Changer (Athanor) (63 page)

“I am not a fool.”

“I can agree to that.”

“And I plan to take measures to assure that I am released alive once you have obtained your pint of blood and eye.”

“Quart.”

“Yes, quart.”

“We had expected that you would.”

The Changer considers.  He could let Shahrazad be slain or corrupted, but that would be unwise—almost as unwise as letting these two continue to live, something he suspects he will be forced to do.

Were it not for what had happened at the Harmony Dance…

No.  He decides to be honest, at least with himself.  Shahrazad has claimed his affections, his love.  She looks like her mother, whom he also loved.  To refuse to sacrifice himself for her would darken every sunrise, distort every birdsong.

“Tell me, Sven.  Were you the one who had my family slain?”

“You have sworn a terrible vengeance on that one.”  Sven chuckles.  “I would be an idiot to admit to anything.”

“Still, I had to ask.”  

The Changer steels himself.  For the first time, he is aware that Eddie and Arthur stand one to either side of him, that Vera, Jonathan, and Anson listen from the edge of the kitchen.  He knows from this that the call was either untraceable or the information so gained useless.  No matter.

“What is your answer, Changer?”

“I will come to you.  How many may come with me to bring Shahrazad away?”

“Two.  And if they act against our agreement, then we shall consider your safety forfeit.”

“I understand.  Tell me where to come.”

Sven gives directions, ending, “Can’t wait!  See ya!”

The Changer hangs up.  He surveys the watching group.

“Did you listen in?”

Arthur shakes his head.  “That would be intrusive.”

Anson A. Kridd grins broad and white.  “But I did tape the call in case you wanted to review it.  Do we erase or keep?”

“Keep.”  The Changer gives his old friend a wry smile.  “You would in any case.”

“
Moi?
”

The Changer does not respond to the banter.  “Sven Trout and Louhi Maki have Shahrazad.  They have agreed to release her to me in return for my surrendering myself so that they may extract an eye and a quart of blood.”

No one gasps or pales.  All are well seasoned in the horrors intelligent beings can inflict upon their own.  Still, Arthur stiffens—he would rather be the one to suffer.

“The details of our agreement are on the tape,” the Changer continues.  “Jonathan, can I hire you to write a contract?”

“Inside an hour?”  Jonathan nods.  “Of course.”

“If you would, I wish you to come with me as one of my witnesses.  Anson, would you be the other?”

“Certainly.”

“King Arthur”—the Changer almost sounds pitying—“you failed to protect Shahrazad.  Therefore, from you I extract this promise.  If I die, you will avenge me to the deaths of the two who call themselves now Sven Trout and Louhi Maki.”

“I will.”

“You will find my daughter fosterage—perhaps with Frank MacDonald—and serve as her guardian.   If she proves to be naught but coyote, guard her first year and then find her a safe, isolated place and set her free.  If she is athanor, guide her for her first century.”

“I will.”

The Changer nods.  “You are honest, but I will have Jonathan draw this up as a contract as well.”

“Of course.”  The King manages a smile.  “It will protect me as much as you—though vendetta killing may cost me my crown.”

“Then wish me life,” the Changer says, “so that I may spare you the responsibility.”

When the clock marks thirty-five minutes to the rendezvous, Jonathan Wong enters with two contracts.  “Sign this one, Arthur.  It’s the vengeance and custody agreement.”

Arthur does not even read the fine print but signs, adding his thumbprint beside his signature.

“Done.”

“Are you ready, Changer?”

“I am.”  He rises, turns to the King.  “Keep my room.”

Sven Trout wishes that his interior calm matched the poised exterior he sees reflected in the windshield of his car.  He permits himself a quick moistening of his dry lips, even while admitting to himself that he gets into these damned escapades mostly for the adrenaline rush.

Why else would he get caught up in things just about certain to get him killed?  He’s put himself on the line again, closer than ever before.  In some ways, he’s his own biggest victim.

Self-pity quiets his roiling guts just as a van he recognizes pulls into the space next to his car.  Anson A. Kridd is at the wheel, his dark features unbrightened by his usually omnipresent smile.  The Changer sits beside him and, when he gets out, pauses to open the sliding back door for Jonathan Wong.

Wong rises, bows formally, and presents Sven with several sheets of paper.  “These are contracts my client requires you to sign over a truthstone, pursuant to your telephone agreement.”

Sven glances over the pages, then folds them and stuffs them into his pocket.  “Louhi and I will need to review them.”

“Of course.  Do you wish us to wait here?”

“No, come along.  You can wait outside our place.”

He has his reasons.  Louhi has warded the area immediate to the house against eavesdropping and intrusion.  The enchantments won’t hold up against a concerted attack, but they’re better than nothing.  The rented house is about a mile from the gas station.  Sven tells the Changer and his escorts to wait outside and hurries in.

“They’re here,” he tells Louhi and the Head, suddenly breathless with excitement.  “The Changer had Jonathan draw up our agreements.”

Louhi snaps a sheet of paper from his hand, scans it while he does the same with the other sheet; then they trade.

“It seems a fair transcription of the phone conversation,” Louhi says when she is finished.  “Let’s sign it.  I want the Changer locked down for midnight tonight.  I’m not certain how long certain protections I’ve set up will last.”

“Right.”  Sven nods toward the door.  “Come along and we’ll get the swearing and exchange over with.”

Jonathan Wong supplies a truthstone as well as a tidy little item that permits him to assure that it is not being jammed.

“I had it made back during the Opium Wars,” he comments.  “Very useful.”

The contracts are read, witnessed, and signed, Jonathan retaining the Changer’s copies.  Then the Changer turns to Louhi.

“My daughter?”

For a moment, her expression becomes hopeful, as if she believes he has done other than ask for Shahrazad.  Then it grows neutral, even stormy.  Removing a garage-door opener from her pocket, she presses a button.  One of the two garage doors opens and a streak of brown and gold races to the Changer’s side.

He kneels beside her, muttering soothing noises and running his hands along her flanks and head, checking for injuries.  He finds the bruising caused by the collar, but little else.

“Shahrazad,” he says sternly, taking her puppy head in his hands and turning it so that she must look into his eyes.

She licks his nose.

“Shahrazad, go with Anson and Jonathan.  I will come to you…”  He glances at Louhi.  “How long with this take?”

“You should be free by tomorrow at this time.”

“Tomorrow,” he tells the puppy.  Then he picks her up and sets her in the back of the van.  She droops, but makes no effort to jump out.

“There are certain items…” the Changer prompts.

Sven removes an embroidered suede bag from his breast pocket.  “Here are all the items we promised you,” he says, and the truthstone does not gainsay him.

“Then the first part of our business is concluded,” the Changer says.  “May my escort return for me?  I do not fancy I will feel at all well when you are done.”

Sven is completely the gracious host.  “Of course, of course.  We’ll even have tea and cookies.”

“I think we can skip that,” Jonathan says mildly, “but we will return at this hour tomorrow evening.”

“Until then,” the Changer says, shaking each man by the hand and patting Shahrazad.

“Until then, you know it!” Anson promises.

Jonathan bows and then closes up the van.

Sven lets the Changer watch them drive safely out of sight.  Then he smiles and gestures toward the house.

“Shall we go in?”

The Changer nods.  Louhi opens a wooden gate and motions for him to precede her. He does so, sparing her no acknowledgment, knowing that any acknowledgment, false or true, would come far too late.

23

Non est, crede mihi, sapientis dicere “vivam.”  Sera nimis vita est crastina; viva hodie.

(It is not, believe me, the mark of a wise man to say “I shall live.”  Living tomorrow is too late; live today.)

–Martial

W
atching from behind his curtained office window, Arthur observes the return of the van.  A few minutes later, Eddie taps on his door.

“They got her back,” he says, coming in and closing the door behind him, “and she seems fine.”

“And the Changer?”

“Stayed with them, just as he promised.  Anson says they can get him back tomorrow at about the same time.”

“Yes.  I expected he would stay.”  The King turns to face his liege man.  “And yet I hoped… that he would be less honorable.”

Eddie nods sadly.  “Yes.  We have no reason to trust the word of Sven Trout.”

“Did the Changer mention the promise he extracted from me?”

“Not that I know.  You’d need to ask Anson or Jonathan.”

“It doesn’t matter.  I plan to keep it.”

“I know.”

There is a long silence during which Arthur paces back and forth across a handmade rug of Navajo design and Vera’s weaving.  Eddie limps to a chair and takes the weight off his leg.

“Eddie,” Arthur says at last, “troubles are upon us, troubles akin to those that brought about the fall of Camelot.”

Eddie does not say yea nor nay, but listens.  Arthur begins ticking points off on his fingers.

“This matter with the Changer is but one.  Even if he lives, we must decide whether what Sven and Louhi have done violates Harmony.  The acts of the South Americans most definitely did, but their hostage-taking was done in an effort to manipulate all athanor.  I’m less certain about this last.”

“Nor I.  Louhi has her long resentments against…”

“Lovern?”

“Yes, but I was going to say ‘the Changer.’  She believes herself his daughter and resents his lack of acknowledgment.”

“I had forgotten,” Arthur admits.  “It is not as if there is a great estate to be contested.”

“No.”

“Another challenge we must face is how to present the deaths of Isidro Robelo and Oswaldo Barjak.  Delicate and ticklish.  Even those who are our supporters will frown at what could be seen as political assassination.”

“Anson would swear otherwise.”

“Who would believe the Spider,” Arthur says, “even with a truthstone in his hand?  Even now, I wonder at the firmness of his support.  What does he want?”