Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

“You look like a man,” he says.

  “Thank you!” She hugs him. “Do you really think I’ll pass? Try on yours!”

  Bronson wonders if any of them will pass, but he must admit that Rebecca looks like a tall, rather hirsute man. She resembles a Neanderthal (Poor sods. His grandfather had said they just couldn’t compete) rather than an Arab. Still, a veil would attract more attention than it would dissuade.

  “Try combing your facial hair into a shape closer to the way human males wear it,” he suggests, trying on his own robe. “It’s a pity we don’t grow mustaches.”

  “We could get some false ones,” Rebecca suggests, combing her side whiskers so that they more closely resemble a silky black beard.

  “No,” Bronson grunts. “That’s asking for trouble.”

  As if all of this isn’t, he thinks morosely.

  The green robes fit with tailored perfection—not surprisingly, since Rebecca had measured both of them with persnickety care. Looking at himself in the mirror, he has to admit the color goes well with his reddish brown fur—far better than the Sikh’s pure white would have. The discussion group in the computer chatroom had decided to avoid white lest they insult any real Sikhs. The stylistic similarity had been viewed as far safer.

  “Bronson,” Rebecca says admiringly, “you look wonderful!”

  She comes over to him and rubs her nose against his. He feels a groin-warming thrill and hugs her tightly. “Maybe I should wear a robe all the time if this is how you feel about it,” he teases.

  “Oh, no!” she protests. “I always like how you look. It’s just that you look so… formal and mysterious. Like a high priest of ancient Persia.”

  Bronson’s rambles had stayed within North and South America, but he has seen pictures of the men to whom Rebecca is alluding and is complimented.

  “Are all the theriomorphs dressing like this?” he asks, thinking that a mob of them would make quite an impression.

  “No, just the sasquatch and yeti. The fauns and satyrs can get by with baggy pants and tailored boots. Tengu shapeshift, as do pooka. I really don’t know what the kappa are planning.”

  Bronson, recalling some of the disgusting practices rumor attributes to the yellowish green, monkeylike kappa, swallows a rather rude comment.

  “I’m certain that the Moderator has something in mind for them,” Rebecca finishes happily. “I only wish we could include more of the dispossessed. Monk told me that some unicorns were actually considering attending, but Frank MacDonald convinced them that their safety couldn’t be even as assured as ours is.”

  “As safe as that will be,” Bronson mutters.

  If Rebecca hears, she chooses not to comment.

  Now is the moment to make his attempt. For the last four hours the Head has been siphoning small amounts of magical energy into his personal store, has analyzed the wards around Louhi, has reviewed the spell that Lovern had stored within his memory.

  It is a simple spell, only a few lines long, but in order to work it the caster needs to establish a bond between himself and the spell’s recipient. There must be a moment of vulnerability and contact. He thinks that he knows how to achieve this.

  Hauling himself to his new feet by means of the ropes that Louhi had anchored in the ceiling studs a few days earlier, the Head pulls himself erect. His walker is within reach, and he edges into it, releases the brake, and rolls toward where Louhi is reading a paperback copy of The Compleat Enchanter.

  She lowers her book to watch his progress, her expression both analytical and approving.

  He continues to exercise, coming closer to her with every pass. Sweat forms along his hairline and trickles down his back. It still seems odd to him that his skin can involuntarily leak water. Louhi continues to watch.

  Carefully, the Head reviews the spell one more time. Softly, keeping the sound trapped within his throat, he taps the reservoir of power he has been storing in tiny increments all afternoon. When magical energy wells so full and potent that he feels as if he will choke, he deliberately slips.

  Jumping to her feet with such speed that her book thuds to the floor, Louhi takes him into arms strengthened by hours of gathering driftwood and sea-polished stones on the Finnish beaches.

  Perhaps she thinks it peculiar that what issues from his lips is neither startled cry nor frightened scream, but instead a thin, pure, note of song, a sound so clear and beautiful that it catches the hearing and holds it prisoner.

  Perhaps she does not.

  Whichever is the case, by the time she notices, the chance to do something other than listen in rapt attention is past.

  Her voluntary touch has brought him within her wards. She had not thought to proof herself specifically against him. Her perception of him is still as of a passive thing that needs her care and guidance, not as a wizard-spawned creature of power.

  The Head sings a brief lyric in Finnish, the same lyric that a Durag is said to have sung to enchant his captive bride. Neither the words nor the melody alone spin the spell; they must be fused by the magic that he weaves into them. A less-gifted person could sing the same lyrics to no effect; a more greatly gifted (though nonesuch may exist) might not need to be within Louhi’s wards to assure success.

  Louhi listens, her pale eyes growing first more pale, then returning to their usual cool blue. As the color returns, they hold a greater warmth; for the first time since the Head has looked upon the sorceress, her eyes are framed with a smile that is neither sarcastic nor ironic but warm and loving.

  She knows that she has been ensorcelled, but part of the power of this spell is that it convinces the recipient that the spell is not the cause of the emotions welling up within a heart and soul too long cold and vengeful, but merely the excuse for releasing what she has always known.

  “I love you,” she whispers softly, and pulls his head against her small, round breasts.

  “You do?” he asks, his tone equally soft.

  “As I have never loved another,” she says honestly.

  Except with some shrilling screaming part of herself, she is unaware of the irony of this statement. Truly, never before, even when she loved Merlin, has she loved like this, for never before has she been ensorcelled to love.

  “And I love you,” he says. His reply is somewhat less honest, for he does not so much love her as desire her, but love and lust are as muddled within his mind and body as within that of any teenage boy.

  “Kultani,” she says, caressing him. “My darling.”

  He turns her face to his, kissing her cheekbones, the corners of her eyes, and finally her coveted mouth. She returns his kisses with enthusiasm, then, as he wishes it, with heat.

  “Sven will not be here tonight, will he?” the Head asks, as she helps him to his feet.

  “No. He is preparing for the last stages of our grand challenge to Arthur. You and I are alone tonight.”

  “And that is how you wish it?”

  “Of course!” She is not so far from herself as to fail to sound indignant that he would question her, but she smiles immediately. “I wish to ravage your virgin body, to make you feel what you have only fantasized.”

  He licks his lips. “I’m capable of quite a lot of fantasy.”

  “And I am capable of quite a lot of satisfying,” she purrs.

  Leaning on her, the Head has a momentary qualm that perhaps he should have waited to cast this spell until he was stronger. He had no idea what a tigress lurked beneath Louhi’s cool, silvery exterior.

  “We won’t tell Sven about us, now, will we?” he asks, seeking to reestablish control.

  “No, that wouldn’t be wise,” Louhi agrees. “He’s been lusting after me since we started this gambit—and long before that. It wouldn’t do to make him jealous. At least not while we still need him.”

  Her hand drops from his shoulder to slip inside his loose sweatpants. “My, you’re shaping up nicely. Come along now.”

  And he does, quite content to let her appear to lead since he knows wi
th the certainty of the song that still echoes within his mind that he is the true master.

  26

  Judicial reform is no sport for the short-winded.

  —Arthur Vanderbilt

  Early in the second week in September, Monk decides he isn’t really pleased with the way things are turning out. It was one thing to help Sven with a few tricks and turns. Not only had it given him and his buddies something to do (Nippon is wonderful, but realistically it is a small archipelago. The combination of highly developed electronic security systems and a few stodgy resident athanor made it tough for a tengu to have any fun), but they sympathize with theriomorphs who, like the trickster tengu, are becoming imprisoned by the advancement of human technology.

  But this… Hiero out flying shuttle service. Roy meeting fauns and satyrs at the airport. And Monk himself shapeshifted into a respectable Japanese businessman so that he can meet with hotel managers and caterers. Where the hell is Sven, as the great mess he has orchestrated gets ready to begin? Monk doesn’t have the slightest idea.

  Oh, the Fiery One checks in by telephone or e-mail several times a day, but a few interesting things have become clear. Monk can’t decide whether he’s more pissed off that Sven won’t be arriving until a couple of days after the meetings with Arthur begin or that he insists that the tengu keep the secret of the Moderator’s identity just a few days longer.

  “It’s a matter of life and death, Monk,” Sven had said seriously during a recent telephone conversation during which Monk had complained. “My life and death, I admit, but I feel no less strongly about it for that. I’ve stirred some hornets’ nests in setting up this meeting. I’ve made some enemies. Let me make my appearance in my own time. Please!”

  Monk agrees reluctantly. “The first two days of the meeting, Sven-san. Two days only. Then the cat is out of the bag. I’m not taking the fall for you.”

  “Great, great. Two days should be plenty.”

  Huffing to himself as he remembers this, Monk reaches for the listing of foods he’s ordered for the guests who will be arriving today. He notices that he’s forgotten to order cucumbers. With kappa coming that wouldn’t do. Their alternate food choices can get very vulgar.

  Cucumbers.

  Sighing, he reaches for the telephone, shifting his throat to produce the voice of his Japanese businessman persona.

  Cucumbers.

  Leaving the courtyard, where Vera is visiting with Duppy Jonah, Amphitrite, and Anson, Arthur snags Eddie and takes him to his office.

  “How are we going to entertain all these people?” Arthur says, unaware how closely his concern mirrors Monk’s own.

  “Vera has said that she’ll be able to handle the Ocean Monarchs.” Eddie leans forward. “I’m more concerned about the other lot.”

  “You mean the Trappers and their friends?”

  “Right. They’re coming into Albuquerque for a vacation—not just for this meeting. In a way, I expect that this meeting is an excuse for the vacation.”

  “I think you’re right. They aren’t going to be content staying in their hotel or roaming around this estate.”

  “No, not if their entire platform is based on unhappiness at being kept undercover,” Eddie agrees. “I suppose we could arrange a tour to some of the museums.”

  Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not certain about that. There are security cameras. One slip…”

  “Yeah.”

  “If Lovern were here to work some hoodoo on the cameras, I might risk it,” Arthur says. “Museums are amusing—and educational about human understanding of the Earth.”

  Lovern, however, has made his apologies and is busy searching for the Head. Lovern’s dismay at its disappearance had been equaled only by his fear when he learned who had taken it and what they were planning to do. When he hasn’t been driving about the area with divining tools, he has been in his room performing strange rites that leave the air smelling of burned spices.

  “A public event then,” Eddie offers. “Fiesta in Santa Fe wouldn’t be a bad idea. There are lots of galleries and the burning of Zozobra. I can check the dates for this year.”

  “Wait!” Arthur says. “I have a better idea. How about the State Fair? It’s close to home, crowded, and has lots of different activities. There are rides and games as well as art exhibits, farm animals, and music acts.”

  “You’re right!” Eddie agrees excitedly. “Do we offer or wait for them to ask?”

  “Let’s offer. That way we can avoid the charge that we were forced into taking them out.”

  “Needless to say, that opens us to the charge that we are trying to steer where they do and don’t go.”

  “So we lose either way.” Arthur shrugs. “I’d rather err on the side of generosity.”

  “They should be arriving today,” Eddie says. “I’ll call over to the hotel and make our offer to their liaison.”

  “Good.” Arthur frowns. “Who is their liaison? Is it this Moderator?”

  “No.” Eddie shakes his head decisively. “I asked him when we talked, and he flatly denied it. He wouldn’t identify himself. I have the impression he’s not completely happy about his job.”

  “Interesting.” Arthur makes a note. “We may be able to play on this during the meetings.”

  “How formal do we want the meetings to be?” Eddie asks.

  “I want to model them on the Lustrum Review,” Arthur says promptly. “There must be no protest raised that we are treating the theriomorphs any differently than we do other athanor.”

  “Well, that will make things easier,” Eddie says, “or maybe more difficult. We won’t need to worry about a change of format, but to realistically parallel the Review, we should have sent out invitations to all the rest of the Harmony.”

  “We can’t do that,” Arthur says, “not on such short notice, nor do I think it would serve any of our needs. However, let’s make certain we have video cameras set up and make regular postings to those members of the Harmony who are on-line.”

  Eddie nods, his mind racing as he considers all the different things he will need to do to prepare. Vera won’t be available to help—not with acting as liaison for visiting royalty. Anson might help and Jonathan…

  “I think we can pull it off,” he says, hesitantly, “but if you want full coverage, we’re going to need help.”

  “Let’s not worry about full coverage,” Arthur decides easily. “We’ll be able to brief folks later. It isn’t like this is a proper Review.”

  “Okay,” Eddie says, relieved.

  Neither Arthur nor Eddie realize that they have just made a tactical error.

  Getting off the small plane at an airfield on the northern edge of Albuquerque, Rebecca Trapper sniffs air so dry that her nose aches. She grabs Bronson’s hand tightly.

  “Look how bright the stars are!” she says rapturously. “And how broad the sky is!”

  Hiero, their tengu pilot, chuckles. He still resembles a Japanese street punk, but he has added a black bomber jacket over his tee shirt and a white bandanna printed with a red sunburst is tied about his brow.

  “It’s a good sky,” he says, “but there are lots of them around the world. Come along. Monk should have a van waiting.”

  Monk, back to looking like a punk himself, is waiting at the edge of the airfield in a silver-grey van. He welcomes them warmly, admiring how well they wear their green robes.

  “You’re the last of the crew,” he says. “The yeti handled most of their own transportation. We just shuttled them in the last leg. The fauns and satyrs took the public airlines. Demi saved the day when Loverboy pinched a flight attendant on the…”

  He catches Bronson’s warning glower, “… tail.”

  “How many are there in all?” Bronson asks.

  “Snowbird and Swansdown brought their daughter Dawn, their infant son, and someone they call Great Uncle Winter. There’s another Alaskan yeti family that I haven’t met yet.”

  Bronson interrupts. “That must be Joel
le Buxkemper’s group.”

  “That sounds right,” Hiero says. “Then there is the Olsen clan from up your way.”

  “And the Moderator?” Rebecca says hesitantly. “Is he here?”

  “He isn’t yet. We’re to start the meetings without him.” Something in Monk’s voice keeps them from asking more.

  Monk has taken an entire floor at the hotel, selecting one with several conference rooms. It is in one of these that Rebecca finally has the opportunity to meet the people who have become her closest friends.

  Loverboy proves to be a hulking, olive-complected fellow with wild hair and beard. He wears baggy black pants belted low on his hips, a loose pink shirt, and cowboy boots.

  He greets Rebecca with a bellow of delight and an appreciative leer. When he sees Bronson, he becomes somewhat less openly enthusiastic.

  “Baby, baby, baby!” he shouts, loping over to her, a glass of beer in one hand, the other hitching up his pants.

  “Loverboy?”

  “You know me, sweet fuzzy lady!” he answers. “But here you call me Georgios, okay? Let me introduce you to my compadres.”

  Rebecca hangs back. Even though she is several inches taller than Georgios, he is an intimidating figure.

  “Maybe in a moment,” she hedges. “I was hoping to meet Demetrios.”

  “And I have wished to meet you,” a courtly voice says, coming from around Bronson’s towering bulk.

  Demetrios is a natty fellow with neatly combed, reddish brown hair cut stylishly long to the nape of his neck and a matching goatee. Clad in tweed trousers held up by tan suspenders and a white shirt, he might have been a particularly short college professor were it not for the curling goat’s horns jutting back from his forehead and the tidy goat’s hooves peeping from under his trouser cuffs.

  He puts out his hand for Rebecca’s and, although she could have easily engulfed his hand in her own, he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the air just above it as if she is the finest lady in the land. Then he bows to Bronson.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,” he says. “You wife speaks of you frequently and with great fondness.”