Changer's Daughter (43 page)

“It’s five in the morning!” Demetrios wails. “Rehearsal starts at nine. The choreographer wants everyone to turn out for warm-up exercises at eight-thirty. I can make excuses then, but at nine... The cat’s out of the bag.”

“So you have three hours,” Rebecca says, her mind whirling through possibilities, discarding most of them. “If they aren’t back by then...”

“I’m in big trouble! Lil will skin me and make my hide into a handbag! She’s terrible when she’s angry.”

“Nonsense,” Rebecca says sternly. “You aren’t to blame. It’s the satyrs who are in big trouble.”

“So,” interrupts Bronson, who has listened to Rebecca’s side of the conversation, “are the rest of us if the satyrs are revealed for what they are: nonhumans, theriomorphs, creatures that shouldn’t be.”

Rebecca nods agreement, but she doesn’t repeat it. Why add to her friend’s worries?

“Demetrios,” she says calmly, “let’s assume that Georgios and his buddies went out to party and that in the course of doing whatever they were doing, they lost track of time.”

“That’s fair,” Demetrios says. “The others said they meant to sneak back so no one would ever know they’d been gone.”

“Good. Now, you’ve known them a long time...”

“Too long!”

“How would they react if they woke up and discovered that they’d stayed out too late? Would they come back and hope not to get caught or what?”

Demetrios, presented with a concrete problem, calms somewhat. “Georgios is in charge, and I don’t think he would sneak back. One of the things that has been bugging him has been being ordered around. He didn’t expect that. He thought that being in a rock and roll show would be like what you see in the movies—wild parties, late nights, lots of sex and drugs and women. He didn’t realize that a show like Tommy’s is big business.”

“So you don’t think he’ll sneak back,” Rebecca prompts. “I think you’re right. The next question is will he stay where he is or will he hide?”

“Stay,” Demetrios says promptly. “Georgios isn’t dumb—not brilliant, but not dumb. He has a gift for calculation, at least when he’s sober.”

“We can’t count on his being sober,” Rebecca reminds.

“True, but he would have been when he made his initial plans for a party night out. That means he would have gone someplace where the satyrs with less than human features would be fairly safe from discovery.”

“By anyone but the girls they picked up,” Rebecca corrects.

“True. My guess is that he decided to keep the women drunk or stoned.” Demetrios sounds embarrassed. “That’s an old trick, dating way back even before the Accord.”

“Okay.” Rebecca blushes. “So Georgios is fairly safe from discovery wherever he is—and you don’t think he’ll run and hide?”

“No, that would mean admitting that he’s done something wrong. Georgios is defiant. Remember, satyrs are half stallion. They’re very hard to push when it’s a matter of territory.”

“Right.” Rebecca thinks. “So they won’t come back, but they won’t move on. That means they could be tracked down.”

“Not by me!” Demetrios says. “Boots hurt my hooves after a while. I can’t possibly tramp up and down the Strip—and there are hundred of thousands of hotel rooms in this city.”

“Not by you,” Rebecca agrees, “but maybe by Lil and Tommy.”

“Lil will kill me!”

“Not if you take action to protect yourself,” Rebecca says, well aware that Lil Prima, also called Lilith, can be ruthless. “If the satyrs aren’t back by the time Bill and Chris are at work, I think you’ve got to call them. You’re going to need help. It’ll be easier to talk with one of them rather than going directly to Arthur.”

“Arthur...” Demetrios moans again.

“He asked you to take this job,” Rebecca reminds the faun sternly. “It’s his responsibility to help you. He didn’t get you the magic you requested, did he?”

“Not yet.”

“Then it’s his fault. He let the satyrs out without properly preparing you.”

“It’s not the King’s fault that the Blind Lion tour had to be delayed, and we got started sooner than planned!”

“True. That’s no one’s fault, I guess.” Rebecca suppresses a passing thought that Lil or Tommy could have refused to take the new slot.

“Yeah.” Demetrios sounds repentant. “Sorry I got excited there. I’ve been in a panic for hours.”

“I’m sure. I wish I could be there to help, but I expect I’d just add to your troubles.”

Demetrios chuckles. “Even in Las Vegas you’d stand out, Rebecca.”

“True enough. Now, get something to eat. You’ve got another hour or so before you can call Pendragon Productions. Spend the time drafting an e-mail with all the details, including our deductions as to what Georgios is likely to do and not to do. If Arthur recruits reinforcements, Phoebus can send the e-mail from another line so you don’t need to waste time repeating yourself.”

“Good thought.” Demetrios sighs. “Thanks, Becky. I’ll do just what you say. And apologize to Bronson for my waking you up early. I just couldn’t wait any longer. The other fauns are as nervous as I am, and the satyrs are alternately arrogant and defiant. I finally locked them in their suite, disconnected the phone, and set guards on the door.”

“You’re welcome. Bronson understands. Promise to call me when you know more?”

“Promise.”

“Now, call room service and order some breakfast. You don’t need to face this on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Bronson turns and hands her a cup of golden brown tea, sweet with honey.

“I didn’t think,” he says in his gruff, low voice, “that you’d want to go back to sleep.”

“No,” she says, taking the tea and leaning forward to kiss the bare section of his cheek above his reddish-brown fur. “I don’t think I could sleep. If you want to, I’ll go feed the animals.”

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Bronson admits. “I’m frightened. It’s all I can do not to grab you and run for one of our safe havens deeper in the forest.”

“Thanks,” she says. “But I’ll start packing—just in case.”

Never one to wait when action would serve, Katsuhiro Oba begins the morning by opening the door to his prison apartment and stepping into the corridor.

Anansi had visited him the night before, bringing with him a small, comparatively lightweight handgun and a box of ammunition. The Spider had been visibly wearied by the effort, grateful for the honey-coated dates and cold
moi-moi
that Katsuhiro had saved for him. He had promised to return again, bringing more ammunition and more news.

The former would be welcome. The latter was certain to be disturbing, as all news from Monamona had been thus far. More than ever, Katsuhiro looks forward to taking action against those who would use disease as a weapon against defenseless civilians.

This step into the corridor is the first part of his campaign. The four guards, accustomed to his passive acceptance of captivity, are slow to reach for their weapons. Katsuhiro has no wish to take them on with his comparatively small gun and bare hands. He doesn’t doubt his ability to win such a combat, but he is not willing to reveal the gun just yet.

He has taken two steps down the corridor, heading in the general direction of Regis’s office, when one of the guards orders him to halt.

Katsuhiro doesn’t even pause, continuing his unhurried departure. Behind him is a muttered conference, then the same guard yells:

“Stop where you are or we’ll shoot!”

The sound of automatic weapons being readied punctuates this statement.

Katsuhiro had been prepared for this. He turns slightly, not cringing, but as a shogun would have turned to stare down some courtier whose manners were less than perfect. After subjecting them to a stare from eyes fully as dark as the guards’ own, but made hidden and mysterious by their slant and the concealing fold of the eyelid, Katsuhiro frowns.

“Will you?” he asks. “Are you certain that Chief General Doctor Regis would be pleased? I am the key to an important business deal. If I die, you may make apologies for him to his honored guests.”

Uncertain, the frontmost guard lowers the barrel of his rifle slightly, the tip wavering. Katsuhiro swallows a snort of disgust, maintaining instead stiff arrogance.

“I am bored with my rooms,” he continues. “With patience I have waited there three full days with hardly any company. I shall not wait a fourth.”

Turning his back on them, he continues to walk forward. After the first three steps, he knows that his bluff has worked. They fear Regis’s anger and, as of yet, Katsuhiro is showing no inclination to escape.

From Anson, Katsuhiro knows that the telephone system is out and that the wind is cutting off all but limited radio communication. Therefore, he is not surprised to hear the head of the guard detail designate one of his men as a runner to go inform Regis or the Balogun of this new development. Of course they speak Yoruban, which they do not realize he understands.

The runner does not go by Katsuhiro, but takes a stairway at the other end of the corridor. The Japanese files this information against future need.

“Permit us,” says the chief guard, coming up beside him, “to act as your escort, Mr. Oba.”

“I shall,” Katsuhiro agrees haughtily. “I wish to stretch my legs, then to speak with someone. Perhaps Taiwo Fadaka.”

The guard nods, smiling the broad, insincere smile of one who is very nervous.

“This way.” He barks orders in Yoruban to another guard, telling him to learn if Taiwo is in the compound.

Katsuhiro finds this interesting. He had thought the younger man privileged. Now it seems that he may also be trusted.

Escorted by his remaining two guards, both nervous enough to shoot him if he does the least thing that strikes them as peculiar, Katsuhiro takes a leisurely stroll about the compound. Much of this he has seen and noted before, but he will not pass up the opportunity to refresh his memory. The walk also gives him his first clear glimpse of the wall of wind enclosing the city.

The upper regions, though fairly clear of dust and debris, are still visible to the naked eye, swirling currents distorting and filtering the sunlight. It looks quite formidable and Katsuhiro, who is a pilot, ventures to guess that any aircraft attempting to penetrate the wall would be badly battered, if not completely ruined.

Complaining of the heat, Katsuhiro insists on being permitted to continue his stroll indoors. The guards, relieved that he has not yet made any effort to escape, agree with alacrity. They are completing their tour of the ground floor of the main building when the first runner returns. He reports that both Regis and the Balogun are absent but that the next in command has agreed to let Katsuhiro continue his walk as long as he makes no effort to escape.

They have walked though the second and third floors when the other runner returns. In language lewd and bawdy, he explains that finding Taiwo had taken some time as the young businessman had been taking advantage of Regis’s absence to avail himself of Teresa’s body.

Another walking dead man,
Katsuhiro thinks.
Or perhaps Teresa has shown him mercy as well.

Somehow, remembering the fury he had glimpsed in the beautiful woman’s eyes, he doesn’t think she will have done so.

By now he has seen as much as he can easily commit to immediate memory. Several areas provide promising places to hold his sword, including an armory, a vault, and Regis’s own quarters. His guards, of course, believe him ignorant of the areas significance, hurrying him away with the curt explanation “Restricted area.” They don’t know he understands Yoruban, however, and their conversations with each other told him all he needed to know.

Katsuhiro is willing to bet his life that Kusanagi is in one of these three places. Indeed, when the time comes to retrieve the sword, betting his life is precisely what he will be doing. Raising the odds for success seems prudent so he snaps at his escort:

“I desire companionship. Have you located anyone—Taiwo or one of Regis’s other business associates, perhaps? I would even settle for speaking with that woman Regis sent to me.”

The tone of command works the trick, that and the fact that his guards have decided that he is not interested in escape. They confer and decide that they had better not give the Japanese access to Teresa, as she is Regis’s own property, but that Taiwo can do no harm.

Katsuhiro is somewhat disappointed, but hides it well. Striding along, he draws maps in his head, maps that he will pass on to the Spider when the other calls on him tonight.