“I have a mixed report on the credit card,” the King says, snagging the last of the sopas from the basket and liberally covering it with honey.
“What is it?” the Changer asks, politely waiting until Arthur has taken a seat.
“It was issued to a Colorado manufacturing company. It hasn’t been registered as stolen.” Arthur’s small smile reflects his pleasure at his hacking. “However, that doesn’t mean that it hasn’t been. The account is one of those they have for members of their sales force. They issue the cards at need, rather than one per member…”
“Cheapskates,” Eddie mutters.
“Maybe,” Arthur says, “or maybe they just don’t want to keep track of a bunch of separate accounts. In any case, since the card isn’t registered to a specific staff member, I need to see if I can find out who had it last.”
“Find out everyone who could have had it,” the Changer suggests. “Our quarry might be another member of the staff who snagged the card for an overnight.”
“I bet it is a forgery,” Eddie says glumly.
Arthur nods, a trace impatiently. For all his “Round Table” philosophy, a part of him still rebels at suggestions that aren’t worded with proper deference. The Changer may see some of his pique or perhaps he merely wishes to keep the King cooperative.
“Thank you, Arthur, for once again working late while the rest of us loll about.”
Arthur permits himself to be mollified. “Where’s Lovern?”
“He’s out at the Isleta Casino playing poker,” Eddie says. “Said something about looking for portents in the cards.”
“Can he do that?” Vera asks, stifling a yawn behind a honey-sticky hand.
“Who knows?” Eddie answers. “Maybe he can. Maybe he just wanted a night out.”
“He may want a night out,” Vera rejoins, “but he didn’t have the day we did. I’m going to get some sleep.”
“Me too,” Arthur says. “Colorado’s on the same time we are—I can get answers in the morning.”
“Changer?” Eddie says, always courteous.
“I know to sleep when I can,” the Changer says. “Don’t stay awake to amuse me.”
The others depart then, sleepily. Only the puppy, snuffling after pastry crumbs, has any energy. Her father begins unbuttoning his shirt, steps out of his jeans. Standing nude in the cool, spring moonlight, he feels an ache of loneliness for his mate. Five years is not forgotten in a few days, not even by one such as he.
He shifts then, becoming coyote to the delight of his daughter. They romp for a while, then, tail to nose, flank to flank, they fall asleep beneath the shadows of the lilac bush.
6
Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason?
For if it prosper, none dare call it Treason.
—Sir John Harrington
This time it is a three-way call: Sven, the Head, and Louhi.
“Hello, all!” Sven says cheerily. “Greetings from the land of sand and mountains.”
“Hello, Sven, Head,” Louhi says, and her voice is as crisp and as breathtakingly beautiful as a flower encased in ice.
“Hail, fire-born, wisewoman. What tidings bear you to your bound brother?”
Sven glances at his notes. “The Changer has come to Arthur’s estate. He brought a coyote pup with him—probably my assassins missed one of the litter.”
“That,” comes Louhi’s voice, “may be all to our good.” The tinkle of her laughter is not kind.
Sven nods. “Yes, I had thought of various ways we might use the little bitch. Lovern has been summoned to Arthur’s side. But, knowing you two, you’ve learned that already. Less good news is that apparently Arthur suggested to the Changer that Lil deserved more than a quick slash across the throat. He braced her, but our hoped-for battle didn’t happen.”
“They both remain unharmed?” Louhi asks, piqued.
“That’s what I said,” Sven says testily.
“Pity. We need his blood. You have promised it to us. If you fail to obtain it…”
“Oaths bound with bands of bright blood,” the Head reminds, “when broken are broken with the same.”
“Don’t threaten me!” Sven says indignantly. “I’ve been busting my balls…”
“To minimal effect,” Louhi says.
“Shit on that! I’ve brought the Changer from the wilds to where we can reach him. I’ll force Lovern to bring the Head to Albuquerque. Give me time!”
“From your website,” Louhi says, “I see that you are setting back our timetable several months.”
“It seems like the best option,” Sven says sulkily. “We need the theriomorphs to assure a vote of no confidence. Our only other choice is a direct coup. That didn’t do much good last time.”
“Ragnarokk was long ago,” Louhi says.
“Ragnarokk ended up bringing Arthur to prominence,” Sven snaps, “when too many of those senior to him died and the rest lost their taste for politics. I myself had to hide for centuries until the old grudges had softened a bit.”
“Scion severed from sire,” the Head adds, “was imprisoned deep within the whale’s road. Wisdom was won at wondrous price.”
Louhi isn’t particularly impressed by their reminders, but then she hadn’t been born when that great battle tore their people apart. “The plan was to have the vote of no confidence occur at the Lustrum Review this June when neutral parties would be present to hear us plead the theriomorphs’ cause and our solution. Now we will lose that opportunity.”
“Not if you still attend the Review,” Sven says quickly. “Your interest in shapeshifting makes you a logical person to present the theriomorphs’ case. The monsters will still be able to lobby over the website. We may do even better when we press the vote if the discontent has some time to brew.”
“I believe I understand your convoluted logic,” Louhi admits. “If a protest against current policy is raised but Arthur sticks to his guns and then we manipulate circumstances for the vote of no confidence… Yes, it could work nicely. Many of the neutrals will come over to our side if they perceive a real abuse.”
“Not everyone,” Sven reminds them, “is happy with Arthur’s restrictions. I’ve just recruited some tengu. They’re shapeshifters and so can pass as human, but Arthur’s non-interference policy restricts them to only limited meddling.”
“And tengu adore meddling,” Louhi says dryly. “You’d better watch that they don’t meddle with you!”
“I will and I have,” Sven says confidently.
“Then for now we bide,” Louhi says. “I will visit Albuquerque for the Lustrum Review. If you get the Head brought there before then, we may be able to free him from his confinement. Then he can assist with the rest.”
“Merlin’s magic minus me,” the Head states confidently, “is minimal.”
Sven winces. As they say their farewells, he breathes a silent wish that when the Head is no longer captive to Lovern’s will he will give up his annoying fondness for alliteration. He suspects it’s an empty hope.
But then, everyone is entitled to a dream.
Spring in New Mexico is a season of winds: winds that sweep across the sandy grasslands around Albuquerque creating clouds of tan grit, knocking down fences and street signs, and otherwise making venturing out-of-doors unwise.
Unwise, that is, for those of humankind. Ravens enjoy the wild air currents, soaring on them with impudence, spotting with glittering brown eyes the trash bag ripped open or the cellophane bag torn from a hand, the tortilla chips within scattered.
It is with these busy scavengers the Changer flies one afternoon when Arthur’s hacienda becomes too full of people for his feral soul. His daughter, replete with puppy chow and scrambled eggs, sleeps under the lilac bush. She is noticeably fatter than she had been when they arrived: a round, pudgy puppy, no longer a runt, but still not apparently a coyote.
The Changer is not thinking, just flying, enjoying the aerial game of snatching windblown tortilla chips from the dirt
of the vacant lot. There are another half dozen ravens with him, unmated juveniles, all learning to survive before they complicate their lives with responsibility for territory, eggs, and mates.
One young male is a particular clown, a perfect, elegant acrobat, capable of soaring dives and wide-winged recoveries that the Changer would be proud to have mastered. It is with this one that the Changer falls into competition.
Resisting the urge to reshape his wings for slightly better maneuverability, the Changer targets a large triangular tortilla chip scudding like a sail without a ship beneath the wind’s encouragement. His playmate targets this one as well, performing a daring barrel roll that permits him to come in just under the Changer’s breast feathers and seize the prize.
The youngling rides the wind higher, his plumage lit with purples and blues by the brilliant sun, his triumphant croak muffled by the tortilla chip grasped in his beak.
Then his breast explodes in a splatter of scarlet, blood splattering wide enough to coat the Changer’s right wing, momentarily crippling his own power of flight.
The shapeshifter loses altitude, thick, clawed legs extended to take the shock of a forced landing. The young raven’s corpse hits the ground next to him, a few crumbs of tortilla chip still flecking his gaping beak. Eyes that had been brilliant moments before are dulling now, but the Changer has no time to waste in sorrow. He must get to safety.
There is not much cover in the open lot over which the ravens had sported—a few scraggly cottonwoods and elms, a low clump of squat junipers and four-wing saltbush, tufts of blue grama and Indian rice grass. The terrain itself is flat, with only the tiniest dunes sculpted by the winds.
Those winds give the Changer some courage. What felled the young raven was clearly a rifle, probably nothing more than a twenty-two. Even an excellent shot would have difficulty bagging a raven taking wing when the winds are strongest.
Long experience has taught him caution against changing shape in the presence of an unknown, a caution that modern technology has only reinforced. He believes he can achieve safety while remaining a raven and that airborne he has the greatest chance of spotting his foe.
Shapeshifting slightly, just a ripple through the feathers of his right wing, removes enough of the young raven’s blood that he can fly with minimal difficulty. Waiting for a violent blast of wind, the Changer again takes flight.
Dark wings spread, he lets the gusting air carry him aloft, beating those wings hard to gain the most favorable currents. His new vantage at first grants him little more than a view of the remaining ravens fleeing from a playground become killing field. Later they may return to dine on their fellow’s corpse. Then again, they may not. An urban raven needs to be more cautious than the norm.
Soaring higher, subconsciously braced for another shot, the Changer scans the ground for sign of his enemy. A glint shows him the twenty-two, leaned against the trunk of one of the elms. He is so busy searching for something the size of a human that he nearly misses what comes screeching toward him from above.
It is a golden eagle, a type of bird found in New Mexico, although uncommon near cities. The Changer has no doubt that it is his enemy, eschewing the rifle for more personal means.
The eagle is larger than the raven, equipped with a wicked hooked beak and curving talons that show the raven’s claws as small and pitiful by comparison. It is also the stronger flyer, but the raven is the more flexible.
Dodging the eagle’s first dive so closely that he loses a few feathers, the Changer heads for the cover of the scraggly elms. The eagle pulls up short, soars to gain altitude once more. Between green gaps in the wind-tossed leaves, the Changer can see it circling in a lazy, energy-conserving fashion that conspires with the winds.
Momentarily, the Changer toys with the idea of shifting human and turning the rifle’s power on its owner. He dismisses the idea as foolish. Not only isn’t he sufficiently skilled, but the sight of a naked human standing in a vacant lot taking potshots at an eagle is certain to attract attention.
Although he is safe for now, the Changer is not complacent enough to believe that he will remain so. His opponent has already shown a willingness to shapeshift without regard for potential witnesses. Without knowing who he faces, the Changer cannot guess what shapes his opponent possesses.
The eagle dives once more, pulling up short of the treetops, his screeching taunting, calling a coward the great black bird who perches just out of reach. A natural raven would take some comfort in knowing that for the moment it is safe, but the Changer hears the mockery in the eagle’s cries and the feathers at his neck fan out in anger.
He strides up and down the length of the branch, prudence and fury warring within him.
There… There… Just a few wing strokes away is the one who slew his family, who has dared assault him. To let this opportunity to know his enemy pass would be madness indeed and an invitation to assault him further.
Walking to the end of a branch, the Changer takes wing when the eagle’s circuit offers him the best clearance. Furiously striving for altitude, he rises above the eagle.
The mind within the golden eagle’s body is not the small, instinct-driven mind of the hunting bird, but the Changer well knows how the instincts of the body can shape the thoughts of the canniest mind. An eagle knows itself to be without peer in the skies, and so the rising of a solitary, black-winged scavenger bird does not trigger the panic that it should.
Almost lazily, the eagle alters its course, seeking the wind that will carry it above the arrogant raven. The Changer, however, is neither merely a raven nor prone to overlooking the effects of body on mind. He channels the raven’s instinctive territoriality, the same instinct that bands ravens together to harry owls and hawks.
True, he does not have a flock or a mate to assist him, but the Changer thrusts that doubt from him. His harsh, deep-throated “cr-r-ruk” summoning assistance from his kind, the raven/Changer comes in behind the eagle.
His beak may not be curved and scimitar sharp, his feet may be clawed, not taloned, but with a four-foot wingspan and startling aerial dexterity, a raven can effectively harass an eagle. Moreover, his calls have summoned the ravens who fled the gun. They return to challenge this, to them, unconnected threat.
For the first time, the golden eagle realizes its danger. Its attempts to rise above the raven, where it can bring its natural weapons into play, end as it flees. Heading toward an artificial canyon formed by a cluster of apartment buildings, the eagle dives.
It vanishes into an alleyway. By the time the Changer has soared over the same space, it is gone. He longs to dive after, but in those narrow spaces the raven’s greatest advantage would be lost. Nor does he dare to shapeshift, not when his enemy has chosen the turf.
Quorking angrily, he rises to where he can survey the complex. His fellow ravens are scattering now, returning to their scavenging, pleased at having driven the eagle away.
The Changer watches for a long while, but either his enemy has patience as great as his own or he has departed in some subtle shape that the his aerial observer cannot recognize. Nor does anyone return for the twenty-two.
When dusk falls, the Changer takes the risk and lands near the weapon. He approaches it cautiously, hopping and flapping his wings as a raven does when testing if something is truly dead or perhaps only shamming.
The rifle, unsurprisingly, does not move. He considers. The weapon might provide a clue, most probably would not. Leaving it here is the best course of action. Any form he could take to carry it would attract attention.
He settles for knocking the rifle over and scratching dirt and elm leaves to cover it. Then he takes wing. Ravens do not commonly fly at night, but he doubts that anyone will notice the anomaly—any, that is, but his mysterious enemy.
Given how he feels, he would welcome another confrontation.
He is anxiously awaited at Arthur’s hacienda. When he emerges from his room, human-form once more, his daughter flings herself into hi
s arms. The others are scarcely more decorous. Eddie, Lovern, Vera, and Arthur all wait in the courtyard, openly relieved to see him present and intact.
“Changer!” Arthur beams. “We had all but given up on you!”
“So I gather,” the Changer replies, looking around the arc of smiling faces. “How did you know to worry?”
“We didn’t… don’t, not precisely, or we would have sent help,” Arthur says confusingly. “Dinner is long past, but we saved something for you if you wish.”
“I do, but only with an explanation as the sauce.”
“It will,” Arthur promises. “Bring the kid if you want; we can talk in the kitchen.”
Gathering up the puppy, slightly bemused at her adoption by this august group, the Changer allows himself to be swept off into the kitchen. The puppy is set on the terrazzo tile floor and given a beef bone to worry. The others take seats around an oval table surfaced with hand-painted tiles depicting a herd of horses galloping around the table’s circumference.
Eddie sets out a cold chicken and trimmings, which the Changer begins to demolish.
“You must have had quite a time,” Arthur comments.
“I did.”
“Could you tell us about your day before Lovern tells you about his?” Arthur asks. “I’m very interested in those events in light of today’s other occurrences.”
“Sure.”
Vera listens, frowning, making occasional entries into a notebook computer. Lovern sits impassive, nodding from time to time as if he finds some deeper meaning in the incidents.
Only the puppy does not listen, content to chew on her bone, polishing the tile floor with its greasy knob, and growling softly as she strives to crack the end.
“So the rifle may still be there,” Vera comments as the Changer finishes his story.
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