Changer (Athanor) (53 page)

“You really believe this?”

“I flew over the battlefield at Ragnarokk.”

Anson drums his long fingers on the steering wheel.  “I wonder if Arthur knows how brutal a negotiator he has sent?”

“I’m the only one who has a chance,” the Changer says.

“The road doesn’t go much closer to the water,” Anson says.  “We could find a village, perhaps.”

“No.  Pull over and let me out here.”  The Changer unbuttons his shirt.  “I’ll leave my clothes with you.”

“As you wish.  Can you shape a local bird?”

The Changer glances at him and continues disrobing.

“Of course you can.  Seek me in Belém at Isidro’s house.”

“Is that wise?”

“I don’t expect for him to see me,” Anson says cheerfully.  “You are not the only shapeshifter among us—merely the finest.”

“Flattery.”

“Honesty.  I will see what I can learn and then, when we are together, work my wiles.”

“Very good.”  The Changer gets out of the car.  “Be safe, Spider.”

“And you, Changer.”

The water is warm as a puppy’s kiss.  Wading into the shallows off a tangled shore, the Changer dives.  Any watching would have waited forever to see him surface again.

Shifting into a sea serpent with scales of iridescent copper, the memory of which is recorded with more or less accuracy in both Polynesian and Viking carvings, the Changer plunges into water that tastes of mud and decaying vegetable matter as well as of salt.

Each creature he passes flees, darting from memories of primeval predation.  From the pattern of their departure he reads the sign of the one he seeks.  Arthur had promised to call ahead, but even so the Brazilian coastline is long.

But the Sea King is also seeking him, so they meet more quickly than might have been imagined.  Duppy Jonah wears the form of a ponderous elephant seal, but when he sees the Changer he shifts into a form akin to that which the Changer wears, though his scales are of burnished gold.

“Brother,” he says in the language of the sea dragons, “I have the honor of your company twice in as many moons.  I do not know whether to be honored or suspicious.  Have you become Arthur’s lackey?”

“Think rather,” the Changer hisses, “that I seek to make him mine.  Doing him this favor is little enough to me.  I may ask more of him.”

“Your family, yet?”

“Until I win retribution from their slayer, forever.”

“That I understand.  What have you come to ask?”

“On what terms will you subdue the storms and tempest that ripple outward from the force of your just anger.”

“That is all?”

“All.  Arthur sympathizes with you as the one wronged.  Yet  he is concerned that your unhappiness may harm too many unconcerned with our quarrels.”

“Always the advocate of humanity.”  Duppy Jonah lashes his forked tongue around a fat fish foolish enough to wander within range.  “I wonder if they would speak so thoughtfully for him?”

“That is not our issue now.  What will you accept to calm your storms?”

The golden sea serpent twines through a thicket of sea plants.  The copper follows, knowing that his brother must be given time to think.

“I want the deaths of those who have wronged me and mine.”

“Immediately?  If we kill them too swiftly, we lose any clues as to where Vera and Amphitrite were left.”

“True.”  More undulating progress, then, “I want the wizard Lovern as my hostage against Arthur returning my wife to me and then against his promising to execute the three who have transgressed against me.”

The Changer coils about himself like a design in Celtic knotwork.  “I was not given permission to treat with others’ lives, but, I will phone to offer Arthur your terms.”

“There is a line we can tap into within a few miles of here,” Duppy Jonah says.  “I dread the day that humans forsake cables solely for satellite relays.”

“Humans are lazy,” the Changer says.  “They will not pull the cables, and we can continue to turn them to our use.”

Shifting into a triton, the Changer places his call.  Arthur answers immediately.

“Pendragon Productions.”

“Arthur, this is the Changer.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“The Sea King wants Lovern as a hostage.  He will return him when Amphitrite is returned to him and Isidro, Cleonice, and Oswaldo are dead.”

Arthur paused.  “That is all he will accept?”

“Yes.  And I think he is being generous given the situation.  Lovern did swear to keep her safe.”

“He did.  Hold on.  I’ll go tell him what he must do.”

There is a pause of several minutes, then Arthur returns.

“Lovern has agreed to surrender himself.  He wants to know if you consider it likely that Duppy Jonah will kill him.”

“Only if Amphitrite dies.  According to his own vow, his life is forfeit in that case.”

“Yes.  So you said.  And Isidro, Cleonice, and Oswaldo must die?  Duppy Jonah will accept no other penalty?”

The Changer lowers the receiver, and asks, “Arthur wants to know if you will accept any other penalty for the South American contingent members.”

“Other than their deaths?”  The Sea King snorts.  “No.”

The Changer addresses the phone receiver.  “He says no.”

“They are certain to offer service or goods in ransom.”

The Changer repeats this to Duppy Jonah.  The Sea King flares out his fins and crest.

“I want them executed, both as penalty and example.”

The Changer says to the phone, “He will take nothing but their deaths.”

“And only then do I get my wizard returned to me.”  Arthur sighs.  “Perhaps I should not care so much how many humans or others uninvolved in our quarrels die.”

“Arthur, they have broken the Accord,” the Changer says sternly.  “You cannot let live those who use athanor as pawns.”

“True.  I am being softer than I should, or perhaps I am selfishly thinking of the cost to Harmony.  Tell Duppy Jonah he will have what he requests.  Where should I send Lovern?”

“To your home in Florida.  Someone will collect him there.  Call when you have his estimated time of arrival.”

“Very well.  And thank you, Changer.  I will not forget.”

“I know,” the Changer says, and it is perhaps good for Arthur’s peace of mind that he cannot see the expression on the triton’s face.  “I go to rejoin Anson now.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The Changer sets the phone aside.  “Lovern will meet you or your emissary in Florida at Arthur’s private beach.  Someone will call to tell you what time.”

“Good.  I wonder how one keeps a wizard imprisoned?”

“I wouldn’t know.  Perhaps you should consult Oswaldo.  He seems to have managed quite neatly.”

“You jest!”

“Of course.  If I may take my leave, I need to rejoin Anson A. Kridd.  We have further tasks to perform.”

“You may go.”

With a rapid uncoiling of his tail, the Changer sets off toward the shore.  Two to find, three to kill.  The order of the day is neat and clear in his mind.  He wonders if Arthur will be too angry when he learns that due process has been bypassed, but he doesn’t trust the King’s idealism any more than he trusts that of Isidro, Cleonice, and Oswaldo.

After dropping the Changer at the roadside, Anson A. Kridd continues on into Belém.  Despite his great age, he has never lost the capacity simply to enjoy a moment and so as he drives along, he savors the light shifting through the green canopy overhead, the red of a delicate anthurium on its slender stalk, the different red of a macaw’s feathers, the white of a broken tree limb dead and dry amidst its verdant surroundings.

In Belém, he drops the jeep with a hotel concierge and saunters out into the bustling streets.  Here, too, brilliant color and humid heat dominate.  Strolling through a marketplace, he realizes how tired he is.  The Changer had remained awake throughout their long flight, but the piloting had been left to him alone.

Humans often believe that immortality means having time and enough for any task, but Anson has learned that immortality can make one aware of all the things one should do with any given hour of the day.  Today there is less time than usual, for they have no idea what dangers Amphitrite and Vera face.

Stopping at a stall, he pays American money for a stick of sugarcane and a sack of dried mango.  The market woman who helps him is dumpy, but she has silky hair the color of jet twisted in a tight braid and eyes of a clear, almost translucent hazel green.

Her skin is brown and her gestures assured—a city woman, then, one who possibly knows less of the rain forest surrounding her than an average American schoolchild for whom it is a place of wonder.  To her the surrounding jungle is a haven of ants, disease, and unprofitable acreage.

Then again, perhaps he is being unfair.  Taking out a city map Eddie had procured for him, Anson finds the location of the South American contingent’s domicile.

After asking directions several times, Anson locates the imposing, Spanish Colonial-style building, almost hidden inside its lush tropical gardens.  

In an alley, he removes his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them, along with the map and sugarcane, inside a string bag that already contains the Changer’s attire.  Then, with a minimum of effort, he shifts into a small wiry capuchin monkey.  He has picked this type because they are frequently kept as pets, so his presence in a civilized area will be overlooked much as a domestic cat would be in most American cities.

Looping the string bag about his skinny shoulders, he swarms up a tree and over the wall into the gardens.  Secreting the bag in a crotch of a tree, where it is invisible from the ground, he scouts the grounds.

He sees two anteaters, like long-nosed, hook-clawed bears, prowling the grounds.  An ornamental pond conceals a sizable anaconda, lazily soaking its huge, rounded length.  He scents a jaguar and sees the marks of its claws on the trees, but the spore is old.

A shaded veranda, with a canopy of gaily striped fabric and walls of woven wickerwork, juts out into the back garden.  It is equipped with very modern screens.

Here, forsaking the presumably air-conditioned comfort of the house’s interior, Cleonice is stretched out on a rattan divan, listening to Oswaldo read from a handwritten volume,  presumably of his own work:

Ageless children of Mother Earth,
Huldre
folk suppressing voice,
Forsaking Adam’s charge by choice,
Indolent wasters of our own births,
We…

“I don’t like it,” Cleonice interrupts.  The composition is in English and she responds in the same language, her accent flavored with the Spanish of her birthland.

“I have my problems with it, too,” Oswaldo responds.  “Tell me what you don’t like.”

“It overgeneralizes.  All of us aren’t indolent.  My father wasn’t.  Frank MacDonald isn’t.  Even Arthur, much as I disapprove of some of his policies, isn’t.”

“Oh, I thought you meant the rhyme scheme.”  Oswaldo frowns at his piece of paper.  “I thought it was forced.”

“It’s that, too.”

“You aren’t pulling any punches, are you?”

“You did ask for my opinion.”

“And you’re testy.”