“I’m already a prisoner,” Dakar rumbles, but the fight has gone out of him. “Let me sit up.”
Eddie does so, keeping a wary eye on him, but Dakar only leans against a wall and shields his eyes from the sunlight pouring through the damaged window.
Shaking his head, Eddie goes over to the window and pulls in the curtain that had been carried out along with the table, making the room somewhat darker.
“Thanks,” Dakar says. Then, after a moment’s thoughtful reflection, “I could really use a drink. Anything. Cola. Tea. Even water.”
Eddie brings water and Dakar accepts it. While he sips, he studies Anson.
“You’re too quiet, Spider. You should be joking with me, teasing me about being beaten by a smaller man—or by a bottle—but instead you sit there with your face long and your big mouth closed. What is wrong?”
Anson looks out from wherever his private meditations had carried him.
“I think I must stop looking for Adam and Teresa,” he says after a long pause. “Today I finally found the house where someone told me they were staying. I was certain that I would find them there. Instead, I found an empty house. Inside I found this.”
He holds up a small metal badge, the type of bright gewgaw with which the local constabulary is wont to reward its rank and file.
“By now,” he continues, “they are either dead or imprisoned. If I continue to look for them too publicly, I can only do them harm.”
“You’re not going to give up!” Eddie protests.
“No,” Anson says, “but I must move quietly, and I must accumulate favors so that important people will be forced to do my bidding. That means”—and here he turns a hard gaze on Dakar—“that we must get to business.”
Dakar nods slowly. “You’ll have to remind me what we are doing. I remember it has to do with selling oil, but the fine points...”—he shrugs—“have escaped me.”
“Very well,” Anson says. “I will brief you, but let me tell you now that my interest in making this work has just gone up a thousandfold. If you cause me trouble, you can forget any deals we have made; you can forget that this is your birthland.”
Dakar frowns, momentarily angry, then sees the depth of the ancient eyes that face him.
“I understand,” he mumbles.
“Very good,” Anson says. “The first and most important thing we need to do is collect Katsuhiro Oba. He is scheduled to arrive in Lagos three days from now.”
“What!” Dakar surges to his feet, forgetting his smashed foot before it sends him sinking back to the floor.
“That’s right,” Anson says. He grins at Eddie, some of his usual good humor returning. “To make this work, Dakar is going to need to make nice to one of his oldest rivals.”
“And so,” the Smith concludes, “that’s the story with Atlantis. Production is moving on nicely, but it will be a while before non-water breathers can use it as a refuge without personal charms or a whole lot of diving gear.”
“Then Vera is running the operation well?” asks Arthur.
“To perfection.” The Smith grins. “What I can’t get used to is seeing her as a mermaid, fishy tail and all.”
“And all...” Arthur clears his throat. “Vera did say something about her human form being impractical. All Duppy Jonah could offer her was a loan on a selkie pelt, but she insisted she needed hands to work and a mouth to talk. I suppose I should have realized that she would opt for mermaid form, but Lovern said nothing about what he had done for her. How does she look?”
“Sexy,” the Smith says bluntly, “which is quite a surprise given this is Vera, our perennial virgin.”
Recalling the chaste woman who had dwelt in his hacienda for the past several years, Arthur finds himself agreeing. Although she had changed her appearance many times over the many centuries of her life, Vera had always opted for an appearance that was attractive, but in a distant sort of way. To imagine her as a mermaid—a sexy mermaid...
“Is she...” Arthur clears his throat and begins again. “In what fashion is she attired?”
“Do you mean, ‘Is she going topless?’” the Smith prompts.
“Well, after a manner of speaking, yes.”
This time Arthur does blush. Several marriages and other less formal liaisons have not removed a certain inability to understand what motivates women. Dealing with them had been easier when he was young and women could be captured as prizes. Later, when courtship entered the picture, he had taken refuge in politically arranged marriages whenever possible. He’d always been comfortable with Vera precisely because her very public commitment to maintaining her virginity had made her something other than a woman—just a person with bumps in odd places.
The Smith knows all of this, of course, and so he chuckles, enjoying Arthur’s discomfort for a moment more.
“Actually, she’s not,” he says at last. “She’s wearing a bikini top. I think she ordered a whole bunch of them from some swimsuit catalog. I don’t know if she realizes it, but some of them are pretty alluring. Even Amphitrite of the sweet bare breasts wears one from time to time. Now that’s a lady who knows a little bit of concealment can be sexier than...”
“Amphitrite,” Arthur interrupts stiffly, “is the Queen of the Sea and a powerful person. I don’t think we should be discussing her in this fashion.”
“Oh,” the Smith says breezily. “She wouldn’t mind.”
“But her husband might,” Arthur continues. “Duppy Jonah is very possessive of his wife.”
“Well,” the Smith concedes. “That’s true enough.”
He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. One is noticeably shorter than the other. Bending, he begins to rub it.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing up, “but all that moisture really got to my leg. It hurts like the dickens.”
“Aspirin?” Arthur offers. “Or something else?”
“I have some pills that Garrett gave me,” the Smith replies, “but I’d appreciate something to wash them down with.”
Arthur nods. “What will it be?”
“Orange juice. Garrett says the vitamin C helps me absorb some of the nutrients.”
“So it’s more than just a pain pill?” Arthur says when he returns with the glass of juice.
“Therapy.” The Smith accepts the juice and downs his pill. “After all these centuries of abuse, the bone is really starting to deteriorate. It may be time for a permanent shapeshift.”
“I’ve often wondered why you didn’t have one before,” Arthur says. “You certainly can afford to pay a mage for the spell.”
The Smith shrugs. “Vanity, I guess. Someone like me...” He gestures to his brawny build, to his homely but distinctive features, “shouldn’t give in to cosmetic surgery. It would be like velvet and lace on an ape. Anyhow, the limp goes with the myth, you know?”
Arthur does know and smiles. “I guess you could have the shapeshift mend the damage but not relengthen the leg.”
“Nope.” The Smith shakes his head. “That would be vanity of another sort. I’m planning to find out from Lovern when he’ll have time to get around to designing a spell that can mend the leg but leave the rest of me alone. All my magic’s in my smithing, or I’d do it myself. I’d considered constructing a prosthetic limb, but I don’t work well with plastics, and a metal leg would just be too heavy.”
“And set off every metal detector in the world,” Arthur adds.
“That too,” the Smith agrees.
“Pressure Lovern,” Arthur advises, “if he is reluctant to give you a straight answer. The Academy isn’t even set up yet, and the demands for the promised disguise amulets have been unceasing. My poor wizard is threatening to rechristen the place ‘The Factory.’”
The Smith chuckles. Like most athanor, he hasn’t minded seeing Lovern taken down a peg or two. Lovern had been too inclined to look down upon even his peers.
A knock sounds on Arthur’s office door.
“Come.”
Bill Irish enters, his eyes bright with suppressed excitement.
“Yes, Bill?”
“Morning, Bill,” says the Smith. Like the Wanderer, he approves of the integration of humans into the King’s household.
Bill flashes a smile at the Smith but, knowing that Arthur is a stickler for precedence, keeps his words for the King.
“I was just reviewing the messages that came in, and there was one I didn’t think you should wait to see. I realized you wouldn’t be working... I mean, have your computer on since you were in conference with the Smith, so I printed out a copy and brought it directly to you.”
Arthur puts out a hand. “Was it sent to my private e-mail or to Pendragon Productions?”
“Pendragon Productions, of course.” Bill rolls his eyes, though only the Smith notices. “We aren’t to read your private mail.”
The Smith swallows a chuckle. Trust Arthur trying to catch his new help usurping privileges that only Eddie could claim.
“Good news,” he asks, “or bad?”
Bill answers, “Well, a little of both.”
Arthur chooses that moment to erupt. He waves the slip of paper at Bill:“And how, young man, could you consider this good news?”
Unconsciously, Bill straightens like a solider on parade.
“Well, sir, you had been worried...”
“I am never worried!”
“Concerned, then, sir, concerned about how Lovern and his colleagues would find time to create all the disguise amulets in time for the concert. This does take off some of the pressure, doesn’t it, sir?”
Arthur growls something rude and thrusts the slip of paper at the Smith.
“Read this.”
Then, to Bill, “You may go now. Don’t mention this to anyone except Chris.”
“Yes, sir!”
Bill slips out, clearly grateful to get away.
The Smith, meanwhile, is reading the message:
Arthur –
Tommy and I wanted you to be the first to know about our plans for promoting his latest album, Pan. Tommy had the very clever idea of using some of the fauns and satyrs as backup singers and dancers in his stage show. As they won’t need costumes, the savings to us will be considerable. The very impenetrability of their “stage attire” will bring us hosts of free publicity. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have sellouts for every stop on our tour.
Needless to say, our offer is just what the theriomorphs have been requesting. They’ll have a chance to go out in public, mingle with the human race, and show that non-human form have their place on Earth, too. We plan to bring our offer to their attention this afternoon. At least at first, we’ll stay with those who are residents of the United States so there won’t be a problem with passports and such.
Hope you’re as excited about this idea as we are.
Love and Hugs –
Lil
“Well,” the Smith says thoughtfully, “Lil does have a tempting offer here. Some of the shyer ones might not take it, but lots of them will.”
“Especially the satyrs,” Arthur agrees gloomily. “Can you excuse me? I’d better get on this right away.”
“Can I help?”
Arthur sighs. “Sure. Contact Jonathan Wong in Boston and fill him in for me. Tell him I need to know if there is any way we can invoke the Accord to block this.”
“Right.” The Smith leaves, heading for one of the conference rooms where there is both a computer and a phone.
Arthur picks up his phone and punches a number.
“Prima! Gallery,” says a silky female voice.
“Lil,” Arthur says, “this is your king. We need to talk.”
Arriving in Lagos, Katsuhiro Oba permits an eager, smiling porter to take his bag but carries his sword case himself.
The latter piece of luggage has been ensorcelled so that no Customs official will ever consider it worth inspecting. He had paid heavily for that enchantment when he had made his first venture outside of modern Japan and considers it well worth the expense to have it renewed periodically.
Now, feeling smug, he strides through the airport, sensing rather than seeing the crowds part before him. He may be Japanese, but no one will ever call him a “little Nip.” Always tall for a Japanese, as the centuries have passed he has made certain to remain just a bit taller than the average. Most athanor haven’t bothered with such adjustments, with the result that all but the shapeshifters are beginning to be smaller than the average. He wonders at their lack of self-respect.
However, they are not Japanese, a thing he has always remained, even when his Asian feature have made him stand out. He still wonders that Anson had even dared suggest that he, born Susano, the Swift Impetuous Male, god of storm and thunder, could disguise himself as an African! He snorts through his nose, kindling his indignation. The porter carrying his luggage mentally halves the amount he plans to charge for his services and forsakes any hope of dash.
Such suggestions had been the reason Katsuhiro had decided to arrive in Lagos a few days before he is expected. He will look around, ask some questions, become acclimated.
As he goes through Customs (where officials, usually confident in their corruption, take a closer look at the aggressive tilt of his bearded face and decide that he is not the one to bother), changes yen into naira, and confirms his hotel reservations, Katsuhiro never ceases smiling like a cat with a mouse securely between his paws.
Once outside in the sweltering November heat (in Japan the weather had been placid and mild), he sends the now-trembling porter for a cab. If his hotel’s air-conditioning is not working, he decides, he will move to one whose does. The porter is jogging back, pointing to a cab that is freeing itself from the milling chaos of traffic, when a man’s voice, low but authoritative, speaks just behind him.
“Mr. Oba, welcome to Lagos.”
Katsuhiro does not wheel, does not do anything dramatic, but the more skilled of his students would recognize that the man who has addressed him is now in mortal danger.
“Yes?” Katsuhiro says, the word short and clipped.
“I am here to meet you on behalf of people who hope to do business with you.” The speaker’s accent is Nigerian.
For a moment Katsuhiro is crestfallen, believing that Anson has anticipated his little joke. This emotion vanishes when something small, cylindrical, and hard pokes into his upper back.
The porter comes trotting up, smiling: “This is your lucky day, mister. My own brother is driving a cab. He will take you into Lagos fast and safe and so cheap...”
His words dribble off into silence as he realizes that Katsuhiro has company.
“Go, boy,” says the man holding the gun.
If Katsuhiro had not been certain that the danger was real, the expression on his porter’s face as he suddenly flees into the crowd without even waiting for payment would have been warning enough.
That he could disarm the gunman, Katsuhiro is certain. That he could do so without harm coming to one of the people in the airport crowd is less certain. He has never been one to take war to civilians, so he replies mildly:
“Meeting with those who wish to do business would be interesting. I am here with business in mind.”
“Very wise. We have a limousine just a few meters down the curb to your right. If you will walk in that direction, I will make certain that your bag is taken after you.”
Katsuhiro turns his head slightly.
“I see the limousine,” he says, and walks.
None of the dark-featured and sweating throng who enviously watch him slip into the air-conditioned car realize that he has just saved their lives.
Shahrazad had expected the jackalopes to tell Frank about the eagle-puma and the Eyes, but one day passes and then two and nothing is said about it. The puppy decides that either the events had not been as important as she had thought or that Frank knows already. She stops vaguely dreading an encounter with him, keeps clear of the rocks where she had seen the Eyes, and fall
s into something of a routine.
The autumn days are slipping into winter now, sometimes overcast, sometimes, when the sun is out, warm and golden. Because the sun’s heat makes such a difference to her comfort, Shahrazad falls into a diurnal pattern. She rises near dawn (which isn’t so early now as it had been, something of a puzzle for her, as are the shorter evenings) and slips out one of the many door flaps to hunt for breakfast.
The Changer, she has discovered, will not let her go hungry, but he no longer brings her interesting food. If she does not hunt, her meal is hard, dry dog kibbles. Since she is forbidden table scraps, and knocking over the trash can is a major crime, she chooses to hunt.
Even in this, there are rules. Her presence in the barnyard upsets the quarter horses and domestic fowl. Their alarm inevitably brings either a unicorn, Tugger the horse, or sometimes, most embarrassingly of all, one of the athanor barnyard cats.
These are entities distinct from the Cats of Egypt, the sand-colored magical cabal who had attended the Lustrum Review and who are now—so she has gathered—residing with Lovern, making it possible (according to the cats who remain) for him to have any chance at all of getting his magical Academy up and running.
The king of the barnyard cats is a great golden tomcat called Stinky Joe. Most of Joe’s time seems to be spent asleep, sometimes curled on a horse blanket, sometimes rolled on his back in the straw as if he is trying to tan away a white spot on his stomach. However, he has a disconcerting talent for finding Shahrazad in the wrong and jumping squarely on the center of her back.
Even with her heavy winter coat, his claws hurt. His yowling brings his cohorts and whatever other athanor are in the vicinity. Just a couple such encounters had been enough to convince Shahrazad to stay away from the barnyard unless she is in the company of Frank MacDonald.
She notices that the Changer also makes the horses uneasy, even when he is in human form and takes comfort in the fact that he is apparently perceivable as a coyote even when he is not shaped like one.
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