Changer (Athanor) (36 page)

“The Changer?” he says, and is pleased that his voice shows only mild interest.  “He’s in out of the wilds?”

“That’s right.”

Anson doesn’t volunteer why.  Sven, of course, knows why, and feels smug.  His surveillance of Arthur’s hacienda has been far from perfect, restricted mostly to the outer grounds, and comings and goings.  When the Changer vanished at about the same time that Lovern did, Sven hoped that he would return, but this is his first confirmation that he had.  He hadn’t dared watch the airport too closely lest he be noticed at this critical juncture—many athanor could sense a fellow even in a shifted shape, and too many are beginning to arrive for the Review.

“Well, I hope he doesn’t snore.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Anson says, unlocking the door to Sven’s room.  “The soundproofing is very good.  Here is your key.  It opens both this lock and the one to the bathroom.”

“Thanks.  What about on the Changer’s side?”

“He has different locks.  If you are using the toilet and want privacy, there is a latch you can throw.”

Anson starts to turn away, then pauses.  “Tonight, as you know, there is the opening reception so there will be a buffet.  If you get hungry before then, there’s stuff in the refrigerator.”

“Great!”

“Most of us are helping with last-minute arrangements.  That’s why no one else has come to greet you.  However, you are welcome to sit in the central courtyard.”

“And if I want to pitch in?”

“I’ll be in the kitchen.  Come and find me there, and I’ll put you to work.”  The Spider rubs his belly.  “They’ve asked
me
to supervise the catering deliveries!  Hah!”

Sven, who knows something of the Spider’s legendary appetite, grins appreciatively.  “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Very good.”

When he is alone, Sven goes into the bathroom he will share with the Changer.  It is very nicely appointed with double sinks, a toilet, and a shower and tub.  If it weren’t for the painting on one wall, the eclectic fish-shaped soap dish, the softness of the towels, it could be a bathroom in a better hotel.

He tries the door to the Changer’s room and finds it locked.  Pressing his ear to the door, he strains to hear.  Nothing.

Blood.  He needs the Changer’s blood.  Now Fate has conspired to make him neighbors with his proposed victim.

Whistling softly a very old tune, Sven Trout trades his linen suit for a short-sleeved button-down shirt and blue jeans, then heads for the kitchen.

Anson is unpacking several boxes of ready-to-heat quiche.  A lean but muscular dark-haired man with a coyote pup sitting on his feet is polishing a silver tray.

“Hello, Changer,” Sven says cheerily.

Blood.

Six hours later, the foyer that had been so empty and elegant when Sven arrived is bustling with activity.  A cosmopolitan throng mills about, filling the benches, devouring the buffet supper, and listening to Tommy Thunderburst perform on acoustic guitar and piano.

Nor are they restricted to the foyer.  The central courtyard rapidly fills, and the guests spill out into the gardens, where benches are conveniently placed.  Fragments of conversation make a music of their own:

“Hello!  It’s been a long time!”

“Since the Wilson administration, I think.  I’ve been living in Pakistan.”

“Why ever would you do that?”

Tonight, Albuquerque’s weather is perfect.  The skies are clear and dark.  The temperature is cool enough that formal wear is comfortable and remains crisply elegant.

“Welland!  I’m so glad to see you.  Are you still doing swordsmithing?”

“Pretty much as a hobby, these days.  There’s so little demand I have avoided drawing attention to myself.”

“Would you consider doing some work for a friend?”

Drifting through the crowds, Louhi listens to snatches of conversation, greets old friends and acquaintances.  There is no one here she has not known for at least two hundred years.  Sometimes she finds this stifling.

“Patti Lyn, I have a hard time imagining you working on the stock exchange.”

“Why, Jon?  I’m no fool—like a couple I could name—believing that the old ways to power will still work.”

“But you were always so hot-tempered!”

“If you think the stock exchange is silent but for the clatter of ticker tape, you need to update your image of the world.  The world market is the last true battlefield and one with real long-term potential.  Honestly, I have more to do with an immortal existence than cut off people’s heads with swords.”

Louhi passes Sven, who is absorbed in teasing Lil Prima.  Lil looks stark and elegant, as if she had been poured out of molten gold and then had a skin stretched over her.  Whatever Sven is saying does not amuse her.  Her gaze, green as jealousy, is only for Tommy.  Tommy’s gaze is only for his guitar.

Near the buffet table, Katsuhiro Oba and Arthur are busily discussing video cameras and computer modems.  A few paces away, Dakar Agadez, hulking and black like wrought iron, argues contemporary African politics with Anson A. Kridd.

Louhi walks past, hears a conversation that interests her.

“I don’t need to look any further than those gathered here to see the real danger to the continued prosperity of the athanor.  We’ve been living as humans for so long that the crafts that set us apart are being neglected.”

“Do you mean magic, Oswaldo?”

“I do.  I have had little help getting instruction, yet I have the talent.  I would wager that among us we no longer have a dozen skilled generalists.”

“You must be kidding!”

Eddie, leaning on his crutches, is flirting mildly with Tin Hau, who is calling herself Alice Chun these days, and writing novels set in ancient China.  They had been married once, during one of the periods when Arthur and Eddie were not on good terms.  Louhi suspects that there is still affection between them.

Now, in the courtyard, the Hero Twins (she forgets their current names) are debating the fragmentation of Eastern Europe with Vera and Patti Lyn Ansinbeau, who is best known as Morrigan.

Louhi drifts past and nods to Amphitrite, who is talking low voiced about industrial waste and human expansion to Isidro Robelo and Cleonice Damita of the South American contingent.

Out in the garden, Louhi pauses to admire several pieces of sculpture, to chat with a tawny cat who knew Ramses the Great, to offer her opinion on Caribbean package tours to the Vagrant.  Finally she sees the one who she has subconsciously been seeking.

He is in coyote form, grey, with a darker cross about his shoulders.  Beneath the ornamental junipers and cedars, a young female coyote is chasing a brace of jackalopes easily half her own size.  Even at a distance, Louhi can tell that the older coyote is watchful of the little one’s play.

She wants to go over to him, but he is in the company of Frank MacDonald, Old MacDonald, Francis of Assisi.  Frank has no trouble speaking the languages of animals.  Like Finn or Sigurd, his ears have been opened to their speech.  He is a friend of the nonhuman, especially the nonmonstrous among the immortals: the Raven of Enderby, the Cats of Egypt, the Chinese nightingale, the Southwestern jackalope.  It is like him to seek the Changer in such a noisy gathering.

Although Louhi can take many shapes, she only understands the speech of animals through spells.  Not wishing to work even a simple bit of magic in such a gathering, she turns away and finds herself face-to-face with the one person she did not care to see.

Lovern looks very fine this evening.  His long silver-grey hair is bound in a ponytail by a silver band; his beard and mustache are closer cut than she recalls from days of old.  He wears a loose jacket and matching trousers of rough black silk.  His tuxedo shirt is unruffled and white.

Louhi can sense the little emanations of power from the studs that close the shirt, from the cuff links, from the rings on the wizard’s hands.  Here, in his liege lord’s hacienda, Lovern does not precisely flaunt his power, but where other adepts have left most of their amulets, as others have left their weapons, at the door, Lovern maintains his.  It is a subtle reminder of his position in the King’s esteem.

“Hello, Louhi,” Lovern says, brilliant blue eyes seeking to meet her own.  “You look lovely tonight.”

There is nothing mocking in his voice, nor should there be.  Louhi knows that she looks well, realizes with a strange pang that her pale platinum hair, fair skin, and blue eyes seem almost a match to Lovern’s own.  Her gown, however, is silver-shot velvet and her jewelry (but for routine wards) only adornment.

“Thank you,” she says softly.  “You were in Finland recently, were you not?”

“I was.  It is still a land of mystery to me.”

“Cold and ocean hold their secrets well,” she agrees.

“I had thought about calling on you.”

“You did?”

“Professional courtesy.  I
was
in the land you had chosen for your own.”

“Ah.”  She wonders if there might be more to his interest.  Such courtesies might be extended within a city, but within an entire country?  No, even a small land like Finland offers room enough for two athanor wizards.

“I was investigating Lappish songs,” Lovern says, “but my singing voice is a weak instrument.”

Louhi smiles, remembering Lovern’s voice.  Ages past it hadn’t been very good.  Encouraged by her smile, Lovern continues.  “Still, I recorded many chants, made copious notes.  Perhaps I will learn something new.  There is always something new to learn, isn’t there?”

He is definitely flirting with her.  This puzzles her.  Several hundred years have not made him forget his captivity in her keeping.  Forget?  No, never.  Forgive?  Perhaps.

She tries smiling again and sees Lovern relax further.

“Can I bring you a drink?  The local wines are very good.  New Mexico viticulture is the oldest in North America.”

“I would like to try some,” she says, knowing that she does not yet have the courage to speak to the grizzled coyote.  “Perhaps I should come in with you.”

“That would be very nice,” Lovern says, offering her his arm.  “Very nice, indeed.”

Together they walk toward the house.  Neither notices that a sardonic yellow gaze marks their progress.

The next morning the Lustrum Review begins with a roll call of the athanor dead.  It takes a long time, beginning with names so old that the languages within which they had originated are not only forgotten but unsuspected.  In each case, the deceased is called by the name he or she had been best known.  The mood when Arthur begins intoning the list is solemn, but by the end there is general fidgeting.

In this restless atmosphere, even the financial statements and routine departmental reports are greeted with an aura of relief.  Following these, there is a short period of question and answer, then a refreshment break.

When the group returns from that break there is excitement in the air.  Everyone knows that Isidro Robelo, the spokesman for the South American contingent, is going to bring up their pet issue.

In his place at the back of the room, the Changer leans against the doorframe.  He knows the arguments that will be raised, partly because he has heard them before in other contexts, partly because Cleonice Damita has already lobbied him.  Since he spends so much of his time in animal form, the automatic assumption is that he must be an environmental activist.

The Changer had not liked disillusioning that passionate woman with her feline manner, but his neutrality is precious to him.  Were he to take an active role, he would be admitting, however tacitly, that he is a member of this Accord.  As he sees it, the next step would have been trading votes on other issues, being nominated for elected offices, and other such insanity.

So he has politely refused to take part in any aspect.  Still, he is interested.  The issues may be the same, but the tools available for the task have changed.

Isidro Robelo rises to present his contingent’s carefully crafted arguments.  He is a handsome man whose first origin was in the Near East around the time of the Crusades.  Many athanor consider him a newcomer.  Isidro’s dark hair and eyes, pointed beard, and coppery coloring could make him a representative of many races.  Today, he looks like a Spanish don, but the Changer recalls when he looked equally convincing as a desert sheik.