Changer's Daughter (45 page)

He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

—William Shakespeare

T
his time the meeting is held not in an empty house but in a deserted office building. Eddie and Anson have just given Shango a much-edited version of what they have learned. Since Shango might hear of Oya himself, they reluctantly have told him something about her, lest he learn of her or of their relocation and wonder.

“I can hardly believe,” Shango says, shaking his head so vigorously that the heavy gold hoops in his earlobes swing, “that one person could have raised this wind and maintained it for five days. Do you believe her?”

Anson shrugs. “We have no reason not to do so, but I admit, I don’t know her. None of us do, eh? That’s why we have moved our dwelling so we can keep a better eye on her.”

Eddie feels only slightly unhappy about misleading an ally. Shango’s report had been less than satisfactory, especially to someone who has spent millennia giving and taking reports. There were lacunae, bits of vagueness, and other times when Eddie had been certain that Shango was lying.

Maybe those lies were meant only to protect an informant or human ally, but they make him uncomfortable and less inclined to trust the other.

Eddie is not the only one with concerns. After he leaves the meeting, Shango goes to his office and summons his three key henchmen to him. One of these is Paul Aafin, the mayor of Monamona. One is Otun Maluu, the chief of police. The third is Regis.

“We must move soon and quickly,” Shango tells them, “if we are to see our plan come to anything.”

After the other three have acknowledged his statement, Shango continues, modifying the truth to fit their knowledge of the situation.

“This windstorm must be bringing Monamona to the government’s attention more quickly than we had hoped. When the wind falls, we must be in full control of the city.”

“We are,” answers Police Chief Maluu. “The wind has been a great help in that. Most of the citizens now rely on us for food and fresh water. Communication has been limited to word of mouth. We have suspended internal postal delivery for the duration of the crisis.”

“Good.” Shango nods approvingly. “This is important, but more importantly we must be prepared to move on the national government as soon as the wind falls.”

“My contact with our allies has been limited,” Mayor Aafin protests. “I cannot reestablish it until the wind falls.”

Shango deliberately says nothing reassuring—although truly Paul Aafin is not at fault. To him the Mayor has always seemed the weakest member of their group, the one with the most to lose and so the most inclined to vacillate.

Paul Aafin’s political connections are vital, however, so Shango has worked with him. If all goes according to schedule, Mayor Aafin will last long enough to become President Aafin and to name Shango his vice president. Then he will become ill and Shango will be president, first in fact and later in name as well.

The succession will be completely legal and will be the means by which Nigeria publicizes its newest tragedy to the world—the epidemic of smallpox, an epidemic that should bring in foreign funding, sympathy for the new government, and a reluctance to interfere with local politics.

Shango rubs his hands together gently as he studies Regis. Technically, the Chief General is no longer as vital as he once was. The smallpox virus is prepared, as is a good supply of vaccine. The knowledge on how to make more is available.

But Regis is like a pawn that, having plodded its way across the chessboard is suddenly transformed into a second queen. Although Shango has made his own arrangements for dealing with Regis, he cannot ignore how the men have come to identify Regis with Shopona, an identification that gives Regis an intangible power more difficult to deal with.

Even those gone to’s, educated abroad, who know intellectually that smallpox is only a virus—albeit a deadly one—fear the curse of the King of Hot Water. Regis can threaten the curse without the need to follow up with the illness, and with his laboratory skills he can cultivate other viruses to serve Shango’s needs.

No. Peculiar though he is, Regis is still useful.

The Mayor’s protests penetrate Shango’s musings.

“...but I cannot contact any of them, even those I am certain will support us. Who knows what has gone on in almost a week? If only we knew when this wind will fall!”

Shango smiles urbanely, thinking of the woman Oya who claims to have raised the wind. When he had told his allies about her, one and all had dismissed her as a local crank—although Chief Maluu had looked rather nervous. Shango, who knows that magic does work and that lightning and wind can be summoned by one who knows the art, had encouraged them to mock the woman. Better that they not worry about a goddess in their city.

Now, however, in response to Mayor Aafin’s unhappiness, he thinks of Oya and his urbane smile broadens into something fierce and warlike.

“The wind will fall,” Shango says to the Mayor. “When it does, speak with your contacts and report to us. We must be ready to adapt our plans, then to act almost at once.”

Mayor Aafin continues to protest. “How do you know the wind will fall?”

“I know,” says Shango, for once letting the other see the commanding force of his personality, a brilliance he normally veils lest they realize the level of his ambition. “Be ready.”

The Mayor nods stiffly, remembering that if he is to be president, he must act like a president.

“I will expect you to deliver,” Aafin says sternly.

“I shall,” Shango purrs, mock-humble. “I shall.”

When his fellow conspirators have departed, Shango rubs his hands together.

Tonight,
he thinks,
I shall extract this Oya from her stronghold, and when I have her, the wind will fall and she will either join me or fall with it.

Creeping through the barbed-wire fence to do some more scouting on MacDonald’s land is the work of a moment for Wayne Watkins. He’d come up here right after finishing their business lunch, and he’d come back today as soon as he could, drawn there by the image of the wolves he would hunt, the kill he would make.

The land he’s running his cattle on is to the east of the OTQ. He figures that if he’s going to find wolves, they’ve got to be farther west, on the far side of where the two pieces border. That’s only good sense speaking, since if the wolves were denning closer, there would be more evidence of them bothering his herds.

So Wayne has worked his way west, staying in the cover of the rocks and trees whenever possible, though Wayne figures that if MacDonald sees him, he’ll say that one of his dogs had strayed and he’s looking for it. How’s MacDonald to know the difference?

The November air is cool, crisp, just enough to make every blood cell in his veins feel alive, as if they’ve nipped a bit of extra oxygen and are feeding it directly to his brain. Moving with a stealthy grace of which he is extraordinarily proud, Wayne glides like a ghost across the land. Not even the blue jays or the crows comment on his passing.

A rabbit grazing on a patch of browning grass seems not to see him at all. Wayne is tempted to creep up to it, to wring its neck with his bare hands like some Indian in an old Western, but he opts to be prudent. He’s after bigger game than rabbits.

As the rancher turned hunter glides over the land, his eyes alert for any sign of his prey, he reviews possible ways to get MacDonald away from the OTQ. He has to be gone. Otherwise, there is too great a risk that he will interfere.

Wayne pauses, sniffing the air, realizing that he’s never seen a ranch hand about the OTQ. There must be some, since there’s no way that MacDonald could maintain the place single-handedly, but maybe they’re on vacation or only come in a couple times a week. He makes a mental note to check that there’s no one else on the OTQ when he opens hunting season.

Coming up on a dense copse of trees, Wayne inspects the duff for wolf sign. No tracks, no convenient tufts of fur hanging on low-lying tree limbs. Searching with that preternatural alertness that has been with him ever since he crossed onto the OTQ today, Wayne finds the partially eaten carcass of an elk.

Leaves and branches have been dragged over it. Wayne isn’t such a tyro as to touch them with his hands. Using the toe of his boot, he lifts enough to get a good look at the tooth marks.

Triumph surges in him. Here are his wolves. He’s certain. He doesn’t bother to ask himself why there are no foot marks, why the carcass is so well concealed. Joy that he knows where to find his prey fills him.

Next step: Get MacDonald clear of the place.

Smiling, Wayne trots east, eager to get back to his own land, his mind busy making and discarding plans to deal with the human element of his problem. In the end, the plan he comes up with is so simple, so elegant, that Wayne can hardly believe his own cleverness.

After meeting Jesus, MacDonald had agreed to sell Wayne three of his quarter horses and two other horses that, while good enough cow horses in themselves, lacked the pedigree of the other three. That provided both mounts and remounts, since much of the work would still be done in the pickup trucks.

One of those horses would be the bait. On the day Wayne chose to go hunting, Jesus would phone MacDonald from the farthest of Wayne’s holdings in the area. He’d tell MacDonald that one of the horses was acting strange, like it was sick. Then Jesus would beg MacDonald to come and look at the horse.

MacDonald would go, of that Wayne had no doubt. The trip to the holding would take an hour, probably more. Then he’d have to look at the horse. Jesus would have orders to keep MacDonald for as long as possible.

Meanwhile, Wayne would be hunting wolf with no one to interfere with his fun. With what he’d learned on his scouting trips, he should be in, out, and gone before MacDonald returned.

The one weakness in the plan was that the horse, of course, wouldn’t be ill. Wayne toys with the idea of giving the horse something to make it sick, then decides against it. Even the two nonpurebreds hadn’t been cheap. He doesn’t care to risk wasting his money.

Besides, so what if the horse wasn’t sick when MacDonald arrived? Jesus wouldn’t dare say anything, neither would the other greasers. They had their legal situation to consider. That just left the horse and, hell, the horse wouldn’t be talking!

“This first day’s search has been a bust, baby,” says Tommy Thunderburst in his calm, laconic way.

Though Demetrios would have been more tactful, especially with Lil Prima scowling as she stares into a bowl of water, the faun essentially agrees. Morning had turned into afternoon and afternoon is fading into early evening. A hotel suite has been transformed into command central, and the athanor members of the
Pan
tour have been working overtime, but the satyrs remain missing.

Demetrios would never have believed this would be the case when, after hearing his nervous report at nine that morning, Lil Prima had made a queenly gesture and ordered her scrying bowl brought to her.

Scrying might seem like a foolproof way to locate someone. All the scryer needs is a bowl of water or some other reflective surface. Mirrors work; so do crystal balls. Depending on the talent of the person doing the scrying, additives can help. Lil puts oil into her scrying bowl. Since she is trying to locate someone specific, she has also put in a fine powder made by grinding some of the missing satyrs’ hair (there had been ample in their currycombs) in a mortar and pestle.