A Host of Furious Fancies Read online

  The elevator creaked to a halt on the top floor, jarring him out of his reverie, and Eric opened the safety gate and the door. His apartment was a corner apartment, which had been another selling point. Its location meant that there would be less noise from fellow tenants, and no noise from the elevator itself, as well as a cooling cross-breeze on most days. He still wasn’t used to how noisy this city was—even in the middle of Central Park you could hear the sirens and the traffic noises.

  New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town. The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down. And the city never sleeps.

  Like the lobby, the hallway decor had somehow survived being “modernized”; it was original, and for a wonder, no one had ripped off the vintage paté verine1 light-fixtures. Then again, maybe that was why the owners had put in the security system in the first place. Architecture thieves were only one of the problems of life in the Big City.

  The only concession to the modern world was in the carpet running the length of the hall; it was standard grey-beige industrial stuff, but it didn’t clash with the Art Nouveau wallpaper and frosted-glass fixtures, not all of which were lights. There were cameras in some of those wall fixtures, and smoke and heat detectors too, and sprinklers in the ceiling—everything the heart could desire from a safety and security standpoint. Another selling point, not that a fully trained Bard had much to fear from human thugs. Magical attacks were another matter, but frankly, Eric wasn’t expecting many of those.

  At the end of the hall was his door. No hollow-core flimsy barricade or scary metal portal this, but a solid slab of oakwood, polished deep brown with the passing of years, with brass lockplates and doorknob that gleamed brightly against the old wood. Here was the building’s second concession to the modern age—there were two key-operated deadbolts plus the door key, and a final key pad on which once more to enter his ten-digit code. If he didn’t enter it, or keyed it wrong and didn’t correct himself when it beeped at him, the system would alert Ms. Hernandez—she’d check the cameras and maybe call the cops.

  I wonder why this place has got so much security? Or maybe this is normal for New York? After all, I have been away for a while. . . .

  Like about 20—no, closer to 30—years. Though he’d spent a lot of that time Underhill, where time flowed more slowly than it did in the World Above. That was one of the reasons he’d been willing to risk coming back so openly. Anybody who was still looking after this long would be looking for a guy in his forties—not a sassy young dude still in his twenties.

  He negotiated the three key-locks—here was a moment of fumbling with the ring of unfamiliar keys (Eric hadn’t carried keys in years, and had kept losing them for the first few weeks)—punched in his code, and watched while the light went from red to green. Then he was inside and locking the door of his new home behind him. Beth’s friends said it would soon become second nature, but for now it was an effort to remember the actions involved.

  At last he turned away from the door and looked around with a sudden feeling of hesitancy. Even with as much work as Beth and Kory had already done while he’d been getting squared away with Juilliard, there was a lot still to unpack and arrange, and most of it was brand-new untouched-by-human-hands stuff. This was the first time in his life he’d had this many things.

  Immediately before him was the living room, a huge space (so Bonnie had said) by New York standards. A new leather couch and matching recliner in the sort of oxblood brown that reminded him of Old English clubs sat cozily in front of the fireplace—this place was retro enough to have fireplaces, (with terrific white-marble mantels, though he didn’t think the fireplace still worked). To the right of the sofa and behind it were the tall sash windows, and if he looked up, Eric could just see the back of the gargoyle on the corner of the roof. Against the blank wall was his new rack system and a television and laser-disk player. In the corner farthest from the windows was his desk—light cherry, from Levinger’s—which mostly held a brand-new computer with a music keyboard and speakers as well as the usual techie stuff.

  Sheepskins covered the worn wooden parquet floor, and the glazed-chintz curtains in an archival William Morris pattern—mostly deep greens, with a hint of orange—that Beth had picked out were pulled open to display the view. There were flowers in a blue glass vase on the mantlepiece—moonlilies, so that was Kory’s touch; they didn’t grow anywhere but Underhill, and a daily little touch of magic would keep them alive forever. The heat made the apartment seem stuffy, and Eric moved around opening windows. Though there was a six week wait for delivery of an air conditioner, he’d been able to pick up a couple of wall fans. He lifted them into the kitchen and bedroom windows now and switched them on. A cooling breeze began to waft through the apartment, and Eric sighed with relief. He could manage to be pretty comfortable, so long as he didn’t get into any heavy lifting.

  Eric still had a faint feeling of trespassing when he moved around the place. It looked like an apartment belonging to a moderately (okay, let’s admit it: more than moderately) prosperous classical flautist—at least, until you got to the CD collection, which was currently still in boxes waiting to be unpacked. He’d had one heck of a time putting that together, and the look on the clerk’s face at Plastic Meltdown over in the East Village when he kept coming up to the counter with another stack of disks had been worth every penny. Thanks to a little help, both magical and non, Eric Banyon had an A-1 credit rating and an AmEx Platinum card to prove it. Thanks to the Krugerrands in his safe deposit box, he even had a way to pay the humongous bill that was going to arrive!

  Beside the empty bookshelves—more light cherry from Levinger’s—were boxes of books, also waiting to be shelved. He’d had almost as much fun in the Strand as he had in the record store. More, in a way, because he kept straying over to the children’s sections, picking up volumes he’d read as a kid and wanted to get reacquainted with. This place was as unlike his L.A. apartment as possible—and just as unlike the house he’d shared with Beth and Kory in San Francisco. That had been due to calculated effort on all their parts. He was starting over, in a sense, and he should start fresh.

  Beth had stocked the kitchen, so he wasn’t going to starve, and she hadn’t loaded it down with equipment he didn’t know how to use and food he didn’t know how to cook. Mostly microwave stuff, he suspected, to go with the mother-of-all-microwaves sitting in silent splendor on the white-marble kitchen counter.

  It was too quiet, suddenly, and he walked over to the rack and turned on WQXR, the local classical station. Stravinsky’s Pulcinella Suite filled the room; not his first choice, but not bad, and more to the point, not reeking of Omens and Portents. He’d had about enough of those for a while.

  He took his bags into the bedroom and once again was confronted by newness. The bedroom was small, only 14x14, with just enough room for a double bed with a bookcase headboard. The bed, covered with a thick, red, silk-covered goosedown comforter—another of Kory’s touches, Eric suspected, because elves liked color and weren’t shy about using it—was a classier version of one of those adjustable beds you saw on late-night TV commercials. He hadn’t wanted a waterbed; that would have come with too many memories of Beth and Kory attached. The headboard had built-in lamps and his new alarm clock (retro-Deco to match the building) nestled cozily in a nook that would be difficult to reach if he wasn’t awake. On top of the matching bureau was a smaller television, and one of those nifty-keen Bose Wave radio/CD players. The curtains were the same glowing red silk as the comforter. There was another sheepskin rug—dark brown this time—on the floor in front of the bed; it reminded Eric slightly of a large flat dog.

  He carried his bags over to the walk-in closet and opened it. It was the old-fashioned kind with drawers in the back and several tiers of shelves reaching all the way up to the ceiling, and it was full of bags of brand new clothing that he hadn’t yet opened. Eric slowly unpacked his bags and hung the only things he owned that had any wear on them on polished cedar hangers at the ba
ck. The clothing was nothing if not flamboyant; Faire garb, all of it, and all of it made by magic. That was Kory’s forté: he could produce clothing at the drop of a pointed ear. It wasn’t likely that Eric would need any of this at any time soon, but he wanted to have it around. A link to his past—to the Faires and Underhill—to the only part of his life that Eric thought of as real.

  Everything else in the apartment had come by way of the efforts of Eric’s mentor, who was as skillful at producing gold as Kory was at producing clothing—and as Beth was at knowing where to shop. Thanks to Master Mage Dharinel’s work, Eric was not going to have to worry about where his money was coming from for a very long time, if ever. The rest of his tenure at Juilliard was already paid for in advance. His rent was paid up for the next year in advance. Utilities, phone, cable, ditto—all handled out of an escrow account administered by a “friend of the family” down in Wall Street somewhere, just so Eric wouldn’t have to worry about them. And in addition to everything else, Eric had a bank account again, besides that excellent credit rating and the emergency stash of Krugerrands.

  As for the inevitable IRS agents (if nothing worse)—well, he’d found a way to handle them. They’d stopped in DC before coming up here; Eric had set up shop outside the agency, put out his hat, and played his flute until he found one agent that was susceptible. A little Bardic magic, a sob story about being out of work in Mexico for the last couple of years, a tale of winning an unspecified lottery outside the States, and an expressed eagerness to pay his rightful share of taxes (and a check for the amount the nice agent deemed appropriate), and his record with the IRS was as clean and shiny as Lady Day. He could use his own social security number without being afraid it would red-flag every Federal computer from here to Ultima Thule . . . in fact, his entire record was so clean and shiny that anyone checking on him might suspect he was in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Eric’s name, his real name, was on the mailbox, the apartment lease, the utilities, in the phone book, and on the driver’s license and bank and credit cards in his wallet. He wasn’t hiding, he wasn’t Underhill, and he didn’t have to start thinking of ways to escape whenever he saw a cop or someone in a too-perfect suit. I’m a person again, he thought with wonder. I’m real. Whatever I do will go with me; I can’t shed my past like a snake with an old skin.

  He went back into the living room and sat in his new chair, the glossy leather chilly through the back of his damp shirt. He listened to the Moonlight Sonata wafting in courtesy of the radio station. It all felt—odd. Very odd. Not luxurious, no—strangely enough, although this was luxury by all common standards, it did not match the level of sumptuousness Underhill, or even the standards of comfort Kory had established in their old San Francisco townhouse. But it was all Eric’s, chosen to please only his taste and no one else’s, and it was real and solid, not something conjured up out of energy and thin air like goods of elvish making.

  It might have felt restrictive after the bootless freedom of the past few years, but somehow it didn’t. It felt solid and comfortable and good. And when the Krugerrands ran out, and the account that covered his rent and utilities expired, he’d have to have a job to pay for all of this.

  Not that he had any doubt that he’d be able to do that when the time came. He was probably one of the few people, if not the only person, who ever quit Juilliard and then returned to finish what he’d started.

  Returned to finish . . . that had been a recurring theme lately. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind over time—but the first time, it hadn’t been his thought at all.

  “You have unfinished business.”

  When he closed his eyes he could hear that stern voice saying those words even over the strains of Beethoven in the here-and-now. He didn’t have to think about it; the scene played out behind his eyes without effort, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

  Underhill. He’d been Underhill, at Elfhame Misthold, and he hadn’t known what day, week, or even month it was. Time moved strangely Underhill; light came and went, but there was no telling if it was the end of a day or if the Queen of the Hill had decided she was tired of light and wanted some darkness for a change. Beth—Beth needed not to be Above, in the mortal world, where there were law-enforcement people who thought she was responsible for some very unfortunate occurrences. And she was—but not in the way that they thought.

  Besides, as the elves with the ability to See into the future had said at the time, at some point Real Soon Bethie was going to show up preggers, even more reason not to go back into the World Above. So he and Kory were living Underhill with her, and in that strange timeless land Eric had thrown himself into his music—which meant his magic—fully and completely for the first time in his life.

  After the Loma Prieta almost-disaster, the Nightflyers, and the absolute proof to everybody involved of the madness of allowing a half-trained Bard to run around leaking magic and going off unexpectedly, he’d had little choice. It hadn’t been ambition that had driven him, it had been desperation. Beth was slipping away from him more every day, and he knew it. Things were changing in his life, even in the timeless world of Underhill, and he didn’t like it. Maybe he’d thought that being a real Bard, one with full control of his powers like the old Druidic Bards,—Merlin, Taliesen, Gwion—would lure Beth back and put him on an even footing with Korendil, Elven Knight of Elfhame Sun-Descending. Heck, Kory didn’t have all that much magic by elven standards, surely Eric could catch up!

  But before long, the music and magic stopped being a crutch, or a means to an end, and became the end itself.

  One day—a day much like any other, here—he had finished playing and put his flute down, waiting for Dharinel to give him the usual critique. Dharinel was a Magus Major and one of the most powerful of Elven Bards in any Elfhame, anywhere, and there was always a critique. Either Eric’s control over the magic energy was not firm enough, or it was too grasping, and he didn’t let it flow. He went too slowly, or too fast. There was always something wrong, and Dharinel was always correct when he pointed those things out.

  It had all felt right when he played, completely and utterly right, but it had felt right in the past, too. But this time when he stopped, Dharinel said nothing for a very long time. The perfumed mists of Underhill drifted past them both, and the birds that had stilled out of politeness while Eric played resumed their song. There was no sunshine, of course: there was no sun Underhill, only a perpetual twilight, except when the Prince or the Queen deemed it appropriate to deepen the twilight to something like true night, so that the fireflies, Fae Lights, and Faerie Illuminations could enliven the darkness. Eric held his breath and wondered what he had done wrong this time. Was it that horrible?

  Finally Dharinel had let out his breath and opened his jewel-toned eyes. “I have nothing more to teach you,” he said in his controlled, utterly perfect voice.

  Eric had shaken his head. “What?” he blurted. “Was I that bad?”

  “You were that good,” Dharinel corrected. “I have nothing more to teach you. The rest will come with maturity and practice, and it is a pity that you are not of the Blood, for you would be a force to reckon with in a hundred years or so.” He had actually smiled then; a thin smile, but the expression so seldom crossed Dharinel’s sardonic lips that Eric had nearly fallen off his bench. “As it is, in a mere handful of mortal years, you will be a force to reckon with in the mortal world. And that is where you must go now. You have unfinished business there.”

  The moment Dharinel said those words, all of the vague discontent that had been in Eric’s heart attained an object. Once music had become his All again, he had been able to come to terms with the fact that Beth and Kory were an Item and he had been slowly eased out of that side of their relationship. They would always be friends, the three of them, but—Kory and Beth were a pair, and he wasn’t part of that structure anymore. He’d allowed it to happen without trying to fight. And once those last pieces of the puzzle had fallen in
to place, like the tumblers in a lock, he’d known what he should do.

  Besides, Beth had a lot of Things she needed to deal with. She and Kory wanted kids, and while Eric liked kids in the abstract, he wasn’t ready to play daddy right now, even though he’d fathered the child she was carrying. It had seemed like a good solution at the time—call it a kind of parting gift. Kory and his cousins were very pleased with the idea of raising a baby-Bard from scratch in Underhill where she could be properly taught. Though Eric knew that Beth wanted more children—and with Kory—an elf couldn’t father a child on a mortal woman without a lot of high-powered—and very dangerous—magical intervention. Halfling births could be arranged in a number of ways, but most of them involved stealing life-energy from another source to allow the woman to conceive—and that meant wholesale slaughter of the innocents who donated that energy. There were rumors that there were gentler ways, but no one in Misthold was really certain what was involved, actually, though Kory had the elven librarians searching the most ancient records and sending to the other hames for hints of the ancient Seleighe quickening magics.

  But unlike Eric, Beth really didn’t have much choice about staying in Underhill. Those very unpleasant people from the “alphabet agencies” were still looking for Beth. This was bad. It meant that Beth Kentraine could never live in the real world again, unless she concocted a whole new identity or moved to another country where no one would ask her about her past. She could visit—with care and constant vigilance—but she couldn’t live in the States anymore. And babies and the Faire circuit didn’t coexist well, at the best of times. . . .

  And if the two of them didn’t have enough problems, there’s the fact that if Beth spends long enough in Underhill, she CAN’T come out, ever. She’ll die. And before that happens, even if she does find some way to live Outside, she gets older. And Kory . . . doesn’t. Or not fast enough, anyway. He’s young by Sidhe standards. He has centuries ahead of him. Bethie has less than a century. There are spells that can slow her aging, but they’d tie her and Kory together for the rest of their lives—and shorten his. And even if she were willing to take that kind of responsibility, she won’t even let Dharinel try anything like that while she feels responsible for me!