Free Changer (Athanor) by Jane Lindskold

efforts these past two centuries.  The most vocal have been eliminated, usually by their own actions.  Only the subtle and creative remain.”
    “There are Katsuhiro and Dakar,” Arthur reminds him.  “Neither is subtle.”
    “I think you underestimate them,” Eddie says, “but I agree that they do not have the manipulative spirit I sense.”
    “A trickster then?”
    “Perhaps.”  Eddie frowns.  “Or perhaps the Changer himself.”
    “He would not slaughter his own family!” Arthur protests.
    “Perhaps not.”
    “And he is not sophisticated enough to have gathered unlisted phone numbers and the like.”
    “How do we know?  The Changer lives much of his life outside of our supervision.  Just because he has not registered a human identity does not mean that he has not had one.”
    Arthur rubs his face with his hands.  “I suspect we should consult Lovern on this one.”
    Eddie nods.  There is something of a rivalry between Arthur’s right hand and the sorcerer, but Eddie recognizes the talent of the man once called Merlin.  
    Not wanting Eddie to become affronted, Arthur hastens to continue: “Lilith is a sorceress herself, although of a different type.  Moreover, Lovern can craft a truthstone for us to use…”
    “On the Changer?”
    “Yes, and perhaps to loan to the Changer so that he can confirm or deny Lilith’s innocence in a more objective fashion than just by interviewing her.”
    Eddie leans back into the chair’s embrace.  “That’s a good idea.  Where is the wizard now?”
    “On sabbatical in Finland,” Arthur replies promptly.
    “Contact him,” Eddie says.  “Then you can consider how best to explain to the Changer that while we aren’t calling him a liar, we aren’t exactly certain that he is telling the truth.”
    “Oh, my,” quoth Arthur.  “That should be fun.”
     

 
     
    4
     
Caras vemos, corazones no sabemos.
(Faces we see, hearts we know not.)
—Spanish proverb
     
    T he Journal isn’t paying Chris to investigate Arthur Pendragon, so he waits for his day off to meet with Bill.  A college student majoring in computer engineering, Bill Irish has frequently saved Chris hours of unproductive research through his singular talent for rapidly locating pertinent information.
    “You know,” Bill says as he comes in the front door of Chris’s house, “I thought you were touched in the head when you asked me to check out an Arthur Pendragon.”
    Despite his name, Bill Irish is anything but.  A Jamaican American, he possesses light brown skin and warm brown eyes.  His shoulder-length, curly hair is habitually drawn back into a fashionable ponytail.  At six-foot-one, he is several inches taller than Chris and lean to Chris’s solidness.
    “Come into the living room and show me what you have,” Chris invites, pouring them both glasses of cola.
    Accepting his, Bill sprawls on the sofa and unfolds a printout.  “Pendragon Productions is registered with the state as a not-for-profit corporation,” he begins.  “No employees other than the three officers are listed.”
    “Not unreasonable,” Chris says.  “They may be broke.”
    “Someone has money,” Bill contradicts.  “Motor Vehicles lists four vehicles for Pendragon Productions: two sedans, multipassenger van, and a trendy four-wheel drive.  All are recent models and none are inexpensive.  Arthur owns a large house in an expensive area.  There is no mortgage—he paid for it up front and then did extensive remodeling.  His credit record—as well as those of Zagano and Tso—is perfect.  Wherever Mr. Pendragon gets his money, he is well-off.”
    “Is that his real name?” Chris asks.
    “As far as I could tell,” Bill says.  “He’s a naturalized American citizen.  His place of birth is listed as England.”
    “Maybe that explains it.  Anything else?”
    Bill shrugs.  “Not much.  Pendragon Productions seems devoted to rather ineffectively crusading for various causes.  It