Changer's Daughter (57 page)

“Shahrazad, no!”

Arthur feels like an absolute idiot, yelling at the thing in the back of the truck as if she is still a puppy chewing on his carpet, but he doesn’t have time to think of anything clever. The Changer’s daughter has thrust herself through the back window of Frank’s pickup truck and is scrabbling with long-fingered, hairy hands after something small and white that darts back and forth on the seat.

The man standing by the open driver’s side door of the truck looks dazed. Arthur has too often seen people suffering from sorcerous control to give him more than a passing glance. He barrels past the man, still shouting, the scene before him lit like a stage by the truck’s dome light.

He hears a shrill shriek as Shahrazad’s hand closes on the white mouse without undue gentleness.

“Shahrazad, no!” the King shouts again, reaching for the mouse.

The coyote head snaps at him and snarls, lips peeling back from young, white teeth, every hair on her hackles bristling out, stiff and angry.

Gods, she’s grown!
Arthur thinks inanely even as he is grasping for the wrist above the hand holding the terrified mouse.
She’s as big as a wolf now! Where the hell is my back-up?

Shahrazad growls in defiant fury, her jaws snapping just inches from the King’s face, close enough that he feels her saliva splash his skin. Lucky for him, she seems to have forgotten her free hand, for she could rake him with her claws.

“Down, Shahrazad!” he yells. “Down!”

Shahrazad doesn’t seem inclined to give way, and Arthur is resigning himself to getting bitten when several things happen almost simultaneously.

A shrill eagle’s scream cuts through the night and Shahrazad yelps in pain, dropping the mouse. At almost the same moment, a globe of pale green light encircles the mouse. Recognizing it as a warding spell, Arthur doesn’t hesitate to grab the fleeing rodent, getting a firm grip on her long, pink tail.

When he backs out of the pickup truck, the King glowers at his wizard. “What took you so long?”

Lovern, who looks distinctly the worse for wear, glowers back. “Your big backside was in my way. I had to run around the truck to take aim from the other side. I also paused long enough to convince the griffin that stopping Shahrazad was a good idea—and you could thank me for that. You almost ended up on the punishing end of the griffin’s talons, not the damn coyote!”

Arthur nods, covering his slight embarrassment by getting a better grip on the mouse. Anticipating his need, Chris Kristofer trots up, a coffee tin with holes punched in the plastic lid in his hand.

“Drop her in here, Your Majesty,” he says. “I got this ready when Frank called to tell us what we were up against. The metal should dampen her magic at least somewhat.”

The King complies. “Good show, Chris.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur notes that Bill Irish has taken custody of the dazed Wayne—and is leading him toward the hacienda. Useful men, these two humans, full of initiative.

Most of his attention, however, is on the back of the pickup truck, where Shahrazad crouches, watching them from beneath the shelter of the griffin’s arched neck.

She is much smaller than she had seemed when snapping and snarling within the confines of the truck’s cab, hardly larger than a toddling child. The yellow eyes that study him are angry, not abashed, and her hackles are still raised. Arthur looks at the hands she rests on the edge of the truck bed for a long moment before turning to Lovern.

“I guess this answers one question, at least. She
can
shift shape. How long until Frank gets here?”

“Probably not until morning,” Lovern replies. “He had to convince the werewolves it was safe for a couple of them to come down and guard the ranch.”

“Great.” Arthur shrugs and moves cautiously toward the truck. “Hi, Shahrazad. Want to come inside with us?”

She growls and snaps at him, but the griffin purls something deep in her throat. Arthur waits, fascinated, as the two creatures talk. At last, her hackles receding to just a faint accent of her ruff, Shahrazad gives a very human shrug. The transformation is so swift that Arthur almost misses it, but when she jumps from the truck, she is a coyote once more.

“There’s room for you, too,” Arthur says to the griffin. “You can either fly over the roof and into the courtyard or come in the front door.”

This time Shahrazad seems to be doing the convincing and after a few more interchanges of bark, growl, and shrill, the griffin flaps to the ground and follows their small procession into the hacienda.

Finding Shango takes over twenty-four hours, but early in the evening of the day following that on which Taiwo had made his confession, the Changer pads silently into Oya’s conference room.

Eddie notes that, despite continuing as a “white man,” the Changer looks rather good in the loose traditional robes that Oya had procured for him. He wonders if the Changer might have made some subtle adaptations to his build to accommodate the clothing. He grins at the idea. Certainly someone as ancient as the Changer is immune to such human vanity. But then is vanity merely a human trait?

Further speculation on this matter is stalled when the Changer, reaching across the table for the pitcher of heavily sugared iced tea, says economically:

“I’ve found him.”

Eddie blinks. “Shango?”

“And someone who should be Regis.”

“Where?” Eddie holds up his hand. “No, wait. Let me call the others. There’s no need for you to report twice.”

The Changer nods, settles down at one end of the table, and methodically begins consuming slices of baked yam. That’s the only indication Eddie gets of how hard and how long the Changer had been searching.

Recalling the others takes several hours since the Changer isn’t the only one who has been out collecting data, but arrangements had been made for them to check in at various points. Aduke’s nieces and nephews are all too happy to earn a
naira
for running errands.

“Didn’t you ever consider,” Eddie teases Oya when she returns, “that taking out the phones would inconvenience us as well as Shango?”

She smiles back at him. “I had no control over what happened to the telephones. The wind has her own ideas.”

The Changer, who has said nothing since his brief report to Eddie, nods. “Naturals do have wills of their own, a thing too many forget.”

Eddie looks at the other, expecting to see one of his faint grins, but the Changer looks serious. He is remembering how very old the Changer is when the ancient continues, speaking to Oya:

“Have you considered that the wind may not wish to release the city? You have given her recognition that has not been hers since men stopped worshiping the elements.”

Oya seems calm, but Eddie, who has known her in many lives, notices that she is gently scraping the edge of the table with one fingernail and realizes that she is anxious.

“I summoned the wind,” Oya answers the Changer, “and I expect my power should be enough to disperse it.”

“That may be too much to expect,” is all he replies.

By common consent, the subject is dropped when Aduke arrives, followed thereafter by Anson, Dakar, and Katsuhiro. The latter two take seats at opposite ends of the table. Dakar is arrogantly smug, Katsuhiro aggravated. He hasn’t much liked the fact that his appearance keeps him from doing any scouting, but has steadily refused allow himself to be disguised as anything but Japanese.

“The Changer,” Eddie says, calling the meeting to order with nothing more than a glance, “has located Shango. Changer?”

“I would have found him more quickly,” the Changer says apologetically, “if I had realized sooner that he had reverted to ‘type.”

The athanor knows that the Changer means “to archetype,” but Aduke looks vaguely confused.

“When that thought occurred to me,” the Changer continues, “I started checking power plants. I found him at a secondary electricity-generating facility on the edge of town. A man who matches the description of Regis is with him. Moreover, the facility is heavily guarded.”

Dakar nods, his voice a deep rumble. “Scuttlebutt among the militia and police is that the mayor expects an internal coup. Therefore, all the sensitive points within the city are being guarded.”

“A good excuse,” Anson says, appreciative of cleverness even from an opponent, “since we know from Taiwo that there
is
a coup planned, only the mayor is one of those planning the coup and that it is to be against the central government, not within Monamona.”

“Plans can change,” Dakar says, “and I do not think that Shango ever meant the mayor to last long as president of Nigeria. The troops are quite captivated by him. I have heard his salute
Kabiesi!
on their lips. Rumors circulate freely that he is indeed Shango reborn, not merely the minister of electricity.”

Dakar seems torn between disgust and admiration at this last, and no wonder. Like Shango, he had once been hailed as a god by these people, but unlike Shango, he had not attempted to regain his deific stature once European influence made it dangerous to retain.

Again Eddie reflects on the strange psychology of the athanor, so many of whom crave both power and privacy. Arthur has managed both by setting himself up as king of the athanor, but there can only be one such king. He doubts that Shango will be the last to interpret the Accord’s more permissive view on interacting with humanity as an invitation to set up as gods.

“Many guards?” Katsuhiro asks.

“At least forty,” the Changer says. “As I scouted, I wondered at the number of troops I saw.”

Dakar rumbles, “Many are ‘reserve,’ not regulars. That’s why I had no trouble inserting myself into conversations. The regular Monamona police force is about what you would expect in a city of this size. The reserves, though.... By my estimate, they are at least triple the size of the police force and among them is where I found the greatest concentration of those who wear Shango’s badge.”

“Shango’s,” Eddie says, checking to make certain he understands. “Not Minister Omomomo’s?”

“That’s right,” Dakar agrees. “I had not thought clearly about it before...”

“You wouldn’t,” Katsuhiro mutters, but he does softly enough that Dakar can choose to ignore it. To Eddie’s pleasant surprise Dakar does, continuing as if there had been no interruption.

“It confirms Taiwo’s story that a coup had been being planned before Oya raised the wind. The wind has just moved up the timetable.”

Oya looks relieved until the Changer adds:

“The wind may have done more than move up the timetable. I circled the city before I entered, and there is quite a force out there. Among the encampments, I saw a heavily guarded sector. No one guards against a bird, so I flew in and took a closer look. There are several national ministers present—and the president himself. If Shango is not stopped and his forces dispersed before the wind falls, then a coup attempt is inevitable.”

Anson shakes his head in mock dismay. “And you didn’t think to mention who waits outside for us?”

“Until now,” the Changer replies levelly, “it didn’t seem important.” Then he grins.

Eddie shakes his head and refocuses the meeting. “Now that we know where Shango is we can plan how to go after him.”

“
Him
,” Anson stresses softly. “I have no desire to kill men whose only crime is that they defend someone they believe is at least a great leader, if not a great god.”

Nods around the table answer this. Eddie notices that Aduke has full control of herself now, amazing in a woman who has suffered so many shocks so close together. Oya has chosen well.

“Our choices then,” he continues, “are sending in an assassin or luring Shango out. Let me add,” he says, raising his hand for silence, “that the Accord’s policy against assassination has not changed.”

He stares hard at Anson and the Changer as he says this, but the first merely gives him an innocent smile and the second his usual unreadable calm.

“So we don’t send in an assassin,” Katsuhiro prompts. “Then we need to get him out and, presumably, subdue him sufficiently that he can be assessed before the Accord.”

Eddie nods. “That would be ideal.”

Aduke raises her hand. “Eddie, should I be present for this? I am not unaware of the glances people have been giving me. If I am restraining your ability to speak plainly, then I should leave.”

Oya frowns, but before she can speak Eddie says, “Aduke, someone providing a little restraint is not a bad idea, believe me. The question is, do you want to hear things that you must realize by now will need to be kept secret?”

Aduke looks so serious that his heart aches for her. She is little more than a child herself, just a college girl, really, who has been forced to confront death, betrayal, and political intrigue within the span of a few weeks. Why should she choose to face more? Her answer surprises him, for he had expected her to gracefully retreat.

“I have helped raise Oya’s wind,” she says proudly. “I have heard the names of old gods used in familiar speech. My place is with you people, if you will have me.”

Eddie looks around the table. “Any objections?”