Changer (Athanor) (75 page)

Perhaps Rob’s a prisoner of a cult!
 That would be a banner headline: “Albuquerque Investigative Reporter Busts Cult!”  “Religious Group Used As Cover By Drug Gang!”  Then he mentally kicks himself.  What kind of cult recruits only six-foot (or taller) hairy men?

“So, what business are you in?” Chris asks.  Bill has stayed out on the dance floor where he is creating quite a stir by demonstrating a classic waltz.  
Good guy
, Chris thinks.  
Keep them distracted.

“It’s international,” Rob says evasively.  “We’re meeting to discuss internal regulatory matters.”

“You a religious group?” Chris asks.

“Uh.” Rob giggles again.  “Sure!  You could call us a representational theocracy.”  He smiles at his own joke.  “Seriously, we’re no more religious than most people.”

“But the robes, the turbans, all the guys wearing hats and boots and beards…” Chris presses.

“Private symbolism,” Rob says.  “It’s a family thing, from the old country.”

Chris doesn’t miss the nervous glance Rob casts in the direction of the others.  Maybe his theory was closer than he had thought.  Given American devotion to freedom of religion, a religious group
would
be a great cover for drug smugglers.

“So, what do you plan to see in Albuquerque?” Chris asks, changing the subject.

“Our host suggested that we go to the State Fair,” Rob answers, relieved.  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“A great one,” Chris agrees.  “I go every year.  It has something for everyone: art, animals, rides, lots of food, a whole building devoted to cool junk.”

And, Chris adds silently to himself, if you go there, we’ll have no trouble locating a crew of six-and-seven-foot-tall green-robed men.  And maybe, just maybe, your host will be with you and we can finally uncover the secret of Arthur Pendragon.

27

All that is necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.

—Edmund Burke

L
ess than an hour after Eddie and Arthur finish posting the day’s events, the phones start ringing.  Anson and Frank, who had planned to join the group at the Pyramid after dinner, conscript themselves to help and never make it out the door.

The questions, despite the various accents and inflections, are all variations on the same theme.  “What is going on?”  “How can you expect to decide such a crucial issue without a full quorum?”  “Whose idea was this meeting anyhow?”

The answers satisfy some, enflame others.  Several callers announce that they will be coming to join the meeting, among them Lil Prima, Tommy Thunderburst, the Smith, Garrett Kocchui, and Patti Lyn Asinbeau.

Finally, Arthur orders the answering machines put on with a new message that says: “This is Arthur Pendragon.  Thank you for your concern about recent developments.  Answers to the most frequently asked questions have been posted on our website.  We will open for business at the regular time tomorrow.”

Then he calls over to the Pyramid to ask that the meeting start a few hours later the next day.  Monk quickly agrees.

“Almost everyone is down in the bar,” he says, “dancing and drinking.  It made me so nervous that I came back up here to visit with the
kappa
.  Hiero and Roy are down there, though.  They’ve shifted to look female so that there would be enough dance partners.  A couple of the
pooka
did the same thing.  The sasquatch and the yeti are dancing with each other.  I can tell you that
that’s
raising some eyebrows.”

“Oh,” is all Arthur can think to say.

“How do you manage it, Arthur?” Monk asks.  “I’ve been in charge for just a couple of days, and I want to fly out the window and never come back.”

“You won’t though,” Arthur says.

“Naw, these folks would be lost without some help.”

“And that’s what keeps me going,” Arthur answers.  He forces a laugh.  “Besides there are great perqs like a fancy house and lots of angry phone calls.”

“See you in the morning, Arthur,” Monk replies with a chuckle.  “And thanks.”

Arthur heads to the kitchen, where his team is sharing a plate of cookies.

“Want a drink?” Eddie asks, gesturing with his beer bottle.

“Earl Grey tea, I think,” Arthur says, “decaffeinated.  I don’t dare be kept up all night.  Any word from Lovern?”

“He called in on the line I’ve been covering,” Frank says.  He holds one jackalope on his lap, another sits on the counter in front of him.  Both hands hold carrots.  “He said to tell you that he found what he was looking for, and he’s on his way back.”

“Ah.”  Arthur absently strokes one of the Cats of Egypt—the same one who had been his advisor during the reign of Akhenaton.

The kettle whistles.  Motioning for Eddie to keep his seat, Arthur moves to brew himself a cup of tea.

“Did Lovern say when he’d be getting in?”

“Just late.”

Arthur glances at the clock.  It’s almost midnight.  He decides he’ll finish his tea, then go to bed.  Lovern will wake him if his report is important.  When the grandfather clock in the front hall chimes midnight, Arthur puts his cup and saucer into the dishwasher.

“Please excuse me,” he says, “but I believe I will be off to bed.  I expect that I will need to rise early.”

All but Anson, who is taking the first night shift, agree that they, too, should be getting some rest.

Anson waves to them as they troop up the stairs.  “I’ll tell Vera all about our expected guests when she comes back,” he promises.  “All of you rest easy.  Tomorrow will be another day and a hell of a day at that.”

The meeting the next day begins late and ends later, extending through the dinner hour and necessitating canceling the planned outing to the State Fair.

No one minds.  Indeed, problems are being hashed out.  The theriomorphs realize for the first time that what they want differs within their own group.  Even those like Rebecca Trapper, who had advocated a full, public introduction into society, are forced to confront the truth that the world might not be ready for them.

But she and her cohorts are unwilling to abandon their dreams.  The memory of the night before, when they had blended so successfully with the normal humans in the Pyramid Club, is as intoxicating as strong drink, teasing and enticing them.

“Would you be willing,” Arthur offers, late in the night, “to develop a compromise?  Up to this point we have helped the theriomorphs obtain legal identities within the human societies of their various countries of residence.  Would you be willing to take this a step further and begin your entry into human society clad in an illusion that makes you appear to be human?”

Rebecca, who has found herself the speaker for her contingent in the absence of the Moderator, rises.  “I cannot speak for the rest, Your Majesty, not without further discussion, but your offer has its positive points.  Can you explain how the illusions would be created and how we would maintain them?”

“And how much they would cost,” says one of the
pooka
, who recalls the days when athanor paid high sums for magical communication or similar services that technology now performs.

“An illusion,” protests Snowbird the yeti, “would only serve part of our needs—the need to blend in without being seen, but it would merely be a stopgap.  It might even cause more troubles than it solves.  We live in relative secrecy now, but what would happen if humans thought of us as like themselves?”

His wife, Swansdown, adds, “I don’t want to deal with authorities trying to take Dawn or the other young ones off to school.  If we were recognized as yeti, our place on the fringes of their society would be understood.”

Lil Prima interjects, “But you are saying, are you not, that you wish to be part of the human society for those things that would benefit you?  Why shouldn’t they regulate how your children are educated?”

“We live centuries longer than humans,” Demetrios protests.  “Our educational needs are not their needs!”

Like a judge gaveling for silence, Rebecca pounds on the seat of her chair with one massive fist.  She gives Arthur, who has been watching the argument with a bemused expression, a smile that is partially apologetic, partially embarrassed.

“Shall we,” she says, once silence is restored, “let Arthur explain to us how these illusions would be achieved…”

“And how they would be paid for?” repeats Padraig O’Faolain, the
pooka
.

“And how they would be paid for,” Rebecca agrees, “before we accept or reject them out of hand?”

There is no further protest, and Rebecca turns wearily to Arthur, “Your Majesty?”

The King smiles thanks.  “Actually, I wish to let Lovern, who is known to many of you, explain how the procedure would be handled magically.  Then Eddie has some comments about how the illusion would be correlated with your current identities.”

Padraig shuffles irritably in his chair.  His shape keeps migrating between that of a wild-eyed, scruffy-maned black pony and an impish boy.  Arthur glances at him and smiles soothingly, “And then, as Padraig O’Faolain has requested, we will deal with the question of expense.  Let me say at this time that any figures would be broad estimates.  We had not seen the need to develop this program until yesterday’s meeting.”

The theriomorphs settle into their chairs, ready to take notes, prepared to frame protests, certain, at least, that they will get their say.

None of them realize the secret fears harbored by the wizard who so nonchalantly brushes his hand through his silvery beard, the apprehensions that keep the King and his intimates glancing toward the windows and jumping to answer any phone call.

Even as they work toward a modification of their working Accord, those who would shatter that Accord and perhaps even the Harmony on which it stands are preparing for their own entrance into the meeting.