

  “Yes.” Kory put an arm around her. “Why not? It would be churlish of us not to accept what is offered.” He walked over to the tub and touched one of the taps—gold, in the shape of a leaping dolphin. Water immediately began jetting from it, filling the tub with hot water and perfumed bubbles. “And then you will eat and rest,” he said firmly.

  “And after that, business.”

  Beth couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well and so deeply. She awoke in the morning—or at least, after long slumber—to the smell of bacon and eggs, and sat up in bed to see more of the semi-transparent servants laying the table for breakfast.

  “Good morning,” Kory said, sitting down on the bed beside her. “Did you sleep well?”

  Elves didn’t sleep—not under normal conditions, at any rate. More time for them to get into trouble, Beth had always thought, but lately she’d started to wonder what it was really like to have all that free time. It was almost as if Kory had a secret life, one she couldn’t be any part of.

  She yawned and stretched, banishing all such vague morning thoughts. “Did you have a good night?”

  “The tea was hot, and the books were entertaining,” Kory answered seriously. “And I had a great deal of time to think. Dragons are . . . experts at solving the problem we face. He can help us, I think, if he will.”

  “But what will he want for his help?” Beth said. Kory stood, and she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “That’s the real question, isn’t it? Whether we can afford to pay?”

  “For your happiness—for Maeve’s—I will pay any price, but—”

  “But some prices are too high,” Beth finished firmly. Nothing that would endanger the elves, or anyone else for that matter. “Well, we’ll see.”

  One of the nice things about magic was that the food was always hot, Beth reflected. They were just finishing—bacon and eggs, blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup, fresh-squeezed orange juice, herb tea—when there was a knock at the door. It opened, and instead of one of the little flowerlike geisha, the travelers were presented with the awesome sight of a Real English Butler in full formal livery.

  “Good morning, Lord Korendil, Mistress Bethany. May I trust that you have found everything to your satisfaction?” His accent was as English as the BBC.

  “Of course,” Kory said graciously. “And we are looking forward to speaking with your master at his earliest convenience.”

  The butler bowed. “I believe Lord Chinthliss is in the conservatory at this hour. If you would care to accompany me to his receiving room, I shall inform him that you are awake.”

  Chinthliss’s receiving room bore a strong resemblance to the library of an English country gentleman. There was an Oriental rug on the floor, and the oak-paneled walls were lined in books. A massive desk with a top carved from a single slab of green malachite dominated the area before the windows, which gave a magnificent view of a formal garden. If the view didn’t match that available from the other windows, Beth didn’t mind. This was magic, after all.

  As they had been left to their own devices, she wandered around the room. There were some surprises: the elaborate stereo system tucked into one corner—

  Nakamichi. Nice. I wonder how he runs it down here without electricity?

  The silver-framed photos on the walls were another thing that didn’t quite fit in with Beth’s notions of a feudal draconic sorcerer: most of them were of race-car drivers, and signed.

  Tannim Drake . . . Brian Simo . . . Doc Bundy . . . Fox mentioned someone named Tannim was a friend of Chinthliss . . . can’t see Fox driving a race car, somehow.

  She looked again at the black-haired young man, caught in the act of giving a grinning thumbs-up in front of his car. The words “Fairgrove Test Driver” could be seen on his coveralls. She’d heard of Elfhame Fairgrove. I guess Eric and I aren’t the only ones who’ve fallen in with elvish companions.

  Hanging near the picture of Tannim was a carved rosewood shrine, its doors standing open. Inside, on a small purple velvet pillow, stood another incongruous item: a Ford key, with a Mustang logo key chain. Obviously this was an item the dragon cherished. I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out the story behind all this.

  The door of the study opened, and Chinthliss entered. He was dressed as he had been before, in the height of Western fashion, and this morning had added a set of lightly-mirrored designer shades to his ensemble. You could have dropped him anywhere in Hollywood and not raised a single eyebrow.

  “My young friends. I trust you are now refreshed from your journey?” He crossed the room and seated himself behind the vast desk. “And now, what is it that I can do for you? Please, be frank.”

  How can I be Frank when I’m already Beth? she thought, but while she would certainly have answered Fox that way, Chinthliss seemed far too dignified to descend to the level of a punning contest. She and Kory sat on the chairs arranged in front of the desk.

  “I— I’m not sure where to begin,” Beth said hesitantly. She glanced at Kory. He shrugged minutely.

  “I always find it is best to begin at the beginning,” Chinthliss told her.

  Begin at the beginning, go on till you get to the end, then stop. Humpty-Dumpty’s advice to Alice echoed through her mind. C’mon, Kentraine. You’ve made harder speeches. Beth took a deep breath and began.

  Haltingly, she explained the whole story—about meeting Kory for the first time, her desire to start a family with him, about Maeve, and wanting her to grow up with brothers and sisters around her. It seemed to take a long time to tell, and Beth found herself rambling. Finally she stopped.

  “And you, Sieur Korendil?” the dragon asked. “Do you concur?”

  “All that she says is true,” Kory said. A look of wistfulness crossed his face. “To have children—children of our own . . . that would be a blessing such as I had never hoped for, before I met Beth. Yet some prices are too high to pay.”

  “Perenor didn’t think so,” the dragon observed.

  “Perenor was wrong,” Kory said flatly. “To create new life, yes. But not at the expense of the sufferin
g and death of others.”

  “Agreed,” the dragon said. “And I’m delighted to tell you that my library does contain the information you seek.”

  “So all we have to do is get inside,” Beth said.

  Chinthliss raised his eyebrows, and said nothing.

  He’s waiting for us to offer him something.

  Beth thought hard. What could she possibly offer someone of Chinthliss’ resources? He didn’t need money, that was for sure, and she doubted there was anything the elves could do for him that he couldn’t do for himself.

  She had an idea.

  “That’s a pretty nice music system you’ve got there.”

  Chinthliss preened. “A gift from a friend.”

  “Kind of hard to get CDs here, though, isn’t it?” she asked idly. “Oh, well, I guess Amazon can ship just about anywhere, these days. And there’s always MP3s.”

  “Alas.” Chinthliss looked regretful. “I regret to say that even with all my arts, it has so far been impossible for me to get Internet access here. Computers, you see . . .” He shrugged.

  Gotcha! Beth crowed silently.

  The horse trading began in earnest.

  Chinthliss insisted they remain his guests for the rest of the day, but the following morning saw Beth and Kory on the road once more, headed back for Elfhame Misthold. Without the need to make the side trip to the Goblin Market, the trip home should be relatively short and uneventful.

  “This is great!” Beth said. “Chinthliss’ library contains every-thing ever written about cross-species reproduction—and he’ll let us spend as much time there as we need.”

  “Once we have met his price,” Kory reminded her. “A computer that works Underhill—how are you ever going to deliver such a thing?”

  “If his Nakamichi works there, a computer will, too. Computers are mostly plastic these days, and the newest models don’t need a phone line to hook up to the net.” Beth grinned, sensing victory within her grasp. “All I need to know is where to shop and what to buy. As for finding that out . . . I’m going to consult another expert.”

  EIGHT:

  IT’S A SATURDAY NIGHT

  AT THE WORLD

  Just as promised, the elvensteeds returned Eric and Ria to the World Above the same day they’d left—or, rather, very late that same night. Eric had never been so grateful for Lady Day’s autopilot abilities: he’d done a lot more playing—and dancing—after the Bardic competition. And it had been a competition as much as a performance, he’d found to his chagrin. Adroviel had led all the performers back out onto the stage to take their bows before the company—and then presented Eric with the golden laurel crown.

  After that, the evening had been pretty much a blur, though alcohol wasn’t to blame for that this time. But, as Eric had discovered, ambient magic could have much the same effect. . . .

  He barely remembered saying good night to Ria at the door to her Park Avenue apartment, and remembered nothing at all after that until he awoke in his own bed with Sunday morning sun shining down on him.

  Jumbled unreal memories of leaving Lady Day in the parking lot behind the building, of tiptoeing in past the sleeping Hosea and somehow getting his boots off before he flung himself in bed, surfaced as he lay looking at the ceiling. He was still wearing his Court clothes, and investigation proved that he’d gone to bed with both sword and flute.

  But it’d been a heckuva party.

  Just so long as there isn’t another one any time soon, he thought, stretching. Visits to Underhill are fine, so long as they’re just that . . . visits.

  He checked the bedside clock as he rolled out of bed: 11:30. Not too bad for the morning after a late night. He could hear Hosea moving around the apartment. He’d better pull himself together so they could hit up a few of the better gigging sites. There’d be another audition soon, so Hosea could get a performer’s license of his own, but not until the middle of August, still a couple of weeks away.

  And August means the Sterling Forest Faire will be opening. I wonder if I should make arrangements to play up there for a couple of weekends? It would be fun to introduce Hosea to the Rennie world, and with a little Bardic magic, some of Eric’s outfits would fit the Appalachian Bard.

  Thinking about Bards made Eric remember Dharniel’s comments last night. He wondered how Hosea would take to the idea of being taught by Eric—there was a lot more about his past he’d have to come clean with Hosea about, if he did. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  I can think about it later.

  He stripped off his Court clothes, flinging them into the back of the closet, grabbed his robe, and headed for the shower. When he came out a few minutes later, wet and dripping, he felt a lot more “grounded on the Earth plane,” as Beth’s friend Kit always used to say.

  “Morning,” Hosea said, as Eric wandered into the kitchen. “Must’ve been a pretty fine party last night.” He held out Eric’s laurel garland.

  “Um . . . thanks.” Eric took it. The leaves were made of pure gold, twined with a silver ribbon on which elvish letters burned with blue fire. Not your ordinary sort of party favor.

  How do I explain this? How do I explain any of this? Suppose Hosea doesn’t want me for a teacher?

  He tucked the crown under one arm awkwardly.

  “There’s coffee brewing. Looks like you could use a cup. Oh, and someone named Margot came by and dropped off something for you. Looks like a letter.”

  Although with Margot one can never be sure. Eric cracked wise, if only to himself. He’d been Overhill long enough now to have gotten back his coffee habits—and had already needed the caffeine more than once. “I’ll look at it after I get dressed,” he said, and made a less-than-graceful exit from the conversation.

  Dressed, caffeinated, and with the last evidence of his Underhill sojourn tucked safely out of sight, Eric adjourned to the living room, where Hosea was reading a book. He set his cup down on the coffee table and picked up the envelope.

  It said “Eric” on it in bright purple calligraphic ink, and the envelope was liberally dusted with spray-on glitter. Definitely a Margot touch. It wasn’t sealed. He opened it and pulled out a glittery violently purple sheet of paper.

  “Calling the Usual Suspects: Lammas Party Next Saturday! 7:00 till Sanity intercedes! Bring yourself, bring a friend, bring munchies! Venue: the Basement!”

  Every few weeks most of the building’s tenants got together for a sort of informal mixer down in the building’s basement. While only a minority of Guardian House’s tenants were Wiccan, the eight festivals of the Wiccan year fell approximately 45 days apart, making a convenient schedule for parties.

  Eric passed the flyer to Hosea. “You’re certainly welcome to come—the building is mostly artists, so we tend to show off our latest work, play a little music, unwind a bit.”

  “Sure,” Hosea said, passing it back. “Be mighty nice to meet a few more of the neighbors.”

  Hard to believe I was in Elfland just a week ago today, Ria thought, staring down at the mound of work on her desk. All the glamour—in the oldest sense of the word—seemed pretty far away when she was staring at the latest pile of paperwork on her desk. And she’d cross-her-heart promised to show up at a party Eric’s friends were having at Guardian House later tonight.

  Not her usual sort of entertainment; Ria’s tastes ran more to the thoroughly civilized, such as ballet and opera. But there was no denying that Eric’s friends were likely to be an engaging crowd . . . and that Eric was the main attraction.

  Their relationship was an interesting one . . . doomed, you might say. Eric was a thoroughgoing do-gooder and idealist, believing, like Spider-Man, that with great power came great responsibility. Ria was more of a pragmatist: stone-cold dead cuts recidivism by 100%.

  And they were opposites in so many other ways, too. She thought Eric was too trusting. He thought she was paranoid. She liked a mannered, organized life. Eric Banyon was the original free spirit. She thought that discipline was
the most important thing about making your way through life. Eric thought that Love conquered all. LlewellCo—a billion-dollar multinational—was her entire life. Eric had no idea what he was going to do with his life once he got out of Juilliard. Ria hobnobbed with presidents and kings. Eric hung out with elves and street musicians.

  Insurmountable. But somehow they were making it work—so long as each of them took care not to step too far into the other’s life. But how long could they keep up this balancing act? Eventually Eric would be done with his schooling, and she’d be done with her work on the East Coast. What then?

  You’re daydreaming like a schoolgirl, Ria. She sighed, shaking her head, and reached for the file in front of her.

  The phone rang. Ria reached for her desk phone before she realized her cellular was ringing. She’d set it to roll over calls from the apartment. But who could be calling?

  “Ria Llewellyn.”

  “Ria? It’s Elizabet.”

  Elizabet Winters was the Healer who had saved Ria’s life. In mundane life, Elizabet was a psych therapist with the LAPD, dealing with crime victims and other trauma cases. She and her apprentice and adopted daughter, Kayla Smith, had brought Ria back from coma and insanity in the wake of the battle for Elfhame Sun-Descending.

  “Elizabet!” she said warmly. “How wonderful to hear from you. Are you in town?”

  The other woman chuckled. “No such luck. I’m stuck behind my desk with an ever burgeoning caseload. No, I’m calling about Kayla. I wanted to let you know that she’s decided to take you up on your offer. I think its fair to warn you that the child still has champagne tastes.”

  Ria laughed. “So she’s decided on a college and a major? Where?”