Changer's Daughter (22 page)

They nod.

“I realized earlier this morning that I have not been consulting you as I should have. After all, we are dealing with a question of how humans will react to the presence of something they believe mythical. Certainly, as you are human, you are the best people to advise me.”

Chris clears his throat, remembering what Eddie had said to Arthur in the letter he had appended to their own. Eddie had hit the nail on the head. How best to reinforce his argument without letting the King know that they are in collusion?

“Well, sir,” he says, pushing his glasses straight on the bridge of his nose, “the fact is that ever since television was introduced, humans have been conditioned to distrust the evidence of their eyes. We know that most of what we see is a trick—whether it’s beautiful women on some soap opera or monsters on some SF special. They look real, but we know that they’re not.”

Arthur nods encouragement, so Bill picks up the thread.

“Back when the movie
King Kong
was first shown in the theaters,” he says, “they say that women fainted and even went into labor prematurely. Today, most people laugh at how fake that big ape looks, but they still scream when some computer-generated dinosaur clomps across the scream.”

“And,” Chris adds, “even while they’re doing it, there’s this little voice in the back of their minds wondering whether these dinosaurs are going to look as fake as the original King Kong in a couple years.”

Arthur nods again, pours himself a little more Earl Grey tea from the elegant teapot resting on the corner of his desk, and sips.

“So what you are saying is that even if the audience members at Tommy’s show see, hear, and even smell a satyr, they won’t believe that they’re seeing anything other than a particularly well-done special effect.”

Chris smiles encouragingly. “That’s the long and short of it. I think that even if some starstruck fan shook hands with a faun, all she’d think is ‘How cool,’ then wonder how they did the makeup so well that it didn’t show up close.”

“You know,” Bill adds, “that handshaking could be the most dangerous part of the whole thing. When I was a kid, my folks took me to see Santa Claus. I tried to pull off his beard ‘cause I’d heard from some kids at school that Santa was all a fake.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “And what happened?”

“Santa screamed,” Bill says, laughing. “He may have been a fake, but the beard was real.”

Arthur chuckles. “I have never gone to see Santa at Christmas, but I did meet Saint Nicholas once in passing. That is the problem with me. I
know
that so many things from legend are not myths. This makes it hard for me to believe that creatures as intelligent as humans could be fooled.”

“Thanks,” Chris says dryly, “for the vote of confidence regarding intelligence, but the truth of the matter is that most people going out to a concert will have turned their brains off.”

“Chemically,” Bill adds, “in many cases. At the last concert I attended you could get high just from the smoke drifting around. The stadium was technically ‘dry,’ but some of the kids were really clever at sneaking in stuff to drink.”

“And the officials just let this happen?” Arthur asks, amazed. “But there are laws!”

“Your athanor are pretty law-abiding,” Bill says, “no matter what you think from time to time.”

“Much for us all rests,” Arthur says stiffly, “on maintaining both the Accord and Harmony.”

“So we have seen,” Chris assures him. “But most Americans have a shaky idea of just why a society abides by laws. I was a reporter, I know. Americans may have learned about the social contract in civics class, but most view laws as inconveniences—until they want to sue someone else for breaking them.”

“And taxes,” Bill puts in, “are looked at as an abuse and an indignity, but people still want someone to fix the potholes, maintain the parks, and pick up the trash without bothering them about it.”

“Yes.” Arthur actually smiles. “I have seen that response often enough in the kingdoms I have ruled. So, as you analyze the situation, most humans will
not
believe that they are seeing real fauns and satyrs.”

“That’s right,” Chris says. “And of those who do believe, most will be unwilling to break that illusion. They
want
to believe in myth and magic.”

“Until,” Arthur says grimly, “it comes true. Then the witch hunts start.”

“We’re not arguing with that,” Bill agrees. “Anyhow, I hung around with Georgios when he was out here this past September, and I’m not certain that human society is ready for him in large doses.”

Arthur looks relieved to find that they, at least, are not challenging his policy of cautious interaction. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Let them do the show,” Chris says, “but suggest some safeguards.”

Arthur starts taking notes on his computer. He nods for Chris to go on.

“First,” Chris says, suddenly feeling the enormous responsibility of counseling a king, “suggest that Lil and Tommy play coy about just how they’ve managed this stunt. That will both increase the interest and assure most people that it’s all a scam.

“Two, have the fauns and satyrs wear at least some stage makeup. That way if someone takes pictures with a telephoto lens they’ll see the makeup and think that it’s all just FX.”

Arthur chuckles. “Clever. Anything else?”

Bill nods. “Yeah. Suggest that the more rambunctious characters don’t give interviews. I don’t trust Georgios, good buddy that he is, not to drop his pants and show off his endowments.”

“Good point,” Arthur says. “I have seen him do just that in a time long past. The woman, however, was not impressed. She was horrified.”

“And,” Chris says, “if some theriomorph insists on giving an interview, suggest that they be misleading—something like the ‘real beard’ thing that Bill mentioned before.”

“You mean, actually invite an interviewer to pull a beard?” Arthur says, his fingers flying over the keys.

“Something like that. We can work out the details if the need arises.”

Arthur looks up from rereading what he has just typed.

“I can hardly believe,” he says, “that I am going to condone this madness. It is contrary to everything I have worked toward for the last several centuries.”

Bill laughs. “Well, it’s not like they gave you much choice.”

“No,” Arthur says solemnly, “and that will remain a difficulty. I can make suggestions as to their course of action, but I cannot command.”

“Why not,” Chris suggests, “get your own man in their camp? Or at least your own faun?”

“Who?”

“I was reviewing the theriomorph chatroom this morning,” Chris responds. “Demetrios Stangos has been offered a job managing the theriomorphs. He’s thinking about turning it down, but if you can get him to take it, I’m sure he’ll work with you.”

“Brilliant!” Arthur exclaims. “You both have been a great deal of help. I will call Demetrios at once. Now, return to your duties. I’ll be certain to tell you what results from our discussion.”

Chris glances at the clock. “It’s getting near lunchtime. Eddie told me to make certain you don’t forget to eat.”

Arthur pats his waist. “I can certainly afford to miss a meal or two.”

“Still,” Chris says over his shoulder, as he and Bill depart, “I’ll bring in a sandwich.”

He doesn’t know if Arthur has heard him. The King, the glow of battle in his eyes, has picked up the phone and is punching in a number.

They meet with Shango in great secrecy, a thing that surprises Anson quite a bit, for Monamona is Shango’s city, even to its name, which means lightning in Yoruban.

Here Shango has ruled from behind the scenes for more than twenty-five years. He has managed at least one successful change of identity in that time and amassed considerable wealth. That he should insist on a private meeting is incredible.

Incredible or not, he insists. After a great flurry of minor illusions, skulking in doorways, and entering via side entrances, they arrive at a private residence.

Following instructions smuggled to them by a street urchin, they go to a room on the second floor. Therein, they find Shango waiting for them. He is alone, seated in a comfortable chair with empty chairs drawn up in a rough circle. The room is hot, for the curtains are all drawn and there is no air-conditioning. The slow action of electric fans keeps the room from becoming completely stifling.

“I warn you,” Eddie tells Shango, while Anson and Dakar search for hidden guards, recording devices, or other evidence of skulduggery, “that I have left messages where they will be found if I do not report back to disable them within a preordained period of time.”

Shango, a long-necked man with smile lines about his eyes and mouth, smooths the drape of his hand-printed
dansiki
, adjusts the bracelets on his arms, and tries hard to look cheerful.

“I believe you, Wild Man, Knight of the Round Table, Great Ancient of our people. I hope that you believe me in turn when I tell you that I intend no harm, no threat to any of you. Indeed, my insistence on meeting in this fashion is my first and best attempt at keeping you safe.”

“The place seems clean,” Dakar says, dropping into one of three empty chairs that are arranged near Shango’s. “Seems the pansy has played fair with us—a shame, I was looking forward to messing up his pretty hair.”

Shango touches his Michael Jacksonesque array of curls.

“I am a dandy,” he says, neither his temper nor his locks the least disarrayed, “not a pansy. Ask my wives and children if you doubt my virility, though I wonder why you are so interested. What does it say about you?”

“And a good evening to you both.” Anson interrupts the byplay. “Shango, we are here. Why this secrecy? When you and I first discussed this meeting, we agreed to meet at your office with the appropriate officials. Are you reneging on our preliminary agreement?”

“No, but things have changed since we made our plans.”

“Changed.” Anson frowns. “I can believe that.”

“I have met with difficulties.”

“And so have we.”

“And I believe that I may not be able to fulfill my part of the bargain.”

Shango rises from his chair in a sudden burst of energy that recalls the lightning that he wields. He brings out an ice chest containing chilled drinks and drops it into the middle of the circle formed by their chairs.

“My hospitality is not the most elegant, but the drinks are cold and individually sealed.”

Anson leans down and pulls out a cola from among the ice cubes. He pops it open, continuing his interrogation while Eddie and Dakar get their own drinks.

“Shango, why do you believe that you may not be able to fulfill your part of the bargain?”

“Because...” Shango falls silent for so long that Dakar, who had shown remarkable patience when he discovered that all the drinks were nonalcoholic, growls. “Because I am afraid.”

This is the last thing that anyone who knows the debonair African athanor would have expected him to say. Bluster is more his style, or charm, or, failing that, a surge of temper that might rival Ogun’s. Never would they expect him to admit to feeling fear.

Anson asks carefully. “Of what are you afraid?”

“Of the King of the World.”

Eddie clears his throat inquiringly.

“He means,” Dakar says, his voice soft, like a child talking about a bogeyman, “Shopona, the God of Smallpox.”

“We have seen signs of his presence,” Anson admits, “but what does this have to do with our plans to sell Nigerian oil to the Japanese?”

Shango fingers a heavy gold hoop hanging from one of his earlobes.

“Shopona came to me—or I should say, a man claiming to be Shopona came to me. He had heard rumors, he said, from underlings in the city government, rumors that I was setting up a great investment plan. He wanted to be involved. Naturally, I told him that I had no idea what he was talking about.”

“Naturally,” Dakar prompts mildly. Mention of the smallpox has reminded him of the petitions crowding his shrine, of how little he can do for those who appeal—however misguidedly—to him for aid. Here is news of a real enemy. Hearing it, he becomes as patient as any good hunter must be if he hopes to take his prey.

“Modern medicine had taken his Kingdom from the King of Heaven,” Shango continues, “or so I believed.”

“Me, too,” Eddie says. “That’s been bothering me ever since Anson and I saw the signs. I’m certain that the World Health Organization announced the defeat of smallpox in the 1980s. I don’t think they even vaccinate babies for it anymore.”

“So this man—he called himself Regis—said, but he said that he had the means of starting an epidemic. His family, it seems, had long been worshipers of Shopona and had preserved infectious matter against the King’s defeat. If I continued to refuse him, Regis said he would begin an epidemic right here in Monamona and many would die.”

Shango shrugs. “I thought him insane. You would have, too, this ugly reddish-haired man, half-white, half-black, and the worst of both worlds. He spoke as if he was educated, but as if he knew the old religion, too. Yet when I scoffed at his claims, he did what he had threatened. Now his altars are buried beneath sacrifices, and people die.”