Michael pursed his lips, thinking rapidly. “Where is Biri? The other assistants?”
“I saw Biri inspecting the walls around the field,” Nikolai said. Michael probed for him, found him and sent a dubious Nikolai to bring him into the center of the group, near second base.
“Nobody should leave the stadium until I’ve learned what conditions are like outside. I think”—he knew, actually, but the feeling was unfamiliar—“that Biri will cooperate with us. Together, we can keep order—where is the Ban?” He could feel her presence but could not pinpoint her location.
“She has chosen to spread herself among her children,” Ulath said.
“What does that mean?”
“She is diffuse now. She will attend to us all and to the Sidhe of Earth.”
“How do we communicate with her?”
“I speak to her,” Ulath said.
“Yes, but why did she do this now, when we need her?”
“Because Tarax is here. He has brought the Realm to its end and now begins his rule on Earth. She protects us best by spreading herself.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly to feel for her. What has happened to you now? Are you dead?
“The Ban is not dead.”
“I still have a lot to learn about the Sidhe,” he said.
“Perhaps about the Ban only,” Ulath suggested, smiling.
Nikolai and Biri approached, Biri trailing the Russian by several steps. “This is a foul place,” Biri said. “It is dirty and painful.”
“There’s no place like home.” Michael told him they would need a perimeter of protection to prevent people from entering the stadium and to discourage the captives from leaving.
“That is simple enough,” Biri said.
“Ulath will help you.”
“I can do that alone.”
“Fine. I have to leave to make arrangements outside. Is everybody here except the Ban?”
“The Ban is here,” Ulath reiterated.
“Yes. Well?”
“I think so,” Nikolai said.
“Where are Mozart and Mahler?”
“I will find them,” Nikolai said, running off between the crowds of people.
They’re still remarkably well-behaved, Michael thought. No clamoring, no confused milling about. And it’s not because they’re dazed, either. Perhaps there would be fewer problems than he had imagined, at least among the five thousand inside the stadium.
Savarin approached Michael alone. His robes were stained green with grass and smudged with dirt. “This is truly Earth?” he asked.
“Yes,” Michael said. “You aren’t by any chance a speaker or knotmaker, are you?”
“Henrik is a knotmaker,” Ulath said.
Savarin grinned sheepishly. “I am always the organizer,” he said.
“Good. Then you’ll help us—” He spotted Nikolai returning with Mahler and Mozart. “Excuse me.”
Michael hugged Mozart firmly and shook Mahler’s hand. “You’ve done it,” he said to them.
“Wolferl played magnificently,” Mahler said.
“Yes, well, such an audience, nein?”
“Would both of you be up to accompanying me?” Michael asked. “I’ll need help outside. Nikolai, you too...”
“Gladly,” Nikolai said.
Mahler inhaled deeply and shook his head. “The air smells bad.”
“There’s lots to get used to. But there are people—friends of mine—who would very much like to meet you. I have to make some phone calls—talk to them.” If phones are still working.
“I will go,” Mozart said. “This is exciting, really.” He sounded more willing than he looked. Mahler rubbed his hand back across his high forehead and gray hair.
“Ja,” he said. “But be careful with us. We are not young men, you know.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mozart said.
In a group, they made their way off the field and down a ramp. Michael searched for a pay phone, though he didn’t have any money in his ragged clothes.
“There is a frightened man ahead,” Shiafa said as they passed the door of a locker room. Michael had felt him also—and he was armed.
“A security guard, probably,” Michael said. “Best to be open.” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey! We need help.”
A portly, middle-aged man in a gray uniform came out of the shadows with his gun drawn. “Who in the hell are you?”
“We need help,” Michael said, holding his hands in the clear and nodding for the others to follow suit. “I need to make a call. There’re a lot of people on the field—“
“I saw them. They’re like those freaks coming out of everywhere.”
“No, no they aren’t,” Michael reassured him. “They’re people, most of them, and so am I. But they need help. We have to call the police, the city. They’re going to need shelter, food, clothing.”
“What in hell is this?” the guard asked, clearly out of his depth. He was close enough now that Michael could see his sweating face and the wicked gleam on the black barrel of his service revolver.
“I need to get to a phone,” Michael said.
“The phones aren’t working. I mean, they’re only working some of the time. Who are you?”
Michael approached the guard slowly, hands extended, and gave him his name and street address. The guard finally acquiesced and took them to a pay phone near the end of the corridor. He did not put away his gun, however, and he stood well back from them.
Michael smiled his thanks and dialed for the operator. He got a beeping noise and then a recording: “All phone connections are for emergency use only. An operator will be on the line soon. If this is not an emergency, please hang up. Penalties may be levied for abuse of emergency services.”
Half a minute passed, then a weary male voice answered. “Emergency service only. May I help you?”
“Yes. I need to reach the office of the Mayor.”
“You’re whistling in the wind, buddy,” the operator said. “You’re on a pay phone. Unless you need the police or are reporting an accident with injuries, we don’t service pay phones.”
“Fine,” Michael said patiently. “Connect me with LAPD Central.”
“It’s your head.”
Several minutes passed before he was able to get a line through, and then an even more weary female voice answered.
“I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Harvey in homicide,” Michael said.
“Lieutenant Harvey is no longer on homicide. He’s on Invasion Task Force.”
“Wherever he is, I need to talk to him.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Yes,” Michael said. He glanced at the guard. “I’m talking to the police now,” he said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Invasion Task Force, Sergeant Dinato.”
“My name is Michael Perrin.”
There was a sharp intake of breath and then a quick, stuttered, “Hold on. I’m transferring you to Lieutenant Harvey’s office now.”
“Thank you,” Michael said. He banked his hyloka carefully, realizing how tired he was. The guard held his ground, but he had lowered his pistol a few inches and was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. He inspected them closely, eyes darting from Mozart’s blue silk jacket and white breeches and hose to Mahler’s dark robe and Shiafa’s ragged pants and loose blouse. “Where all did you come from, anyway?” he asked nervously.
“From Dreamland,” Mozart said. “We’ve just awakened.”
“You’re all German?”
“I’m Russian,” Nikolai said.
“All of you?”
Michael recognized Lieutenant Harvey s resonant voice immediately. “Where the hell have you been?” Harvey asked. The lieutenant sounded exhausted.
“Not far. I’m calling from Dodger Stadium. I have something of an emergency here.”
“Oh?” Harvey asked cautiously.
“I’ll need food, supplies and shelter for about five thousand peopl
e. Human beings. There are a few Sidhe here, as well.”
Harvey’s silence was prolonged. “That will stretch us a bit,” he said. “Dodger Stadium. Where?”
“On the field.”
“I mean, where did they come from?”
“The Realm,” Michael said.
“All at once?”
“All at once.”
There was a sharp edge to Harvey’s laughter. “You know,” he said, “I’m almost used to this crap now. I guess I owe you. Are these people dangerous?”
“No,” Michael said. “Mostly, they’re frightened. Some have been away for a long time.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Are you going to stay there?”
“I don’t think so,” Michael said, thinking rapidly. “I have a lot of other work to catch up on. We’ll have a committee here to meet your people and work with them.”
“I’ll put together a team now. I feel silly asking you this, but when will I hear from you again?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said. There was simply no way of telling how much time his next few challenges would take. “Can you get me an open phone line? I need to call my parents.”
“Sure,” Harvey said. “Hold on for a sec.”
“Thanks,” Michael said.
Chapter Thirty
The taxi driver—a portly Lebanese with a well-trimmed mustache and curious, darting eyes—took Michael, Shiafa, Mahler and Mozart from the stadium parking lot to the Waltiri house in record time. The streets were almost deserted. “I’m the only one out this time of day. Everybody else, they stay home,” he said. “I’m not afraid of these spooks. It’s fear hurts people.” He glanced nervously in his mirror at Shiafa. “Don’t you think that’s what hurts people?”
Nobody answered. Mahler and Mozart seemed lost in shock. The modern buildings and sprawled clutter of Los Angeles were completely contrary to their experience. “Ugly,” Mahler said under his breath again and again, but he did not turn away. Mozart, sitting between Shiafa and Mahler in the back seat, was frozen, his hands folded and clamped between his knees, only his eyes moving away from the cab’s center line.
Michael was too tired to do more than broadcast a light circle of awareness tuned to Tarax or Clarkham. His more experienced eye—helped by the driver’s occasional observations—was already picking out the city’s new incongruities.
The late morning sky over the city was cut through with wildly tangled clouds on several levels. Michael had never seen their like before. The air smelled electric, and his palms tingled constantly, telling him that the song of Earth had been disturbed by the Realm’s death. Some of the Realm’s qualities had been passed on to the Earth, perhaps by Tarax’s design. Michael wearily realized that magic would not be so difficult on Earth now.
“No people at all up and down Wilshire. On a Wednesday!” the taxi driver said, waving his free hand out the window. “You’re my first fare today. God knows why I work, but I got no wife, no kids, this cab’s my life.”
“We appreciate your working,” Michael said.
“Take my advice. You all look very tired. You belong to some rock band, some group? I notice your dress. That’s a fine wig. You look all rumpled, like you’ve been playing a concert all night...” He shook his head.
“We’re musicians,” Michael said. He found his head nodding as if to some inner beat and had to stop it with an effort of will. “Hard couple of days.”
Mozart laughed abruptly and without explanation, then grabbed the front seat and leaned forward. “Is it all this bad?” he asked plaintively. “Is there no place the eye can rest?”
“Sorry,” Michael said. “We’ll be home soon.” He glanced at Mahler. “Arno Waltiri’s house.”
Mahler’s eyelids assumed that languid expression Michael had seen before. “Waltiri. Brilliant youth. He must be very old by now.”
“He’s dead,” Michael said. Time enough to explain the details later.
John and Ruth were sitting on the front steps of the Waltiri house as the cab drove up and deposited the four of them on the sidewalk. John paid the fare, and Ruth hugged Michael as the others stood on the concrete and grass, squinting and blinking in the bright sun.
“Everyone has their own tiny estate here,” Mozart said, gazing at the neighborhood.
Michael and John embraced peremptorily. “Welcome back,” John said. “You’ve been gone during the worst of it. Ruth and I thought you’d choose this morning to come back. It just...seemed appropriate.”
“After the earthquake,” Ruth said. “After the false dawn.”
Michael introduced them as they walked to the house. He reached into his pocket and produced the key, still there after all he had been through, and opened the door.
A warm wind blew out of the house, redolent with jasmine, honeysuckle and tea roses. The interior of Waltiri’s house was overgrown with flowering plants and vines. They ascended the walls to the ceiling, forming an arch, and covered all the furniture, leaving only the floor and a narrow passageway clear. On every branch and twig, peering from every tiny hollow, birds blinked at him through the foliage. Pigeons and sparrows rustled and milled on the floor as the door opened wider; others regarded the intruders with sleepy black eyes, unperturbed.
“All right,” Michael said slowly, stopping in the hallway and spreading his hands.
“I feel a power,” Shiafa said. Ruth regarded her with frank worry, obviously thinking of the Hill wife her great-grandfather had taken.
Mozart sat on the front step and leaned his head on one hand, staring at the street, too jaded by marvels to care much about a house full of forest and birds. “Where do we sleep? In there?” he asked, poking his thumb behind him.
Michael, Shiafa and Mahler walked down the flowered passage until they came to the stairway. The birds calmly made way for them. “Surely this is magic,” Mahler commented. “All these birds, yet the place is so clean.”
“Do you feel anything?” Michael asked Shiafa.
“It feels powerful. Someone important is here.”
A large black crow with red breast-feathers and white-rimmed eyes hopped down the stairs, intent on its descent until it reached the bottom. Then it turned its attention to Michael, beak open and thin black tongue protruding, angling its head this way and that.
“Arno?” Michael inquired softly.
The crow lifted its head. “Arno is dead,” it squawked. “Now is the time of marvels. Boy become man. Death of worlds. Gods die too.”
Michael kneeled to be closer to the bird’s level. “Were you Arno?”
“Helped be him. Arno was man. Gone where dead men go.”
“Are you...?”
“Am feathered mage,” the crow said, strutting. It spread its wings, revealing iridescent black plumage and, under both wings, the lettering of its bondage.
Mahler shrank back. A sparrow landed on his shoulder and chirruped, the first actual bird noise they had heard since entering. Mahler did not attempt to brush it off, but he was clearly enchanted and unhappy at once. “What does this mean?” he asked.
“It means we’ll be sleeping at my parents’ house,” Michael said. “Doesn’t it?” he asked the crow.
“Come back. Time to confer. The bonds soon will break. We choose you. Come back.”
“All right,” Michael said, standing. “I’ll be back.”
Outside, as they walked the few blocks to his parents’ house, John asked, “Pardon the cliché, Michael, but what does it all mean?”
“There’s magic on Earth again, and the Sidhe are no longer its only masters,” he said.
“That sounds suitably portentous, son,” John commented dryly. “Bring it down to my level.”
“I think I understand,” Ruth said. “Fairyland is dead. We have to live with each other.”
“We will share the rent,” Mozart said muzzily. “Do we have to walk much farther?”
They did not.
Chapter Thirty-One
John seemed daz
ed. He followed Mozart, Mahler and his son up the stairs to the second floor. Mozart peered into the bathroom while Michael pulled towels from the linen closet.
“There’s plenty of room,” John said. Mahler squared his slumped shoulders and yawned. John suddenly seemed to focus on the two men, and his eyes grew wider as he stared at them. Michael walked past him with the towels. “They can stay in the guest room; there are two beds in there,” John suggested.
“One can stay in my room,” Michael said. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping.”
“Right. Michael’s room.”
Mozart inquired where that was, and John opened the door for him.
“Good. Crowded and busy. I’ll stay here.” He thanked John and shut the door behind him. John stood in the hallway, hands in pockets, blinking owlishly.
“We are very appreciative of your hospitality,” Mahler said. “I do not know why your son brought us here.”
“I don’t either,” John said. “But we’re glad... to have you.”
Michael emerged from the bathroom. “There. All set. Do you sleep?” he asked Mahler.
“I haven’t slept in many years, but today...yes. I’ll sleep.” He entered the guest bedroom and swung the door shut, smiling at John briefly through the crack before the latch clicked.
Michael put his arm around his father’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to upset everything on such short notice.”
“Don’t mind me,” John said. “I just can’t accept what’s happening. Those two—they’re really Mahler, Gustav Mahler, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?”
“They are,” Michael said.
“They were held by the Sidhe...for all this time?”
“However long it was for them,” Michael said. He paused at the head of the stairs. Ruth was in the living room, busily making up the couch, apparently intending it as a bed for Shiafa, who stood near the front door watching her. “I don’t think Shiafa sleeps, either,” Michael said.
“Who is she?” John asked softly.
“Where are you from?” Ruth asked her in a high-pitched, nervous voice clearly audible on the stairs.