Changeling (24 page)

Fleet elbowed me in the ribs. “Don't stare,” she hissed.

“Why? He can't see me.”

“He knows anyway. He knows everything. And what he doesn't know, his Executive Assistant tells him. There she is.” Fleet's voice was tight with fear. “Up there.” She pointed. “DowJones. The Dragon's got a lot of maidens, but she's the one who's really into her job.”

I followed Fleet's finger to a square tower built near the Dragon's muzzle. On the top of the tower was a massive bowl that looked like it was made of solid gold. Beside it, a tiny figure was pouring something into the bowl from a large silver pot. A familiar, exciting scent tickled my nose.

“Keep-awake!” I exclaimed. “That's keep-awake charm!”

Fleet gave me a look. “That's coffee, Park girl. It's what the Dragon lives on. Coffee and investors.”

I wondered what an investor was. I wondered whether I could catch one and trade it to the Dragon for his magical Scales. Except that he probably didn't need me to catch investors for him. And as for finding his vulnerable spot, who was I kidding?

Fleet poked me in the side. “There are the Dragon's Scales.”

The Scales of Wall Street were, to my total astonishment, mortal-sized and very plain: just a brass bar on a stick, with a brass pan hanging from each end. A thing like a pointer in the middle showed when the pans were balanced. I wondered how long it would take Changeling to figure out how it worked.

Changeling, however, wasn't interested in the Scales. As soon as she noticed the Dragon's eyes, she had started her happy hum and stopped watching where she was going. She walked into one of our giant guards and he growled threateningly. She paid no attention. I took her in tow.

When we reached the coffee tower, we stopped and the six giants fell back into a watchful semicircle. Changeling stared up into the Dragon's eyes as if enchanted.

Fleet scanned the scrolling numbers with gloomy interest. “Industrials are down again,” she said. “As if I cared.”

I guess the Executive Assistant had seen us coming from the tower. As Fleet was speaking, I saw a tall figure in Dragon gray clicking her way across the scales toward us.

Up close, DowJones was as beautiful as Fleet, only in a white-skinned, ice-haired, frost-maiden way. Her cold gray eyes matched the pale stripe in her skirt and jacket. She looked down her elvish nose and asked if she could help us, in a voice that said she'd really rather not.

Fleet's gaze dropped, and her hands tightened on the handle of her briefcase. “Good evening, DowJones,” she said nervously. “Might it be possible to have a word with Himself? If he's not busy, I mean.”

DowJones lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow. “The Dragon is always busy. May I ask what this is in reference to?”

Fleet looked like she was about to trickle away down among the scales. I started to get mad. Who did DowJones think she was, anyway? The queen of the fairies? The Green Lady would eat her for breakfast. I stepped in front of her and put my hands on my hips. “Who's asking? And why?”

DowJones raked me with a scornful glance that said I was slightly less important than a sewer rat, then frowned at Fleet over my head. “If this is some kind of joke, Fleet, I'm not amused.”

Fleet made a helpless noise.

“Hello?” I said. “I'm talking here. It's not Fleet's business, it's mine. I made her bring me. I'm on a quest.”

DowJones's frown came back to me. “If you're here about the Scales, you should be advised that access is restricted to authorized personnel only, under the Dragon's direct supervision.” She allowed herself a slight smile. “In other words, little girl, you're out of luck.”

Now I was really mad. DowJones had no right to talk to me like that. She wasn't Folk, not even of any kind. I lifted my eyebrow at her, a trick I'd learned from the Pooka. “You know,” I said icily, “I'd rather not discuss this with an underling.”

This was clearly not how DowJones was used to being talked to. She scowled. “You
are
after the Scales, aren't you?”

Anger fizzed in my veins like coffee. “Wouldn't you like to know?” I sneered. “Are you going to let me talk to the Dragon or not? He may have forever, but I don't. Neither do you, if it comes to that.”

Behind me, Fleet gave a cheep like a baby pigeon.

“You haven't told me what this is about yet,” DowJones said between her teeth. “Before he talks to you, he's going to want to know what kind of quest, who sent you on it, and why. It's standard operating procedure.”

She made it sound like some kind of rule. Perhaps it was. “The Genius of Central Park sent me,” I said briskly. “The reason is personal.”

DowJones nodded. “Provisionally, I'll accept that. I do have to wonder, though, what connection a fairy changeling has to your request.”

Judging from her tone, if I was a sewer rat, Changeling was the stuff floating in the sewer.

“That fairy changeling,” I said, “is my magic companion.”

DowJones sneered. “It must be a very
important
quest, if it rates such a
powerful
companion. Where did you pick her up? The Lost and Found?”

It was as much the way she said it as what she said, although that was bad enough. Changeling, bewitched by the numbers scrolling down the Dragon's eyes, didn't even hear her.

“You take that back,” I said hotly.

DowJones smiled. “Why? Everybody knows that all fairy changelings are only good for taking our places Outside. Their magic is negligible. They grow old. They die. They don't really belong to any world. True Folk hate them. Mortals don't like them either, but these days, they're too softhearted to get rid of them. It looks to me as if this one's parents managed to send her back. What did they do? Throw her onto a fire? Beat her until she disappeared?”

By this time, I was so mad I actually saw red. My ears rang and my skin tingled. I wanted to hurt DowJones, and I would have, too, if a huge metallic voice hadn't claimed my attention.

“May I ask just what is going on down there, DowJones?” the Dragon asked.

DowJones spun on her high heels, click-clacked to the Dragon's head, and nipped into the domed space under the Dragon's claws. Not wanting her to get the first word in, I took a deep breath, cupped my hands, and yelled, “Hey, Dragon! Want to make a deal?”

There was a pause. “A deal?” the Dragon boomed. “I like a good deal.”

“This one's
really
good,” I said. “Just wait until you hear it.”

“I doubt that. Listen, little girl, I don't have time to go through all that fairy-tale chitchat you questers are so fond of. I'll just cut to the chase.

“You want my Scales. Just like everyone else. And I don't want to give them to you. What can you possibly offer me that would make me change my mind?”

“I'll do an impossible task,” I shouted. “Whatever you want. If I succeed, you give me the Scales. If I fail, I go away and don't come back.”

“No deal,” the Dragon said. “If all I wanted was for you to go away, I could simply eat you. Try again.”

“How about a ticket to
Peter Pan
,” I said. “With the original Tinkerbell.”

A low rumble shook the ground like an earthquake. The Dragon was either amused or irritated. “Surely you have something better than that.”

I hesitated. “The Magic Magnifying Mirror of the Mermaid Queen,” I admitted. “But I'm supposed to give to the Green Lady.”

“Tempting,” the Dragon said. “But not quite tempting enough. My Scales are very powerful. They weigh the balance of every commercial transaction across at least three levels of reality. The only thing you could bring to the table that would even tempt me would be something like . . . oh, the air rights to Central Park.”

“What?” Fleet and I said it at the same time, only she sounded like she understood what he was talking about.

“Air rights,” the Dragon boomed impatiently. “Don't you know anything about business at all? Central Park itself is protected from commercial development, but there's no reason the air above it can't be used for something profitable. A mall, perhaps.”

“You're out of your mind,” I said. “Build over Central Park? No way. What about the birds and flying Folk? What about the trees? They need a lot of room, you know. Plus sun and fresh air. Choose something else.”

“The trees would not be disturbed,” the Dragon said smoothly. “And there would still be plenty of flight room. We'll put it in the contract.”

I didn't even have to think about it. “No deal.”

“It's entirely up to you, of course,” the Dragon said genially. “It's your quest. Maybe I can sweeten the deal for you. I'm a bit of gambler, you see—it's my great weakness. There's a little task I've got in mind. I'm willing to stake my Scales against the Central Park air rights that you can't complete it.”

I didn't need a Folk lore expert to tell me that I'd lose this bet. The Dragon of Wall Street may be a gambler, but he's not stupid. “No,” I said.

“It's not a complicated task.”

I wondered what a dragon considered simple. “What is it?”

“Telling you beforehand is not standard operating procedure, but I appreciate that you can't make an informed decision if you don't have all the data. Here it is: very simple, really. I want you to make the Bull cry and the Bear laugh.”

I almost laughed myself. The Dragon of Wall Street might be the biggest and most powerful Genius in New York, but he sure didn't know much about Folk lore. His task was nothing but a variant of a common fairy-tale plot. Usually it was a princess you had to make laugh or cry, depending on what kind of spell she was under. If she couldn't laugh, you made a total fool of yourself; if she couldn't cry, you shoved a chopped onion under her nose. Then she'd laugh or cry, her father would give you her hand in marriage and half his kingdom, and everyone would live happily ever after.

If it worked on a princess, why not a bull and a bear?

“Okay,” I said, pretending reluctance. “It's a deal. Your Scales against the Central Park air rights that I can't make the Bull cry and the Bear laugh.”

“Done,” said the Dragon. His voice boomed through the Treasury like thunder. “DowJones, set this young lady up for an appointment with the Bull and the Bear. Tomorrow evening's relatively clear. I leave the matter of a reward for Fleet's remarkably independent thinking up to you. Polishing coins? Cleaning the coffeemaker in perpetuity? I'm sure you'll think of something appropriate.”

CHAPTER 21

 
 
 
Fleet had a total hissy. All the way back to Maiden Lane, I got to hear about how everything was a disaster, how her life was ruined, and how it was
all my fault
.

“If you hadn't pestered me into taking you to the Dragon,” she said as the three of us got out of the elevator at her apartment, “everything would have been fine.”

“Right, like you were having such a nice life before.”

Fleet unlocked the door, kicked her high heels across the room, ripped the tie from her braids, took off her jacket, and collapsed onto the sofa. “Do you have any idea how gross that coffeemaker gets?” she wailed. “I don't know why I listened to you!”

“Because I promised we'd rescue you,” I said, settling into the easy chair. “Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. I've got a shot at winning this bet. I'm on a quest, remember? When's the last time you heard a fairy tale where the hero messed up a quest?”

“I don't know,” she said. “The only fairy tales my godmother told me were the ones with lots of gold in them, like ‘Rumplestiltskin.' ”

“Trust me, I know this stuff,” I said. “I'm an only child
and
a foundling. That's at least as good as being a poor widow's son. Anyway, I'll do my best. Now quit moaning and tell me all about the Bull and the Bear.”

Fleet groaned. “You don't know? What kind of fairy godmother did you have anyway?”

“A giant white rat,” I said.

“Well,
that
explains a lot.”

“Astris is the best Folklorist in New York Between!” I said hotly.

“I'm sure you know every traditional fairy tale in the book. But the Bull and the Bear are Modern Urban Folk lore, which is different. The Bull is like all the optimists in the universe rolled into one. He thinks everything is wonderful and can only get better. He plunges into things without thinking about the consequences or who might get hurt. Kind of like you, Neef.”