Changer (Athanor) (46 page)

“Yeah!”  Tommy’s shoulders straighten.  He strikes a vibrant chord on the guitar in his lap.  “My people.  A song to strengthen the self between the times when we’re all drawn together.  Sven, that’s beautiful!”

Sven smiles shyly.  “The Harmony Dance has always had a deep effect on me.”  (That’s why he avoids it as often as possible).  “Even when I’m far away I feel its pull.”  (Even when dead drunk or stoned or in bed with a dozen women or serenaded by the screams of a tortured prisoner—he’s tried all the ways he can to break that damned Dance’s pull).

“I’ll do it, Sven,” Tommy promises, his fingers already drumming on his leg.  “Can I get Lil to help?  She’s got magic that I don’t.”

Sven considers, decides that Lilith’s predatory nature might well provide the final ingredients needed for the mix.

“If you must,” he says, as if reluctantly.  “She is a powerful woman, but she is not always gentle with those weaker than herself.”

“Yeah.”  Tommy lifts off the guitar strap and picks up a syrinx.  Holding it beneath his sensual lips he blows a few notes.  “Still, if I need advice, she’s close by.”

“I trust your judgment, my friend,” Sven says.  He glances at the clock.  “Can I borrow your phone?  I need to call to confirm a dinner date.”

“Sure,” Tommy says.

Sven can tell that Tommy has already half forgotten him under the pull of his new composition.  He walks into the kitchen and dials the
Prima!
gallery.  If he’s at all lucky, it’ll be a hot time on the old town tonight.  If not, well, condoms are cheap.

17 

Dulce bellum inexpertis.
(War is sweet to those who have not experienced it.)

—Erasmus

S
hahrazad crouches low in the shelter of a long-needled ponderosa pine, her gaze fixed on a ground squirrel chewing on the end of a peeled twig.  Something in her remembers lessons about stalking, patience, staying upwind of prey.  Despite those memories, she grows impatient and springs forward.

The ground squirrel doesn’t even need to drop its twig in order to retreat into its nearby burrow.  Shahrazad digs after it, but the little rodent is safe.

Disappointed, her paws still sore from following her father long miles the day before, she trots over to where the Changer dozes beneath a scrub oak.  He smells tantalizingly of mice and rabbit.  When she nudges under his jaw in an appeal for him to regurgitate a share for her, he growls.

An aching shoulder where he had struck her and thrown her to the ground the day before reminds her that she must not defy him.  Unhappily, she tries a few berries from a nearby juniper, but, although they are sweet in a resinous fashion, they do not satisfy her hunger.

Somewhere, she knows, there is a place with plenty of food.  Even the puppy chow she had disdained in favor of ham or bread or scraps stolen from the trash would be welcome now.  Mournfully, she whines, wishing that wild things were not so unwilling to let her eat them.

The Changer rises and shakes himself.  He is not indifferent to his daughter’s plight.  Indeed, at three months she is young to be expected to feed herself without his help.  Still, hunger will add immediacy to her lessons.

After Arthur had dropped them by the roadside, the Changer had led Shahrazad deeper into the woods.  The rise of a few thousand feet in altitude had not troubled either of them greatly, but he did not care to add to Shahrazad’s troubles by taking her to the crest.  Instead, he had kept them within about seven thousand feet, good hunting grounds this time of year when the lower lands are feeling the summer’s heat and dryness.

However, the pup has forgotten more than he realized of her early lessons.  The month spent living easy at Pendragon Estates had whetted her talent for scrounging rather than hunting.  Therefore, he takes her away from the roads, hiking trails, and ski areas, away from anywhere she might be tempted to supplement her poor hunting skills with carrion and trash.

Sadly, although carrion is a coyote’s due, even as it is a raven’s, he does not wish her to depend on it.  Ranchers often poison any carcass they come across, preferring to risk the spread of disease by its slow rotting than to tolerate that any coyote might live.  Roadkill does not carry the same penalty, but he does not wish Shahrazad to acquire the habit of relying on carrion.  She may not always live on Forest Service land.

As he sees his duty, he must teach her two lessons.  One, to hunt and forage, the other to beware of humans.  Both of these have been greatly undermined by the kindness of Arthur’s household.  Somehow, he must tap the fear she had felt after her mother and siblings were killed.

Shahrazad watches the Changer with hope.  Now that he is on his feet, perhaps he will take her to where food can be had.  Vaguely she remembers a field’s edge where mice were easily taken.  Wagging her brush and dragging her belly to the ground, she comes close enough to nudge him.

This time he doesn’t growl, but nudges her in return.  Dawn is coming, the moon setting.  Unlike many predators, coyotes are not nocturnal.  Favoring neither night nor day, they can hunt whenever is most favorable.  Since the pup is hungry, he will give her a lesson now.

The day before, after they had arrived in this area, he had briefly shapeshifted into a raven in order to scout.  He had marked a dense thicket of brush as offering good hunting.

Leading Shahrazad into the thicket, he tells her to wait at the edge.  Already she has learned to stay without protest.  Swiftly, he finds mice.  Positioning Shahrazad by a den with hot scent, he begins to flush prey.  This time she waits until a mouse runs toward her and snaps when it comes into range.

She is surprised to find the warm body squirming in her jaws, but not surprised enough to let it go.  A crunch and a swallow and it is gone.

The mice become wary quickly, but not before Shahrazad has caught another.  As the sun warms the mountain slopes, the Changer takes her to a small meadow where grasshoppers are beginning to appear.  Later in the summer they will be plentiful enough to provide a substantial portion of her diet, so he teaches her to hunt them now.

By midday, even her growing belly is full.  They shelter in a manzanita copse and curl close together, each watching where the other cannot, each with an alert nose to the wind.

The telephone rings.  Arthur reaches for it with trepidation.  Were it not business hours a few days after the Lustrum Review, he would let the answering machine take it.  As he had feared, a cackling laugh assails him even before he can politely say, “Pendragon Productions.”

“Arthur King!  Arthur King!  Oh, he’s the Thing, that Arthur King.”

“Who is this?” he asks sternly.  Efforts to trace the calls have been useless.

“A friend.  Your Jiminy Cricket.  Voice of your conscience.  You pompous ass, you!”

More laughter.  Then several voices begin in chorus:  “Arthur King, Arthur King!  He’s the Thing, that Arthur King!  He doesn’t use his ding-a-ling, but bears a scepter and a ring.  He’s the king of everything.  That’s his Thing, that Arthur King.”

Arthur slams down the receiver, ignores when it rings again.

“Damn!”  

He storms from his office into Eddie’s, not bothering to knock.  Eddie looks up from his computer terminal.

“Arthur?”

“I’m not answering my phone anymore.”

“More of those calls?”

“Yes.”

“Still no source?”

“None.”

“Did you call the cellular carrier?”

“Yes.  They wouldn’t tell me much.  The account was taken out just a few days ago by a business called Tabula Rasa.”

“Did the owner give a name?”

Arthur bares his teeth.  “Nemo Nada.”

“No-one Nothing, owner of Blank Slate.”  Eddie shakes his head.  “Didn’t the phone company think that at all strange?”

“I didn’t even ask.  This is New Mexico, Land of Enchantment and People with Weird Names.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m going to set my answering machine to take all calls, but I’m afraid that my prankish friends will just fill the memory with their prating.”

“Are they getting any better?”

“No.  Now they’ve come up with a nonsense rhyme.”

“Did you write it down?”

“No.”

“Pity.  We might be able to analyze it and make some educated guesses as to who is making the calls.”

“Someone who can make rhymes with ‘king’ and possesses a juvenile sense of humor.”

“Still, we might be able to deduce whether it is one of ours or merely a human who has gotten hold of your name and number.”

“True,” Arthur agrees reluctantly.  “Well, I still won’t answer it.”

Anson knocks and, at their joint invitation, comes in.

“You know, I’ve been helping Eddie with his work, Arthur, looking over the mail from the Review, taking over some of Vera’s jobs since she’s out on vacation.”

“Thank you.”  Reluctantly, Arthur is coming to appreciate that the Spider has more to offer than a sense of mischief.

“I don’t think you’ll like what I just downloaded.”

He sets a printout on the desk where they can both read it: “Arthur King, oh, Arthur King!  He’s the Thing, that Arthur King.  He doesn’t use his ding-a-ling, but rules by scepter and signet ring.  His chamber pot is first-class Ming.  He’s our main man, that Arthur King.  Sing it now!  Let’s all sing the hymn to glorify Arthur King.  Ring the bells.  Let the song take wing.  Let everyone praise Arthur King.”

Arthur swallows and speaks in a voice that is preternaturally calm: “Goodness, they’ve expanded what I heard on the phone.  How creative of them.”

“Not much to indicate who wrote it,” Eddie admits.  “Anson, was this sent just to Arthur or mailed out in general?”

“I checked my e-mail and it isn’t there—not yet at least.”

Eddie checks his account.  “Nothing here.  We’d need to do a wider sample, but maybe, just maybe, they are limiting themselves to taunting Arthur.”

“I never thought that would be a relief,” Arthur admits, “but it is.  Can we find out if anyone else has received it?”

“Not without telling them what to look for,” Eddie says, “and I don’t think you want that.”

“No!”

“Use my computer to check your private account,” Eddie suggests.  “See if they have that address, too…”

Arthur does so, scanning the messages with trepidation.  “Nothing here.  Yet.”

“Then it may be someone who has learned of Pendragon Productions.”  Eddie frowns.  “That doesn’t narrow the field.”

“True.”

“I don’t suppose you would talk with them?”

“I’ve tried.  All they do is make rude statements.”

“Then maybe staying off your phone
is
the best course.  They may get bored.”

“That’s what I’ll do.  I hope I won’t miss any important business.”

“What is there that can’t wait?” Eddie says, “for a few days?  If nothing else, athanor possess time and to spare.”

“True,” Arthur says, “and if you and Anson would continue to review the e-mail and tell me what I must deal with, we will rob these pranksters of their pleasure.”