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 suffering 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 everything 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?"
"Columbia," Elizabet said. "She got the acceptance letter last week. They've got a good computer school. She's thought the matter over carefully and decided she wants to train to be a Web designer."
"Well, she'll never lack for employment," Ria answered. More to the point, Web designer was a solitary profession with odd hours. Though Kayla's great Gift was Healing, you couldn't set yourself up as a free-lance medic without running into legal trouble, and even if Kayla'd had the patience, taking a medical degree to legitimate her skills would have been nothing more than a quick trip to early burnout or even death. A Healer and Empath needed a lot of time alone to process the pain from those she touched. There were going to be a lot of times when she'd really need to get away from people altogether, and Web designer would be a career where she could tailor both her hours and her interactions with others.
"And certainly I can cover her tuition. Just have the billing office get in touch with me. Which dorm will she be in?"
"Well, that's another thing I wanted to talk to you about." Elizabet sounded hesitant. "Columbia doesn't really have a lot of student housing, and I'm not really sure I'd be all that comfortable with Kayla around a couple of hundred other teenagers. She's a great kid, and of course she wrote the book on street smarts, but I think sometimes that we just tend to forget that she is a kid. I was hoping more for a situation where she'd have some adult supervision."
I think I know where this is going. Of course Elizabet was right—dropping an Empath into a cauldron of teenaged angst would be like dropping a firecracker into a tank of gas, personality issues aside. And Ria owed both Kayla and Elizabet so much that anything she could do in return would never be enough.
"I'll be happy to keep an eye on her," Ria said. "I've got a huge apartment that I hardly ever see. I'll be glad to have her stay with me."
Elizabet let out a sigh of relief. "I was hoping you'd say that," she said. "I know that babysitting a teenager is nobody's idea of fun . . ."
"Kayla's hardly your typical teen. And street-smart or not, she's never seen anything like New York before. Here, I'll give you my home address. Just crate her stuff up and ship it when you're ready. I'll be sure to meet her plane."
"You're a doll, Ria!"
They chatted for a few minutes more about various things, and Ria gave Elizabet the address of her Park Avenue apartment—and be damned to the co-op board if they don't like it; I can always buy the building!—and several emergency phone numbers. She also made a promise that they both knew was empty: that she'd do her best to keep Elizabet's young apprentice out of trouble. Kayla was drawn to trouble as the moth to the flame.
What am I getting myself into? Ria wondered as she hung up the phone.
* * *
What am I getting myself into? Eric wondered, not for the first time that week. He still hadn't been able to bring himself to mention the idea of becoming Hosea's mentor to Hosea; every time he rehearsed the words in his head they ended up sounding arrogant and stupid. But the longer he delayed, the guiltier he felt. Tonight. At the party or after. For sure.
They'd made the rounds of the usual spots this afternoon. The take was a little lower than usual—it was August, and a lot of Gothamites were fleeing the city for cooler climes—but still respectable. Hosea had insisted on knocking off early; he had a recipe he wanted to try for the party tonight. He'd called it "pocket dumplings," but when he described them, Eric recognized the recipe for Cornish pa
sties. Makes sense. Just about everyone from that neck of the woods hailed from the British Isles originally. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't a Grove tucked away somewhere in those hills . . .
So they'd gone shopping, and then Hosea had firmly shooed Eric out of the kitchen. "I've seen what a kitchen looks like once you're done with it, Mister Bard. You just do your part and eat what I cook."
Eric had wandered around the living room for a while, unable to settle. He thought about going for a walk, but the idea held little charm—Manhattan in August was hazy, hot, and humid, and he hated the thought of leaving his spell-driven air conditioning.
I wonder how Jimmie's doing? He hadn't seen her in the last couple of weeks; she'd been working on Friday when they'd had their get-together. But Paul had told him her schedule, and she should be home now. He decided to go see her, maybe cadge a cup of tea.
A few minutes later he was standing in front of her door. He knocked gently, and after a few minutes heard her walking down the hall. She opened the door.
"Eric. How are you?" She tried for a smile and missed. Eric tried to keep from looking as shocked as he felt. Jimmie looked like something the cat had dragged in—deep puffy black circles under her golden eyes, and lines in her face that hadn't been there a month earlier.
"I've come at a bad time," he said.
"No." She opened the door wider. "Come on in. Really."
He stepped past her, into the hall. It was lined with shelves full of books on every conceivable subject—Jimmie Youngblood was a voracious reader.
In the living room window, an elderly a/c wheezed and thundered, working hard to cool the room. Eric walked over to it and touched it lightly. He reached out with his power, asking it to remember the days when it was new. It instantly began to purr quietly, and the temperature dropped appreciably.
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