Changer (Athanor) (38 page)

Arthur seems relieved.  “Speaking of nuts and bolts, I’d better go and review the e-mail.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Lovern cautions.

“I won’t.  I’m taking my laptop to bed.”

“Our guests have keys?”

“Yes, and the alarm code.  We’ll need to reprogram the security system and wards when they’ve left.”

“Right.  Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, my wizard.”

14 

The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.

—Paul Valéry

T
he meeting room the next morning is filled with a buzz of satisfied conversation.  Even without listening closely, Vera, seated to one side of Arthur at the curved table in the front of the room (it rather resembles half a donut and is, in a sense, the current incarnation of the Round Table), catches fragments:

“I really think that the solution involves taking a direct hand in matters.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to be responsible for more extinctions.  I still feel bad about the passenger pigeons.”

“Until last night I didn’t realize how many of the things we take for granted come from the rain forests.”

Clearly many of the athanor think that the issue has been settled in the informal discussions held the night before.  Now she regrets not going to the South American contingent’s party—if only so she could tell Arthur what had been said.  A long time has passed since she cared about the opinion of the mob.  Only when the Olympians (as they had jokingly referred to themselves) had been the reigning force in the Mediterranean basin had she been part of a ruling oligarchy.

Staying back at the hacienda, walking from guest room to guest room and leaving a basket on the doorstep with fresh soap, towels, a package of candy, and the next morning’s agenda had been more to her liking.  And had her absence been much of a loss?  No one would have talked freely around her.  Certainly Jonathan Wong has reported anything significant to Arthur.

During her rounds the evening before, she had sneaked periodic glances out the windows, trying to see what the Changer was about, but had learned nothing.  All she knows is that this morning the gardens look untouched—not as if they had just been host to dozens of wandering conventioneers.

When the meeting begins, Isidro Robelo is recognized first, but his speech is hardly more than a rehash of the previous day’s arguments.  Vera hides a little smile, noting that Isidro is losing some of his audience and offending those who are not already of his party with his assumption that they will be swayed by mere repetition.  Good.

Her gaze drifts to where the Changer leans against the doorframe.  His eyes are mostly closed, his chin against his chest.  To any who look his way, he may seem asleep.  She wonders if this is so; the ancient cares little for athanor politics.  Then Louhi is recognized.  At her first words, Vera sees the Changer’s eyes open.

“Eve’s unwashed children,” Louhi says in her cool, precise tones.  “In the part of the world where I currently dwell, that is the story they use to explain what they call the
huldre
folk— the hidden ones.

“I don’t know that tale,” Dakar says, his voice gruff and deeper than usual.  He’s never been able to hold his liquor.

“Eve was washing her babies when God came to visit,” Louhi says, as if recounting history.  “She hid the children she hadn’t tidied up yet.  When God asked if he had seen all her children, she insisted that he had.  God asked again.  When Eve continued to insist that the tidy children were her entire family, God said: ‘Very well.  Those you have claimed will be seen by all, but those you have hidden will remain hidden.’”

Lil Prima’s husky voice is heard commenting softly, “Eve always was a dumb bitch.”

Louhi continues as if there had been no interruption.  “I wonder if Arthur considers us Eve’s unwashed children—a disgrace to be hidden from the world.  We have called ourselves by all manner of proud names: Aesir, Olympians, Illuminati, but truly, who is more a
huldre
folk than ourselves?”

Laughter, sarcastic comments, beginnings of argument, shouts to be recognized break out as Louhi finishes.  Arthur lets chaos dominate for a moment, then gavels for order.

“Silence!  Silence!”

The roar ebbs to a dull hum.  Arthur points the handle of his gavel at Jonathan Wong, ignoring mutters of favoritism.

“Jonathan, you are recognized.”

The portly Chinese rises and faces the assembled company.  “Louhi has made a fascinating point.  However, I wish to remind her that the days when a Sargon or Moses or Momotaro simply could claim to have been found in a basket as a child are gone.”

A deep voice rumbles from the back of the room: “Sargon the mighty king of Akkad, am I.  My mother was lowly, my father I knew not.  The brother of my father dwelt in the mountains.  My city is Agade, which lieth on the bank of the Euphrates.”

Even the murmuring stops then.  The speaker, who quietly farms rice in Korea, rises and bows in Jonathan Wong’s direction.  “It
was
easier then,” he says, and takes his seat again.

Next Arthur recognizes Lil Prima.

“I agree with both Louhi and Jonathan,” she says, her small smile acknowledging that she is aware of the apparent contradiction in her position.  “We are the hidden folk, but we are hidden for a reason.  Today, most nations record even a foundling.  Also none of us are children.  Even those who can shapeshift have better things to do than put in a twenty-year apprenticeship for the sake of an identity.  Thank God (or whoever) for war and natural disaster!  Without them, we would be in a great deal of trouble.”

“Why must we hide at all!” shouts someone from the safe anonymity of the crowd.

The orderly meeting dissolves into argument.  Frustrated, Arthur hammers for quiet, then orders an adjournment.  People flow from the room like the ebb of waters before a tsunami.

The South American contingent desperately try to get attention returned to their pet issues.  Others are insisting that neither issue is as important as the matters raised in the seminars scheduled for the afternoon.  Dakar and Katsuhiro are shaking fists at each other, blocking one doorway until the Smith, with calm disregard for his own safety, shoves them through.

Vera glances about, hoping to find the Changer.  To her surprise, he strolls to stand beside her.

“More trouble than for many years,” he says, surveying the almost empty room.  “I wonder, could this somehow be connected to that event which first brought me here?”

His cryptic phrasing puzzles her only for a moment.  Seeing her about to speak, he lays a finger against her lips.

“Enough said.  Perhaps too much.  I refuse to take sides in mere government, but if this is something more…”

She feels his growl, is too aware of the warmth of the strong finger against her lips.

“I will not speak to Arthur,” the Changer says, removing his finger.  “You, though, I can speak to unofficially and know that the words will go where they should be heard.  Yes?”

“Yes, of course.”  

Her voice catches slightly, but she doesn’t think the Changer notices.

“I will be back for the next portion of the meeting,” he says.  “Thank you.”

As he leaves, she sees that he is already loosening his shirt.  Shapeshifting, then.  Spying almost certainly.  She feels a momentary regret that he no longer strips in public.

Fear that he is missing something crucial gives the Changer speed.  He almost runs down the corridor to his room, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.  When he enters the room, Shahrazad pounces on him, whimpering her happiness that he has returned.

“I can’t stay, little one,” he says in English, “and you cannot come with me unless you grow wings and fly.”

She does not understand, nor did he expect her to do so.

Frolicking, she tugs at the cuff of his jeans as he pulls them off, seizes one of his socks and vigorously “kills” it.  Doubtless she associates his removing clothing with his shifting into a shape that will play with her.  He regrets that he must disappoint her.

He is about to shift into the form of a common garden sparrow when he notices that Shahrazad has spilled her water dish.  Picking the dish up, he unlocks the bathroom door.  He may begrudge the time, but in this arid climate he cannot responsibly leave her without water.

As he turns the tap, he feels a sharp pain.  Looking at his hand, he sees blood running from two of his fingers and the thumb.  A quick shift closes the wound and, after setting down Shahrazad’s dish, he searches for what has cut him.

Behind the cold water tap, he finds a piece of clear glass, wedged into place and nearly invisible.  The tumbler, he notices now, is a different one than the one that had been there that morning.  Perhaps Sven broke it and missed this one piece.  He might even have swept the shard into its new harbor when wiping up the mess.  The angle is consistent with such a scenario.

The Changer does not spare much thought for the accident, but drops the glass shard into the trash can before locking the door.  When he glances out into the corridor it is empty.  Stepping nude out into the hall, he closes the door firmly behind him and slips the key onto the slight shelf created by the molding around the door.  It is not the best hiding place, but it must do.  So prepared, he shifts shape into a sparrow.

There is the chance that someone will scent him, but he plans to keep upwind of anyone he is eavesdropping upon.  He flies down the hall, through the open door into the courtyard, and into the sky above.  Much precious time has been lost, but he still hopes to learn something that will lead him to his enemy.

In the angry tumult that disrupts the meeting, Louhi hurries into the kitchen and up the steps to the residential areas.  During her conversation with Lovern the night before she had ascertained which room was his.  Now, her heart pounding, her imagination fluttering with various excuses she could make to explain her presence in this area, she moves quickly, but without apparent stealth toward Lovern’s room.