A Host of Furious Fancies Page 7

  “I will, if you won’t mind,” Eric replied fervidly. “What I know about computers would fit in a greeting card.”

  Paul laughed. “Now I make the last introduction—this is José Ramirez, who leads a triple life to my double one. He’s the super—which is less work than you’d think, since the House’s systems tend to cooperate rather than break down at the drop of a power surge—he’s our fourth Guardian, and when he’s not fixing faucets, he’s raising African Grey parrots who are probably more intelligent than most of our tenants.” There was general laughter at the last remark, which had the flavor of a family joke.

  “Pleased to meet you, Eric.” Like the others, José had a firm, warm handshake. His bronze skin and strong square features made him attractive—if not as model-handsome as Paul—and he reminded Eric slightly of a darker Charles Bronson. “If you are ever considering a parrot as a companion, please let me know. I can help you decide whether or not you will have the time, and if so, which breed would suit you best.” He grinned. “I’m afraid, like most bird people, my conversation tends to begin and end with my little ones.”

  “So?” Toni put in, gesturing with a piece of sushi. “That’s not much different from any other person with an all-consuming avocation. Or a parent, for that matter, but I promise I’ll leave Raoul and Paquito out of the conversation tonight. José is night-shift supervisor for any extraordinary problems here at the House; I’m day-shift. We cover for each other if a problem takes one of us outside.”

  All of them found places in the living room; Eric took the kitchen chair, Toni and José shared the sofa, Paul got the chair and Jimmie stood leaning against the wall where she could watch all of them. As usual, Greystone sat on the floor, since his wings tended to get in the way of using furniture.

  Eric had a million questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t get a chance to, for Jimmie, who’d gone and gotten her own plate of food, got her question to him in first.

  “So, Banyon—just where did you learn your stuff?” she asked, direct and to the point. “And how come your clothes have magic all over them?”

  He’d intended to tell them anything they wanted to know, but he hadn’t planned on telling them about Kory and Company quite yet; he’d hoped to warm up to the subject.

  “Ah—” he hesitated, then tried to look apologetic. “I’m not sure just how much you people are going to believe.”

  Granted, Greystone already knew about Underhill, but from his conversations with the gargoyle, Eric had been led to believe that these people had yet to encounter anything like the Sidhe. He’d gotten the impression that their problems had all dealt with the consequences of powerful, untrained amateurs dabbling in magic, or powerful, trained magicians doing very nasty things.

  “Hey, they believe in living gargoyles,” Greystone said (now around a mouthful of bagel). “How much harder to believe in can your pointy-eared friends be?”

  “Pointy-eared friends?” Paul raised both eyebrows. “Somehow I don’t think Greystone’s referring to Vulcans.”

  “He’s not,” Eric said faintly, then gave up and blurted it all out. “Elves. Seleighe Sidhe. The Fair Folk. I learned my magic from them.”

  At first, the four Guardians looked at him as if they thought he was joking. Then they looked at each other, questioningly. Finally, they looked at Greystone, who nodded emphatically.

  “Cross my heart, folks,” the gargoyle said, making the appropriate motion. “He’s not putting you on. I’d never seen a Sidhe before his buddy Korendil showed up to help move him in, but I’d heard about them. No kidding; under the glamourie that made him look human, there wasn’t a doubt. I knew what Korendil was the first moment I saw him.”

  So much for disguises, Eric thought. He’d have to remember to mention to Kory that his Seeming spell wasn’t as seamless as it might be.

  “Elves.” Jimmie pondered that for a moment. “Well, that’s not the sort of thing you expect to hear about in the Big Apple, and I’ve never met anyone before who could say he’d seen elves, but—well, we’ve seen weirder things than elves, I guess. So, okay. Elves.” She sounded as if she were pronouncing a judicial verdict. Luckily, it seemed to be in Eric’s favor.

  “My impression is that there’s too much Cold Iron around this town for elves to be anything but uncomfortable here,” Eric put in, hesitantly. At least, without a Nexus closer than the one at Elfhame Everforest. “Kory can stand it only because he wore silk from neck to toes while he was here with me, and because he’s been conditioning himself to handle it. I’ve heard that Sidhe can manage to build up a resistance to what they call Death Metal—kind of like you or I developing a tolerance for snake venom. Most of them, though—at best, they’d be uncomfortable all the time, and at worst, in terrible pain, depending on how sensitive to Cold Iron they were, and how much experience they’d had being around it.”

  There were more questions about Eric’s friends, as his four guests batted the idea around until they got comfortable with it. He was rather surprised that it took them as little time as it did, but then, they were trained professionals.

  “If elves taught you magic and took you Underhill, how did you get away from them?” Paul asked pointedly. “All the legends I’ve heard indicate they tend to grab musicians and keep them prisoner for extended periods of time. Thomas the Rhymer, Tam Lin, Taliesen—” He shrugged, breaking off what promised to be a lengthy catalogue of examples.

  “It’s a long story,” Eric admitted. “Basically, you can’t believe everything you read. I wasn’t their prisoner. I was an honored guest. And—well, the whole story involves elves in Los Angeles, and elves in San Francisco, some of them Seleighe and some of them Unseleighe, and—it’s a long story.”

  “We have food, drink, and it’s Saturday night,” José said, settling down on the couch as if he was prepared to stay for as long as it took. “So, stranger among us—tell us the story. As you are a Bard, it should at least be entertaining.”

  Since Eric couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t tell these people the truth, he did, starting all the way back at the Grove of Elfhame Sun-Descending at the L.A. Fairesite.

  “Once upon a time—a very long time ago (more or less)—there was this traveling musician named Eric Banyon. . . .” he began.

  And the story did take a very long time to tell, but not as long as he had thought it would, since other than the Sidhe themselves and the existence of Underhill, the four Guardians were quite familiar with magic, nodes, Groves, and other arcanities, including power-mad Black Magicians. And while they were hardly a group of conspiracy nuts, they were also more than familiar with some of the military, governmental and quasi-governmental projects involving psychics that were floating around the espionage underworld—including many that were supposed to be secret.

  To Eric’s surprise, they even knew about Nightflyers, those terrifying, life-devouring creatures from the Chaos Lands Underhill, and were about as fond of them as Eric was.

  “Not my chosen dancing partners,” Jimmie said with a shudder. “Not that you really get a choice once they show up. Well, Eric, you just verified your story for us. We knew something about the business in San Francisco—not everything, of course, but nothing you told us conflicts with what we already knew, and most of it dovetails very nicely. You couldn’t have done that if you’d been making it all up.”

  Eric felt himself relax inside. Jimmie Youngblood seemed to be the one in charge of vetting newcomers for the group, and even on such short acquaintance, Eric found himself valuing her good opinion.

  “That thing with Project Cassandra’s something I don’t ever want to have to go through again,” Eric told them soberly. He thought of Warden Blair, the madman responsible for hurting Bethie and hundreds of others so horribly. “It would have been so easy for everything to go terribly wrong—as it was, well, people got hurt, and people got killed, and I can’t help thinking it was my fault that they did. If I’d realized what was happening sooner—if I’d f
igured out a better way to handle the situation—”

  Jimmie patted his hand and the others murmured sympathetically, but none of them said the kinds of things others had said—about how it wasn’t his fault, and that he’d done the best he could. He was grateful for that. Platitudes didn’t help, not when he remembered how many people had been hurt or even killed.

  “Every time you have a situation, you always think it could have gone better,” Jimmie sighed. “And you know what? It probably could have. My partner always says you can only try to keep it from eating at you so bad that you can’t learn from it. He might even be right.” She grinned faintly.

  “So, what about this guy that taught you about being a True Bard?” Paul said, quickly changing the subject to something less painful. “How’d that happen? I thought you said that most of the older elves didn’t much like humans.”

  Explaining Dharinel—which meant trying to explain a little about Underhill—was harder than explaining the last several years of his life, and by the time they were done with their questions, Eric felt like a wrung-out—but content—dishrag. It was nearly four in the morning, all the food was gone, and most of the drink, but he didn’t have that dissatisfied feeling that usually came when he’d been raked over the coals. It felt more as if these were four people who really wanted to be friends, but needed to find out everything they could about him and didn’t have a lot of time to do so.

  That impression was reinforced when Toni called a halt to the “party.”

  “That’s enough. You’re tired, we’re tired, and we all know for certain that you’re all right. Next time, I promise it will be your turn, Eric,” she said, for they had all quickly gone to a first-name basis, even Jimmie. “None of us will ask any questions, and you can put us through the wringer.”

  “I’ll help,” Greystone offered, grinning wickedly, and Jimmie groaned. “Oh, no. Not the Jell-O shooters story! If you turn it into another ‘Truth or Dare’ game, I swear I’ll wring your neck,” she threatened.

  “Who? Me?” Greystone spread his wings and managed to look as innocent as it was possible for a gargoyle to look—which wasn’t very.

  “Meanwhile, we all need sleep—well, except José,” Toni continued, ignoring both of them, and setting a good example by getting out of her seat. “Thank you, Eric; we know what we needed to know. You’ve got a lot of power, but you’re also responsible and mature. We don’t have to worry about you getting all of us into trouble by doing something stupid, and we don’t have to worry about you messing up something we have going by blundering into it. I think you’re going to be a welcome addition to the House.”

  “Absolutely,” Paul seconded, as they all got up, stretched, and took their leave. It was all accomplished smoothly and efficiently; so much so that they were out the door almost before Eric was ready to say good night.

  He shut the door behind them and turned to face the suddenly empty apartment. Well, almost empty.

  “You made a good impression, kiddo, like I said you would,” Greystone told him. “And they’re a tough house to play for, y’know what I mean?”

  “They aren’t planning on recruiting me, are they?” Eric asked, a little anxiously. “I mean, all that about being a welcome addition to the House—I’m not up to taking on other people’s problems, you know. I have my hands full with my own!” He knew it sounded a little selfish, but it was the plain truth. He hadn’t done so well on his last outing as a would-be Worldsaver that he wanted to repeat the experience.

  “Naw. If you were going to be a Guardian . . . believe me, you’d’a known a long time ago, laddybuck. Or your elf buddies would’ve, and pointed you our way a lot sooner. No, they folks’re just glad you’re smart enough not to attract trouble, and skilled enough to duck anything that comes here. Wish I could say the same about some people that’ve moved in. I could tell you stories. . . . And—I will, but not tonight. Get some shut-eye, kid,” Greystone said severely. “You’re about to go up with the blinds.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I will.” Eric felt exhaustion drop over his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak, and stumbled into the bedroom, barely noticing that Greystone was courteously picking up the party detritus. He managed to get undressed and make it as far as his bed, and all he remembered of the rest of the night was a deep and dreamless sleep.

  2Law Enforcement Officers

  THREE:

  ON THE SEACOAST

  OF BOHEMIA

  I can do this. The woman walking down the expensively-carpeted hallway that led from the express elevator to the penthouse boardroom gave no hint that there was anything amiss. From her Manolo Blahnik pumps to her fashionably disheveled ash-blond hair, Ria Llewellyn looked as if she belonged here.

  Once she had. The world of mega-corporate high finance had been her element, and she had moved through it as naturally as a shark moved through water. Until the Accident.

  Oh, Christ, Ria. Tell the truth, if only to yourself. Before Beth Kentraine hit you over the head with a Fender guitar and the backlash from your loving father’s magic scrubbed your brain like a copper pot.

  Almost against her will, she remembered. It all began with the Nexus, the rent in the fabric of Reality that let the power from the World Beyond seep over into this one, to be tapped by the Sidhe and others with similar magics. Only a human Bard could create a Nexus, for Creative Magic was the human power. Elves could imitate, copy, refine on the original. But they could not create something as unique, as powerful as a Nexus.

  Since before she was born, Perenor had plotted to steal the Nexus of Elfhame Sun-Descending near Los Angeles and bring it under his direct control. He’d created LlewellCo to do that. He’d created Ria to run it, to deal with the daily grind that elves had so little taste for. And after years of plotting, he’d managed to buy the Fairegrove where the Nexus was—in order to destroy it, bulldoze the great trees that anchored the Nexus in the World. The warriors and mages of the Sidhe Court were powerless against him, lost ages before to Dreaming and despair. It should have been easy.

  But at the eleventh hour, the Sidhe had found an unlikely champion. A human Bard, living in ignorance of his true nature and his great power: Eric Banyon, street-busker and Rennie. Perenor had ordered Ria to destroy him, but she’d thought she’d found a better way. She’d englamoured him, taken him and hidden him away, with her.

  And it had worked, for almost long enough. But then he’d awakened to the danger—come into his birthright of power, driven by dire necessity and danger to his dearest friends. He’d awakened the High Court, stolen back the Nexus from Ria’s control to move it to Griffith Park, high above the city, a place where bulldozers and urban development could never come. To protect it and him, Eric’s ally and lover, the human Witch, Beth Kentraine, had gathered those humans together who had not quite forgotten the Old Knowledge, and offered battle.

  Ria remembered driving like a madwoman in her Porsche, up the twisting mountain roads that led to the park. The sun had been high—a glorious bright L.A. day, the last she was to see for quite some time. Even then she’d thought there would be some way to end the war without bloodshed. With the power of the Nexus at her command, Ria could have sent the surviving Sidhe of Elfhame Sun-Descending across the Veil, to the Faerie Lands beyond. She’d thought that Perenor had agreed to that. But conciliation had never been her father’s way. He’d intended to kill them all, in repayment for an eons-old insult.

  She remembered the hot smell of summer grass, remembered how glorious Perenor had looked in his armor the color of blued steel, remembered the music that had filled the air, the Celtic rock of Kentraine’s group Spiral Dance. Since that day she’d never been able to listen to Celtic music, though she’d once loved it. The memories were too terrifying, too painful—as if she’d been given a glimpse of Paradise, only to have it ripped away before she could reach it. Most of all, she remembered her first sight of the Court in all its glory, gathered around the musicians and the Bard on that sunny hillside. In all her
life, she’d never seen any Sidhe other than Perenor. How beautiful they had all been in their silks and armor! Something glorious, out of the oldest dream of strength and beauty there was. In that moment she had hated them, for being something she, by the curse of her half-human blood, could never be.

  But she had never meant to kill them.

  But Perenor had. By what right? they had asked him. She remembered the defiant words he had shouted in return:

  “By the right of the strong over the weak, Eldenor. Of the master over the slave—the right of one who was unjustly banished, cast from his place among you, and has dreamed of the moment when all of you shall lie lifeless in pools of your own blood—”

  In that moment, a moment far too late, she had truly understood her father for what he was—a monster, without love or charity, compassion or honor. He had reached out to her, stripping away all her carefully constructed shields and defenses with no more than a thought, making her nothing more than a tool of his madness, a wellspring of Power for him to draw upon in the fight. Imprisoned by his magic, she had been forced to watch as day became night, as the sunlit hillside became a shadowy glen filled with billowing black fog, as the Seleighe Sidhe had clashed with nightmare monsters of Perenor’s summoning.

  They had died to music, to the clashing of blades and the wild howl of guitars, to the hammering of drums and of sword-blows. The black ground had gone red with blood, and the screams of the dying had melded with the frenzied song of the Bard’s flute. The day would have been lost in that moment, save that Terenil, Prince of Elfhame Sun-Descending, had shaken off his despair and challenged Perenor directly.