Changer (Athanor) (34 page)

“No, I don’t think so,” Lil says.  “The radio demos will only include ‘Hell Cat’ and ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’  That won’t keep DJs from using the album to play ‘Hound Dog.’  Still, the fanatics will want to play Elvis’s version side by side with yours and analyze the hell out of them.  They’ll want the CD.”

“Elvis will win,” Tommy says bluntly.

“Of course he will,” Lil agrees.  “He’s a demigod, or would be if this Age acknowledged gods in any form.  You’re just starting, but why not borrow some of his mana for yourself?  After all, you created him.”

“Yes, I did.”  Briefly, Tommy looks sad.

Lil gently nudges his hand where it rests across the guitar strings.  The faint sound pulls Tommy from his brooding.  “And Arthur has expressed enthusiasm for your performing at the Lustrum Review next week.”

“Cool.”

“He said that the twentieth, during the opening reception, would be a good time.  The South American contingent have invited you to perform at a reception they’re holding the night of the twenty-first.”

“Cooler.”

“That might cause some trouble with Arthur,” Lil muses.  “From what I gathered during my chat with Isidro Robelo, Isidro and his allies are very unhappy with the level of despoliation happening on the South American continent.  They feel that the tropical ecology can take less long-term abuse than the North American temperate zone.”

“They’ll have Rain Forest Crunch ice cream,” Tommy says.  “Cool.  And probably mixed nuts, good coffee, and lots of orchids.  Orchids are the sexiest flower.  They remind me of you, especially the carnivorous kind.”

Lil rolls her eyes, but she is pleased rather than exasperated.  “Are there carnivorous orchids?”

“You dig my drift, anyhow.  I’m not botanizing, I’m flirting.”  He grins at her, lion to lioness.

She licks her lips as she steps out of her shoes.  “I thought you were composing.”

“A song about you,” he says, setting the guitar aside.  “Inspire me.”

13

You should never wear your best trousers when you go out to fight for liberty and truth.

—Henrik Ibsen

O
n the beach, the Changer is introducing Amphitrite to the concept of clothing, something which, like modesty, she has frequently observed but never bothered with.  Alternately giggling and frowning, she tries on the two dozen or so outfits that Vera has express-ordered from a variety of catalogs.

Lovern pleads tiredness and retires to where the gold box waits.  For the flight, he plans to stow it in a padded carry-on bag that has been ensorcelled so that airport security will overlook it.

Once inside the house, he carries the Head’s box to a room that overlooks the waterfront.  From there he can keep an eye on the two out front.  Their essentially nonhuman nature is obvious as they play with the clothing.  Mixing and matching skirts, tops, and shorts, they remind him of cinema aliens who have observed human behavior but never really tried to duplicate it.

The Changer has used human form repeatedly, but his knowledge of female attire is limited.  Amphitrite is enthusiastic but apparently puzzled by such things as brassieres.  Lovern feels apprehensive about the coming trip, but those worries cannot distract him.

For the first time in millennia, he undoes the locks on the golden box.  Placing a wide plastic basin close by, he reaches into the viscous ichor.  Grasping a handful of hair as grey as his own but matted and wet, he braces himself.  Then, swallowing revulsion, he tugs the Head to view.

It is not a pretty sight, thus removed from the fluids that have sustained it.  Long hair and beard hang lank, gathered into heavy locks that drip shiny ichor into the waiting basin.  The skin is pale and translucent, the thready network of veins visible beneath.  Its mouth is shapely, the lips full, pouting, and incongruously rosy.  The eyes that open to regard Lovern are mismatched: one his own piercing blue, the other Odin’s brown.

“Greetings, wise wizard, bringer from beneath the whale’s road, ender of exile.”  When the red lips move, ichor dribbles out from between them, catching in the still-dripping beard.

Lovern manages a courtly smile.  “Welcome to Florida, Head.”

“Land of sunlight, sweet oranges, blue waters, broad beaches,” the Head comments.  “Starved for sunshine, this one would see what lies without.”

Unable to refuse, Lovern pulls aside the drapes with his free hand.  Amphitrite is pirouetting on the sand in a green-silk skirt and lacy white blouse.  Her feet are bare, her fair hair a corona about her laughing face.

Lounging on the sand, the Changer is apparently offering her some advice, for she picks up something pink from a heap on the sand and pulls it on beneath her skirt.

“Bountiful beauty born of the waves,” the Head comments, leering.  “Amphitrite walks on wizard-won legs.”

“How do you know?” Lovern asks.

“Crafted to ken what is hidden from others,” the Head answers sensibly, “my maker’s mark is as sun to these eyes.”

He blinks away stray drops of ichor, spattering Lovern slightly.  The wizard is too distracted to notice.

“Head, I’m taking you to Arthur’s hacienda.  An enemy has attacked several of us.  I desire that you divine who this is and help me unmask him—or her—or them.”

“Service is the source of my existence.”

Lovern does not perceive the irony in the words. “I will keep you in my suite there, in a place well warded against intrusion.  I wish that the Lustrum Review did not need to go on while this enemy is unidentified.”

“Could the King cancel?”

“It wouldn’t be wise,” Lovern says, “not without more reason.  The South American contingent, at the very least, would consider cancellation an attempt to stonewall their protests.  That’s the last thing Arthur wants to do, especially since he sympathizes with many of their complaints.”

The Head hangs limply, his eyes actively watching Amphitrite and the Changer on the beach.  They have given up playing with clothing and are tossing bread to the seagulls.

“My arm grows tired,” Lovern says after a moment.  “Since we cannot converse astrally during this crisis, I must rig something more convenient—a stand of some sort.  The ichor sustains you, but without the ocean’s cold to battle, you should be able to subsist for brief times outside of it.”

The Head does not protest being lowered back into its container.  It has new sights to mull over, plans to make.  Lovern tops off the ichor from a container he prepared back in Albuquerque.  Then, without a word, he snaps shut the locks and seals them with a charm.  

After inserting the Head’s box into the special traveling bag, he glances at a clock.  About time to get those two ready to go to the airport.  They’ll be home in time for him to get briefed on preparations for the Review.

He feels fortified by the presence of his favorite tool.  Surely he can handle anything that might come up, even at short notice.  Hasn’t he always before?

Amphitrite looks around the Albuquerque airport terminal, her wide, sea-green eyes devouring every detail.  Although she misses Duppy Jonah so intensely that she has already phoned him twice, she must admit that she is having a wonderful time.

Everything is so different—different even from the expectations raised by the photographs (carefully sealed against water damage) that the selkies have brought them.  It is the little things she is not prepared for: the sound of shoes and boots against the floors, the feeling of cushioned seats (similar yet different from the giant sponges she and Duppy Jonah have employed for similar purposes), the taste of hot chocolate.

Using an ancient Mycenaean dialect interspersed with English, she questions the Changer endlessly.  Some questions, she is surprised to learn, he cannot answer.  He has been, he tells her, a wild thing too long.

Lovern could help since he is fluent in ancient Mycenaean, a tongue which had been the
lingua franca
among their people, much as English is now.  However, he seems distracted and unhappy.  Perhaps the box he refuses to let go of weighs him down.

For her own part, Amphitrite strives to put Lovern at ease by acting almost childlike in her eagerness to experience everything.  She has eaten ice cream, but a float is a new experience, one she immediately resolves to share with Duppy Jonah.  Lovern sees her pleasure and tells her that she must try a hot fudge sundae next.

She does have some difficulties in areas where the males cannot help her.  A public rest room with self-flushing toilets terrifies her; a faucet that turns itself off frustrates her efforts to play with the hot water.  Still, she assures herself, she is staying out of trouble remarkably well.

Perhaps the most difficult thing for her is controlling her imperious expectation that she will be obeyed.  When a flight attendant ignores her request for a refill on her tea, she raises a hand to slap her until the Changer, his yellow eyes hard, restrains her and shakes his head.

Two wait for them at the gate.  Amphitrite recognizes both Vera Tso and Anson A. Kridd, for she and Duppy Jonah make a practice of learning about their dry-land counterparts.

“And so here you are, safe and sound,” Anson says heartily, “after a vacation in the sun, leaving us to do the work!”

He rolls his words without taking breath, a rich sound that reminds Amphitrite of the slow breaking of waves against beach.

Vera greets the others, then turns to Amphitrite and smiles.  “I’m pleased to see you again, Amphitrite.  You’re looking very well.  Did the clothes suit you?”

Amphitrite refrains from saying that several outfits had not suited at all—the stiffer fabrics had offended skin accustomed to nothing more harsh than sea foam.

“Many did,” she says, gesturing toward the silk skirt and blouse she now wears.  “I especially like the silks.”

“Lovely stuff,” Vera agrees, “but hard to keep clean.  Do you like the colors or the texture?”

“Texture,” Amphitrite says, “though the silk holds jewel tones like nothing else you sent. “

Lovern clears his throat.  “We don’t have any baggage to claim.  Shall we head out?”

“Always rushing,” Anson says, leading the way.  “The world will end in its own sweet time.”

As they walk to the van, Vera politely chats about fabrics and clothes, but Amphitrite senses that her mind is not on the words.  The dark-haired woman’s gaze keeps straying to where the Changer strides along beside Anson.  He is silent, so it could not be that his conversation is more interesting than her own.

Amphitrite notes Vera’s interest and resolves to keep watch.  If the Changer is in any danger, then she owes him her protection, for he is sea-born and her husband’s own brother.  If there is something else, then, well, he may still need her advice.

They are on the road when the Changer finally speaks. “How is Shahrazad?  Well?”

“Nervous,” Anson says honestly.  “She didn’t like having you gone away.  She has also taken a fondness to shoes.  Vera finally took pity on her and went and got her some shoes of her own.”