Changer (Athanor) (44 page)

Rebecca
>>  That’s not polite.

Demetrios
>>  Satyr, don’t you ever think of something other than babes?

Loverboy
>>  Who cares about stuff like the Moderator and the guest list?  We’re gonna have a PARTY!!

Demetrios
>>  Sweet Springtime!  I wish we could leave you!

Loverboy
>>  Can’t buddy!  I’ve got my invite, too.  And you’re not the only one who’s bringing friends!

Demetrios
>>  Oh, no!

Loverboy
>>  We’re
all
gonna have a party!

Very early on the morning after the Changer and Shahrazad have returned to the wilds, Arthur and Eddie drive Amphitrite, Lovern, and Vera to the Albuquerque International Airport.

“What is your destination?” Arthur asks.

“Belém, Brazil.”

“Belém?”

“A coastal city of a million or so on the Atlantic Ocean,” Vera clarifies.  “It isn’t far from the mouth of the Amazon.”

“Reasonable.”

When they enter the airport, the three members of the South American contingent are waiting near the ticket counters.  Isidro and Cleonice are as poised and darkly patrician as ever.  Oswaldo, as always, has a book held loosely in one hand.

They greet Arthur and Eddie with brisk American-style handshakes and welcome the other three more warmly.

“Our jet is fueled so we can depart immediately,” Cleonice says.  “I’ll pilot first, then Isidro will relieve me.”

“I guess that’s a hint we should be leaving,” Lovern says, setting down his bag to shake Arthur’s hand.  “We should see you in a week or so.”

“Have a good trip.  Be safe,” Arthur answers.

He hugs Vera and then, after a moment’s hesitation, Amphitrite.

“Don’t overwork Eddie,” Vera warns.

“I won’t.”

“And I won’t let him,” Eddie chuckles.

“And you both come to visit my husband and me,” Amphitrite says.  “You have been too long a stranger to a greater part of the planet.”

“We will,” Arthur promises.

When good-byes are finished, the travelers walk briskly to a gate reserved for private departures.  Isidro insists on carrying Amphitrite’s bag.  At a glare from him, Oswaldo reluctantly shoves his book under one arm and takes Vera’s light carry-on.  Lovern is permitted to tow his own suitcase (by far the largest of the three pieces of luggage) himself.

Seats on the plane are roomy and comfortable.  Each of the visitors is offered a window seat, but Lovern, sensitive to his responsibility for Amphitrite’s safety, forgoes the honor and seats himself next to the Sea Queen.

Isidro seats himself next to Vera.  Oswaldo happily takes the seat behind Amphitrite.  His book is open almost before he has his seat belt buckled.  Cleonice vanishes into the cockpit, where she can be heard running preflight checks.

“Well, this is much more comfortable than the commercial airlines,” Lovern says appreciatively.

“It is indeed,” Isidro agrees.  “I am surprised that Arthur does not maintain a jet of his own.”

“He considers it a waste of money with the airport right here,” Vera explains.  “These days, the commercial airlines can serve his needs.”

“I suppose they would be sufficient” Isidro says acidly, “since all the world comes to his humble door.”

Vera frowns.  Isidro smiles ingratiatingly and explains: “In our poor third world nation, we need a jet to reach the ‘first world’ nations with any convenience.  We also maintain a smaller plane for intracontinental flights.  That is what we will use to take you on your tour tomorrow.”

“Good,” Amphitrite says, turning from watching the bustling ground crews.  “I have been worried about Lovern’s spell expiring before I can see your continent’s beauties.”

“We have kept that in mind,” Isidro promises.

With solid thuds, the jet’s outer doors are closed.  Two short, broad-chested, brown-skinned, dark-haired people—a man and a woman—come walking back and take seats.

“These are part of our flight crew,” Isidro explains, “Rahua and Manco.  They are of Inca descent, adapted by centuries of evolution to high altitudes.  Our copilots are also Inca.”

“Hello,” Vera says, pleasantly.

“Neither of them speak English very well,” Isidro says.  “Spanish and Portuguese are more immediately useful, though we are teaching them English as well.”

“
¡Hola!  ¿Como está?
” Vera says.

“
Bien
,” Rahua answers shyly.  Hawk-nosed Manco only nods with a touch of
hauteur
.

Cleonice comes on the radio, asking them to prepare for takeoff.  When the plane has reached cruising altitude, Rahua and Manco bring out a selection of juices, fresh fruit, and pastries.

“We will serve a more substantial lunch later,” Isidro says.  “Would anyone care for coffee?  We have some fine Colombian.”

“I would,” Amphitrite says.  She has been staring out the window at the unfolding panorama of brown land.  “I believe that hot drinks are the one thing I will miss about land living when I return to the ocean.”

Lovern smiles.  “I felt much the same when I resided in your palace, lady.”

As they enjoy breakfast, Isidro begins what clearly is a lecture.  His dark eyes are brilliant with passion, his voice that of a trained orator.

“The continent called South America is the proud possessor of the biggest river, the longest mountain range, the driest desert, and the largest forest in the world.  The continent holds the greatest variety of life-forms on any landmass.  It blends the cultures of several European nations with the remnants of many Indian cultures—at least one of whom, the Inca, built to rival the pyramids of Egypt.

“Yet when the wonders of the world are spoken of, no one mentions South America.  The Nile is a poor second to the Amazon, but is spoken of in greater awe.”

Lovern mutters, “I don’t think that’s precisely true.”

Ignoring him, Isidro sweeps on. “Elephants and giraffes are certainly marvelous, but the capybara and rhea are as wonderful.  The last of the dinosaurs still walk our land: caiman alligators, anacondas, and, within human memory, the doedicurus.  Jaguars and other exotic cats prowl the jungles, gigantic fish and electric eels fill our waters, but South America remains forgotten.”

Vera nibbles on the edge of a cherry-filled Danish.  “In any case, I wouldn’t think you would
want
people to know more of your wonders.  Wouldn’t that encourage immigration and exploitation?  If you want an unspoiled continent, anonymity is your greatest ally.”

“It might be,” Isidro says, waving his own pastry like a baton, “except that ignorance of wonder leads to easy destruction.  If nothing is at risk but monkeys and orchids, people don’t care.  Even local residents need to examine South America with new eyes.”

“I can see your point,” Amphitrite says, “and looking at the wonders of South America is precisely what we are here to do.”

Isidro leans back in his seat, sets his pastry down, motions for a servant to fetch more coffee.

“Yes, you are.  I hope that this will be a memorable trip and the beginning of great things to come for us all.”

The air voyage takes many hours but, although he did not sleep much the night before, Isidro does not nap.  Even when he takes over piloting, his eyes shine with the fervent belief that long-sought-after desires will soon be realized.

After the activity of the previous month, the hacienda seems very, very quiet.  Leaving his private suite, Arthur trudges down the kitchen stairs seeking companionship.  The kitchen is empty, too, but there is conversation from the courtyard.  Getting a beer, the King goes to join his much-diminished court.

Eddie and Anson are sitting at the patio table playing a game that Arthur remembers from his days in Egypt.  Then it was called
sekhet
but there are many variations throughout Africa—
mancala, awalé, woaley, aju, ouri
—each slightly different from the other, even as they all differ from their nearest European cousin, backgammon.

Arthur, then called Akhenaton, had played
sekhet
on boards made of ivory with markers of gold.  The board that Anson and Eddie are using is a long rectangle with six cups at each side and a seventh cup at the end.  The entire board is made of polished wood and the markers are smooth pebbles.  Nothing but the skill of its crafting makes it valuable.

Walking to where he can watch the play, Arthur observes silently for a few rounds.

“What variation are you playing?”

“Nigerian
ayo
,” Anson says, looking up with one of his brilliant smiles.

“Ah.”

Arthur pulls up a chair, leans back, sipping slowly on his beer and trying not to think about work.  The easy pace of the game, the slight rattle of pebbles against wood, soothes him.

“I never thought that I’d admit it,” he says during a pause in play, “but I miss that coyote pup.”

Eddie nods, drops pebbles into various cups, counts his take.  “Me too.  Maybe we should get a pet.”

“Animals are so short-lived.”  Arthur’s words are not quite a protest, more a reminder.  “They age so swiftly.”

“There are turtles,” Eddie says, “like the one that Salome had in Vierek and Eldridge’s novel.”

“Turtles don’t wag their tails or yip when they see you coming.”

“Parrots?” Anson suggests, dropping pebbles into cups in rapid succession and chortling at the look on Eddie’s face.  “I’ve often considered a parrot.  I would get one, I think, if I didn’t travel so much.”

“That’s a better thought,” Arthur admits.  “I’d need to check what types are legal to own in the United States.”

“Or we could ask Frank MacDonald if there are any athanor animals in need of a home,” Eddie suggests, warming to the idea.  “I know that he keeps track of many of them.  An immortal animal wouldn’t offer the same emotional risk.”

“True.”  Arthur sips his beer.  “Of course, that extends our responsibility for quite a long time.”

“Nothing comes without cost,” Anson reminds him.  “Nothing at all.”

“True.”

The phone rings just as Anson and Eddie are counting up their score.  Arthur rises and answers it.

“Pendragon Productions.”

“Are you a big man?” a shrill voice giggles.  “Are you the biggest of the big?  Tallest of the tall?  Most important indeed?”

“Excuse me?  I believe you have the wrong number.”

“Number!  You’re number one!”  More giggles, these so shrill that the receiver vibrates in Arthur’s astonished grasp.  “Hail to the King!  Kingy thingy!  Hip-hip hooray!”

Arthur cuts off the connection.

“What was
that
?” Eddie asks, brown eyes wide with wonder.

“Prank caller,” Arthur says frowning.  “I think.”

“Press the code for last caller,” Anson suggests.

Arthur does so, checks the readout.  “Tabular Risa.  No one I know.”

“Nor I,” Eddie says.

Anson shakes his head.  “Sounds sorta like
tabula rasa
—a blank slate, an empty mind.”

“Or ‘no one,’” Arthur adds.  “Interesting.  I’ll make a note of it.  We
do
get some strange calls.  Even with this number unlisted, sometimes people learn of Pendragon Productions and decide it would be fun to taunt the ‘King.’”

His sour expression makes quite clear what he thinks of this.

“And we
did
just hire a great deal of outside help,” Eddie offers.  “Caterers, rental furniture, even hotel accommodations.”

“True.”

Anson glances up from counting his
ayo
stones.  “Twenty-three.  I think you’ve beaten me, Enkidu.”

“I have—at last,” Eddie agrees, tumbling his twenty-five pebbles back into the reserve at the end of the board.  “Arthur, why don’t you play a round?  I’d like to stop while I’m winning.”