Changer's Daughter (3 page)

This time the Changer does smile. “I do. For coyotes. Shahrazad is athanor. She needs to learn that there is more to getting along with others than being able to beat them up.”

Arthur relents. “I wish that more of our number had learned that lesson early in life.”

“Indeed.”

Shahrazad whines and places her paws on the counter at which Arthur and the Changer are seated. Her father hits her soundly on the nose and, when she has dropped back to the floor, rewards her with a chunk of lamb.

“I see that you’re not above a bit of parental brutalizing,” Arthur observes.

“I
am
her father.”

“Do you have plans on how you’re going to get to the OTQ Ranch with a coyote passenger?”

“I am open to suggestions.”

“Very good. I’ll put one of my pet humans on it. Bill, I think. Chris is already too busy.”

“How are they working out?”

“The humans?” Arthur sighs. “Well enough. I just wish I didn’t need to rely on them so exclusively. It’s a bloody nuisance that both members of my staff have taken off just now.”

“I thought this would be a good time for you to be without a large staff,” the Changer observes. “There won’t be another Review for almost five years. The humans seemed intelligent enough when I met them.”

“They are.” Arthur’s tone is grudging. “But I am accustomed to having Eddie on call. Where he is in Nigeria with Anson, he’s lucky if he can get out a letter, much less a phone call or e-mail.”

“And Vera is still with my brother and Amphitrite?”

“That’s right. Plans for Atlantis are proceeding apace, but I can’t hope to have her back full-time for months, maybe even for years.”

“But you can still make arrangements for me to travel to Frank’s place?”

“That I can,” Arthur promises. “That is simple compared to some of the other requests I’ve had recently. The day I can’t play travel agent is the day I turn in my crown.”

Further inquiries after his missing friends turn up nothing, so Anson leads the way to a bus station. As they walk through the herd of vehicles parked every which way on the packed dirt, Eddie pulls Anson to one side.

“Spider,” he begins, only to be stopped when Anson lays a finger to his lip.

“Hsst, not here, my friend,” Anson cautions. “That’s a powerful name in this country.”

“Anson,” Eddie begins again, drawing on some of his legendary patience, “we aren’t riding in one of those, are we?”

“I was thinking that we do ride in one,” Anson replies, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes.

“But they’re not safe!” Eddie gestures toward a typical bush taxi, a Peugeot 504 designed to carry eight and already loaded with twelve men and women, assorted infants and small children, bundles and duffel bags, produce, and a nanny goat. A cage of chickens is being lashed to the roof, along with more bundles.

“That one runs,” Anson grins, shrugging.

“That one must have been bought during the oil boom of the mid-sixties,” Eddie declares, “and I doubt that it’s had its oil changed every three thousand miles much less a tune-up. Look at the tires! They’re more patch than tread!”

“Quietly, quietly, my friend,” Anson cautions, drawing Eddie back to where the maligned vehicle’s owner will not hear him. “Your English is good, but still the driver may understand you.”

“Let him!” Eddie declares, but he lowers his voice. “Anson, I’ve let you handle most of our expenses since we’ve gotten here, and I know you’ve been spending the
naira
pretty freely. If you can’t afford to hire a private car, I’m willing. Hell, I’ll
buy
us a car.”

“You are kind,” Anson says, “but I think not. I wish to go to Monamona without drawing too much attention to ourselves. A personal car—or even a private hired vehicle—will make much gossip. People will remember us as visitors with money.”

“So?” Eddie replies, still somewhat frantic at the idea of trusting himself to one of the bush taxis. “That should make finding your friends easier: ‘Here’s a rich man. He pay much
naira
, much dash.’”

“Has it made finding them easier so far?” Anson counters. “It has not. Indeed, I think that some few who might have answered my questions have not precisely because we appear wealthy.”

Eddie grumbles, “And no one in Monamona knows that you’re wealthy?”

“I do most of my business in Lagos,” Anson says, “not Monamona. Or I could have lost my money. Fortunes come and go quickly in Nigeria. There is no FDIC to insure banks, no Better Business Bureau to issue warnings, very little reliable insurance. Money come, money go. That’s one reason why family ties are so strong. You help them when times are good; they help you when times are bad.”

“Enough lecture!” Eddie pleads. “I surrender. If you want me to ride in a bush taxi, I’ll ride in a bush taxi. When do we leave?”

Anson pats his friend on the arm. “I see if we can get a driver to promise to wait for us in the morning. More business comes from Monamona to Lagos than from Lagos to Monamona. So the bus might not be so crowded, and the driver might take a reservation.”

“Wonderful.”

“Hey, you’ve known worse in your life,” Anson says, the phrase almost a proverb among the athanor.

“I know.”

“And I promise you protection of the finest type,” Anson says, mock solemn.

“Oh?”

Anson points to a figurine secured to the dashboard of the nearest bush taxi, waving his fingers to indicate the other vehicles, many of which bear some version of the same figure.

“What’s that?” Eddie says, giving the figure—a powerfully built, dark-skinned African man—a closer look. “The African version of a plastic Jesus?”

“Oh, no, my friend,” Anson assures him. “Much better than that.”

“Tell me.”

“It is a plastic Ogun—the Yoruban god of war and iron. In these modern days he has become the patron of lorry drivers as well. Don’t you feel more safe?”

“Ogun!” Eddie swears. “Dakar Agadez. He still has worshipers here?”

“Oh, yes. The traditional religion is not quite gone. Many who call themselves Christian or Moslem become traditionalists in the bush—or when they need extra protection against witches and other dangers.”

“Ogun.”

“Yes. We travel under his protection.”

“For whatever good that is,” Eddie says, thinking of the athanor he had last seen drunk and brawling with his longtime rival.

“For whatever good,” Anson agrees. He lowers his voice to a whisper and places his lips near Eddie’s ear. “And I share a secret with you.”

“Yes?”

“I told you I had business?”

“Yes.”

“Dakar is one of those with whom we do business.” Anson straightens, pleased with himself. “So certainly we will arrive in Monamona safely.”

Bill Irish—tall, slim, coffee-dark from his Jamaican father, lightened with cream by his American mother—taps his computer keyboard:

>> Wanderer: Arthur has a job for you. Transport of two, one vaguely illegal and somewhat messy. Contact Pendragon Productions, my address or phone. Bill.

Running his hands over his head, he tugs the end of his short ponytail to punctuate his reread, then sends the message.

“That should do it,” he says to Chris. “The Wanderer makes his living moving questionable cargo. He sure did a good job transporting Lovern and his gear to the new academy.”

Chris swivels around his desk chair, reads the message, and nods. “And getting Swansdown there when she flew in from Alaska. You know, I hadn’t realized that transporting a coyote would be such a nuisance. It’s a shame she can’t shapeshift like her father.”

“Or that her father won’t drive himself,” Bill adds.

“Would you really want him to?” Chris challenges.

Bill considers the feral ancient who, once more in the shape of a grey male coyote, is sleeping in the hacienda’s central courtyard.

“No. Not really. He’s spooky.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’d probably speed.”

“I wonder if he can even drive,” Chris says.

“He has a driver’s license.”

“Big deal. Arthur has a birth certificate stating that he was born in England about forty years ago. And Eddie—who was an Anglo when we met him—is now darker than you are and apparently African by birth.”

Bill shivers slightly, “These athanor take a lot of getting used to...”

The ringing phone interrupts him. He reaches over and answers it.

“Pendragon Productions, Bill Irish speaking.”

“Bill?” The voice on the other end is unfamiliar. “This is the Wanderer.”

Bill sits up straight, his feet, which he had been about to park on the desk, hitting the floor with a thump.

“Wanderer?”

“That’s right.”

“We must have a bad connection,” he hazards. “I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“Oh. Right.”

A clicking sound, rather like a fingernail tapping something hard and plastic, follows, then the Wanderer speaks again.

“Is that better?”

Bill frowns. “Yes. I wonder what caused that?”

“Don’t worry about it. What’s the job?”

“The Changer and his daughter want to go out to Frank MacDonald’s ranch.”

“When?”

“Soon as you can leave.”

“Anyone after them?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Of course, the Changer isn’t exactly the type to volunteer information.”

“No. Never has been. I’ll charge double what I did for moving Lovern’s gear. Half in favors, half in cash.”

“That’s quite a bit.”

“I doubt that Shahrazad’s exactly house-trained, and I live in my van. I want to be paid up front for the cleanup I’m going to have to do.”

Bill, thinking of what he has seen since the pair’s arrival, says, “I think Shahrazad’s better behaved than she was at the Review, but when you put it that way I don’t think Arthur will quibble about the price.”

“I’m up at the hot springs in Ojo Caliente,” the Wanderer says. “If this isn’t a rush job, I’ll be there tomorrow morning. If there is, I can be there in about two and a half hours.”

“I don’t think waiting until tomorrow will be a problem.”

“Great. See you in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

Bill hangs up the phone. “The Wanderer says he’ll be here in the morning.”

“I’ll tell Arthur,” Chris says. “I have some papers I need him to sign.” He pauses in the doorway. “What was that fuss about at the beginning of the call?”

Frowning, Bill looks up at his friend. “The connection seemed perfectly clear, but at the beginning of the call I... you’ll think I’m crazy... but I could have sworn that I was talking to a woman.”

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