“Well, this is what we have been awaiting and dreading these long months. The end is come at last.”
Duppy Jonah, ruler of all the oceans of the Earth, stands in the corridor outside of the meeting rooms talking to Connel the selkie in low, urgent tones.
“What do you mean that you are not certain you can find him? You have seen the Changer. Vera has told us that he is within an hour’s drive of this house.”
Connel rubs the side of his freckled pug nose. “Lord, the rules of the Land are not those of the Sea. If the Changer has taken himself away, I certainly cannot find him.”
“You can find me one whale in all the pods within all the oceans if I so bid you, but you cannot find me a creature as unique as the Changer in a span that cannot be more than a hundred miles—less! We know he has gone into mountains.”
“Lord, the creatures of the sea know you and do your bidding,” Connel says patiently. “I do not so much find that whale as he is found for me—for you. Perhaps Arthur commands such obedience from the land dwellers.”
The selkie permits himself a grin, secure in the knowledge that he is among those favored by his tempestuous lord. “Although I do not think that this is the case if the arguing and debate we have heard these past days are any indication.”
“Then how will we find the Changer?” Duppy Jonah muses. “He must be told that Sven is here. After what was done to him at this one’s instigation… yes, most certainly, even sore wounded, the Changer will wish to know where Sven is to be found.”
The door from the meeting room opens and Anson exits. His bow to Duppy Jonah is such a fluid thing that it seems more the first step in an elaborate dance than an obeisance.
“So you mean to seek the Changer, eh?” he asks, his smile only widening when Duppy Jonah frowns angrily.
“Have you been eavesdropping, Spider?”
“No. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t find it easy. Those doors are soundproofed.”
“Then?”
“I saw you leave soon after Sven made his entrance. Neither Amphitrite nor Vera made any move to stop you. Therefore, you were either going out for some routine business or for something serious. When you didn’t return quickly, I decided the reason was not routine and hurried to place myself at your service.”
“And why would you wish to do that?”
“Because the old Changer and I are friends. Because I think he should know what is happening here. Because I think that he’s more likely to listen to you than to me. Because if he’s going to help himself, I’d like it to be at a time when that helping would help Arthur, too.”
“Oh.” Duppy Jonah considers. “Can you find him?”
“I have a good idea where to start looking. Not only that, I know where the keys to the van are kept. May I accompany you?”
“When should we go?”
“Sven has claimed the protection of this house,” Anson says, “so the sooner the better. If he knows the Changer is coming, he will stay inside until his damage is done. Tonight, however…”
“A trip is planned to the State Fair.”
“Yes. I slipped a note to Rebecca Trapper—who is having some mighty powerful mixed feelings now that she knows who has been pulling her strings—suggesting that she invite Sven to join them during their outing so they can get better acquainted.”
“And why should she listen to you?”
Anson winks. “I signed the note from her friend Demetrios. She won’t know otherwise until it’s too late.”
“Then I see only one problem,” Duppy Jonah says. “I agree that my brother will be more likely to heed me—moreover, I may be able to find him by virtue of our shared blood…”
“Neat trick, that.”
“But I will most certainly be missed in the assembly. If we do not want Sven warned, how can I go?”
Anson strokes his chin, then he turns to Connel.
“Are you a shapeshifter, lad?”
“After a fashion. I can shape from man to seal and back again, if I have the proper skin.”
Without asking leave, Anson reaches up and with a knife he produces (apparently from nowhere) he slices off a piece of Duppy Jonah’s hair. This he places on Connel’s head.
“Pretend this is your ‘proper skin,’” Anson tells the astonished selkie, “and shift into your master’s shape.”
Connel glances at Duppy Jonah for permission. The Sea King nods. Closing his eyes, the selkie begins to concentrate so hard that his skin pales and sweat dots his forehead.
“Not like that,” Anson chides, pressing down on the selkie’s head. “Easy, just like man into seal.”
Connel sighs, then motions as if pulling a pelt over his shoulders. As his hands drop to his side, he shakes the heavy purple-black hair of the Sea King from his eyes.
“I…” he says, and his voice is Duppy Jonah’s as well.
“There. Go and take your lord’s place in the meeting,” Anson orders. “Write a swift note to Amphitrite so that she will help you with the deception.”
“Go!” Duppy Jonah adds when Connel hesitates. “We will return soon.”
“And we’ll call first so there will be no trouble over folks seeing two Duppy Jonahs,” Anson assures the selkie.
When Connel has returned to the meeting, Duppy Jonah grabs Anson by the shoulder. “I didn’t know you could work magic.”
“Small things,” Anson replies glibly, “learned when I stole magic from the Spirit in the Sky. The ability to shapeshift something else is particularly useful if you get into trouble as often as I do, but I couldn’t have done it so quickly without the selkie’s own abilities to support me.”
“And my hair?”
“Theater.” Anson grins. “I can never pass up a chance for a grand effect.”
During the drive, Duppy Jonah questions Anson about the Spider’s relationship with the Changer and assures himself that the ancient trickster is truly his brother’s friend.
“When I saw the condition that Louhi left the Changer in,” Anson explains, “I knew then that even though I am a signatory to the Accord, I would do anything I could to help the Changer.”
“The Changer is not a signatory to the Accord, is he?” Duppy Jonah asks.
“No. He’s in Harmony, but otherwise he protects himself and expects no protection from anyone else.”
“Then he is not bound by Arthur’s offer of the protection of his house.”
“True, but I don’t think the Changer would relish having all the Accord forced to protect Sven against him. I wouldn’t enjoy that much either, come to think of it. Such a conflict could break the Accord and Arthur’s administration as easily as whatever game Sven is playing.”
“Yes. I can see that, but will the Changer?”
Anson fumbles with a bag of cookies with one hand as he drives. The Sea King rips it open for him.
“I think,” Anson says around an oatmeal-raisin cookie, “that the Changer will realize that Sven could use the conflict between them to weaken the Accord. He may not be a member of the Accord, but he will not wish to break it. Surely he realizes that the Accord is Shahrazad’s best protection.”
“True,” Duppy Jonah says thoughtfully. “Even if it were not, the Changer would not wish to be Sven’s tool.”
“So the Changer will moderate his actions to preserve Arthur. May I beg leave to ask you a question, Sea King?”
Duppy Jonah responds to the sudden formality of Anson’s words with formality of his own. “You may ask, Spider.”
“I was curious,” Anson says, “if you planned to ask the Accord to move against Cleonice Damita.”
Duppy Jonah fidgets as if the question makes him physically uncomfortable. Anson does not press for an answer, but drives on, munching cookies. At last, the Sea King replies, “I am a creature much like my beloved oceans. My anger can be a tempest, but then I can calm into the most placid doldrums that ever stole the wind from a ship’s sails.”
Anson makes a noncommittal but encour
aging sound.
“When Amphitrite was taken from me, I was furious and would have done anything to regain her. I cared for nothing but my loss and for the punishment of those who had wronged me.
“But when Amphitrite was returned to me and I learned that two of those who had done her this wrong were dead, I exhausted my rage keeping Lovern captive. As long as Cleonice is formally severed from the Accord and I am made part of any committee that considers her reinstatement, then I am content.”
Anson nods. “Magnanimous in victory.”
“Perhaps,” Duppy Jonah says, “I was also influenced by Vera’s belief that the South American contingent did not plan to kill them. I find… to my embarrassment… that the fury of my reaction was expected. My anger was used to manipulate Arthur. I dislike this immensely.”
“I understand,” Anson says. “So Cleonice may live?”
“I will not seek her death,” Duppy Jonah says, “but I would not attempt to prevent it if another sought it.”
“And could someone gain your favor with her death?”
Duppy Jonah rumbles laughter. “No. I will not pay for the head of John the Baptist—nor make request to be rid of a troublesome priest. Cleonice was a fool. Leave it there.”
When they arrive in the appropriate section of the Sandias, Duppy Jonah gets out of the van. He breathes deeply, shaking his head in disapproval.
“The air is so thin, so dry, so empty.”
“There are places that are worse,” Anson says philosophically. “Any ideas as to how we find your brother?”
“A few. I have been recalling old practices during our drive, but it has been long since I used them.”
Anson, who knows that Duppy Jonah speaks of millennia, not centuries, nods and opens a box of donuts. He has eaten three when the Sea King shakes himself from his revery.
“There was a call we used long ago when both of us ventured onto land,” he says, “a carrying thing. That would surely reach him, especially in this clear air.”
“So?” Anson asks, for Duppy Jonah is not calling.
“I cannot make it from this human throat, nor am I at all certain that I can shapeshift this far from water or without unspelling the spell that Lovern has used to make me seem human.”
“That last is a risk we can’t predict,” Anson says practically, “but I can guide you to shifting just like I did your selkie.”
“’Tis a good thing then,” Duppy Jonah says with a belly laugh, “that your use of my hair was just theater.”
“True enough,” Anson says. “Let me place my hand upon your head. When I give the word, concentrate on the shape you wish to take. Don’t worry about channeling energy. That’s my part.”
The Sea King complies and, perhaps because he is more powerful than Connel, or perhaps because he has more confidence in Anson’s abilities, within about a minute he stands on the roadside in the form of a massive bull elephant seal.
“That’s quite a trick,” says the Spider, wiping his forehead and eating two more donuts. “Now, you make your great cry.”
The seal shuffles to face the seemingly empty forest. Then a weird and eerie sound rings out, seemingly too high-pitched to come from the baggy throat. There is volume behind the call, volume and strength, and it carries through the evergreen-forested slopes, echoes off the rocks, and finally fades away.
The Sea King calls thrice, each time pausing five minutes between calls to listen. After the third repetition, there is an answer. It is fainter, as if the chest behind the cry is smaller, but the notes are unmistakable.
Snuffling his bulbous, trunklike nose, the Sea King nods solemnly to Anson. Then he flops over, and Anson puts his hand lightly on the seal’s head.
When Duppy Jonah has been returned to human form, both he and Anson are trembling.
“I don’t think we should try that again,” Duppy Jonah says. “I drew upon the pattern of Lovern’s spell for the human shape, which, since I did not undo it with the command word, remained.”
“And the Changer?” Anson asks.
“He comes,” the Sea King says from a throat made rough and weary. “He comes.”
When he arrives hours later, the Changer needs very little explanation. He listens to their report in silence, his single yellow eye almost unblinking, his hand (for he had shifted human-form) resting on Shahrazad’s head.
“We go, then,” he says, when Anson finished his speech, “and I thank you both.”
He tilts his head to one side so that his gaze can rest on Shahrazad. “You are nearly old enough to be left alone now, little girl. Yet…”
Again the tilting of the head, the inspection by the yellow eye, this time of the Sea King and the Spider.
“But I am reluctant to do so. Twice she has been used against me: once when my enemy would have killed my family to set me on Lilith, once when they kidnapped her.” He makes a dry sound that passes for an ironic chuckle. “I have a weakness, and she is a few pounds of baby coyote. Shall I leave her where she may be safe but I shall wonder, or shall I take her with me?”
Anson tosses the pup a chunk of donut. “She danced the Harmony Dance, Changer. How much longer must you fool yourself that she is a pup to be sent on her own way when she reaches six months or a year? She is one of us.”
Duppy Jonah nods and, to emphasize his point, gets on his knees so that he can stroke the coyote pup. “This is my niece, Changer. You have had young before, but most take after their mothers. This one has found her heritage young. Let us bring her with us, have her declared in Harmony. She will be guaranteed a juvenile’s protection within the Accord. It is more than you alone can do for her.”
The Changer smiles one of his rare, open smiles. “Good. You’ve convinced me to do what I wanted to do. Now I am certain that Shahrazad will be safe even when I must leave her.”
As they spiral down the mountain roads toward the outspread gleam of the city lights, the Changer asks question after question, formulating his plans.
“Drop me off near the fairgrounds,” he says. Then he glances at his nudity, which to this point had not been an issue between them. “No, I will need clothing.”
“And we will need to put Shahrazad somewhere safe.” Anson chuckles. “We cannot bring a coyote to a place filled with livestock. It would not be fair to her.”
The three men frown. Shahrazad whines sadly.
“Can we put her in a room at the hacienda?” Duppy Jonah asks. “Or will she howl?”
“She may howl, but she knows the place, so she may not.” Anson drums his fingers along the steering wheel. “This is the answer. I will call ahead. We will drive around, maybe get something to eat, until we are told that Sven and his crew have left. Then we go to the hacienda, get some clothes for the Changer, and put Shahrazad in the care of some stay-at-home. Then we head to the Fair.”
The Changer nods. “Make your call.”
For Rebecca Trapper, the wonders of the State Fair, revealed in the light of early evening, are almost enough to make her forget her uneasiness regarding Sven Trout. She had grown to maturity hearing from her Aunt Swansdown and the Olsens the legends of the athanor. In these Sven Trout, by his various names, had often had an unsavory role.
Yet, watching him stroll along, dressed now in jeans and a garish Western shirt, cotton candy in one hand, an inflatable rubber hammer in the other, she cannot find him a figure of fear.
The Head is easier to fear. Like most of the theriomorphs, this is his first outing of this sort, but even the satyrs’ open lust as they stare at the pretty girls in their short skirts or tight pants, as they whistle admiringly at the cleavage revealed by low-cut blouses, is warming and natural compared to the grasping avarice and weird complacency with which the Head gazes around from his mismatched eyes.
“It’s as if he has seen the world,” Rebecca whispers to Bronson, resisting an urge to cling to his hand, “and not only has he decided that it is good—he’s decided to have it gift-wrapped and sent to him at his hotel.
”
Bronson grunts agreement. “I won’t let him harm you, dear. Now, what do you want to see next?”
“Swansdown and the Olsens want to take the children on the rides. The kappa want to go, too, but I’d rather see the Indian Arts Building.”
“We can split into smaller groups.” Bronson reaches into his sleeve pocket. “I have a watch.”
“Let’s do that then.”
They have just finished making arrangements with the other yeti and sasquatches when two voices call out.
“Rob! Rob!”
Looking over they see Chris Kristofer and Bill Irish hurrying up. The two men seem genuinely pleased to see “Rob.”
Bronson quietly notes that they did not have any trouble picking one green-robed figure out of the group. Maybe they hadn’t blended in quite as well as Rebecca had thought.
Rebecca shakes Chris’s hand, noticing again how big her own is in contrast, and dips a bow to Bill. He bobs back.
“Having fun?” Bill says.
“Yes.” Rebecca gestures to Bronson. “This is my… best friend, Bronson.”
“I think we saw you this morning,” Chris says, looking up into the hairy face. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And I you.” Bronson offers his huge hand briefly.
With instinctive caution, Swansdown and Snowbird have moved the rest of their group along, so more introductions are not needed. Demetrios lingers on the fringes, but seeing Georgios licking his lips and leering after a pretty Hispanic girl, he hurries to defuse the situation.
Bill asks, “Where you headed next?”
“We were going to see the Indian Arts Building,” Rebecca says shyly. “We’ve just finished looking at the Spanish art.”
“Want a local guide?” Chris asks. “I’d say ‘native,’ but that has other meanings around here. I’m no expert, but I do know an inlay from an overlay.”
Rebecca notices that Bill’s gaze has wandered after a couple of pretty high-school girls.
“Do you know Indian art, too, Bill? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to be bored. And we’d be stealing your friend.”
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