Changer's Daughter (14 page)

“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.