"Professor?" asked a Saambolin girl in the front row. "May I ask you a question now? Actually, a bunch of us were discussing this before class began. We're all dying to know, see?"
Rowenaster smiled, regarding the girl steadily over the top of his silver bifocals. The professor was still a hand-some man, his hair gray, his skin dark brown, his posture absolutely perfect. His beard was neat, as were his finger-nails. Like most Saambolin, Rowenaster was a fastidious dresser. He crossed his arms over his chest, stroking his beard with his right hand.
"Ask," he said.
"What is it like living at the Kaleidicopia? I mean, what's it like living with all the landdraws of Mnemlith at once?"
Rowenaster looked at the ceiling for a few moments. The girl would have to ask a question like this with Gadorian sitting in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, the professor saw Gadorian sit forward in his chair to listen to his reply. Rowen pursed his lips. He would have to be very careful how he answered the girl. There were Jinnjirri present and Gadorian's draw antipathy toward the Jinn was well documented. Rowen smiled and said,
"It's emotional, surprising—always interesting. Educational."
The Saambolin girl nodded. "Must be fun."
"It often is," agreed the professor, trying to forget the row he had witnessed between Janusin and Po this morning over Po's dirty laundry, which was presently escaping the confines of Po's room on the first floor and spreading into the front hallway.
"Okay," said Gadorian pleasantly. "My turn."
Professor Rowenaster braced himself internally. He knew Gadorian was looking harder than ever for the means to shut down the Kaleidicopia. And why not? Cobeth—one of Saambolin's most notorious Jinnjirri actors, religious fanat-ics, and drug addicts—had overdosed at the Kaleidicopia last fall. Gadorian represented the conservative constituency of Speakinghast.
He disliked anything and anyone who introduced disorder into his tidy municipality. Out of deference to his friend Rowenaster, Gadorian had tolerated the presence of the Kaleidicopia in the Jinnjirri Quarter of the city just barely. For years, the guildmaster had been trying to convince Rowen to move into a more respectable section of town. The professor had always steadfastly refused to entertain the notion of leaving the Kaleidicopia Boarding House. Although Rowenaster had explained his reasons for wishing to stay right where he was on countless occasions, the guildmaster never seemed to accept those reasons—much less understand them. Now that the Kaleidicopia had been linked to Cobeth's name, Rowen was certain it was a matter of time before the guildmaster discovered that Cobeth had actually been a five-year resident of the "K." When that tidbit got out, the
"K" would close for sure. In the guildmaster's mind, Cobeth represented everything Gadorian was trying to eradicate from Speakinghast. If for one moment Gadorian thought that the residents of the Kaleidicopia had supported or even engaged in Cobeth's decadence—well, best not to think about it, Rowenaster told himself. Smiling pleasantly at the guildmaster, Professor Rowenaster said, "Ask away, Gad. We've no secrets here in this classroom."
Gadorian leaned back in his chair, his expression self-satisfied. Pointing to the Jinnjirri in Rowen's classroom, Gadorian asked, "How can a nice, tenured professor like yourself live with shifts?"
There was dead silence.
The Jinnjirri present had been sitting with their hair exposed—"unhatted" as it was called in Mnemlith. Now every Jinnjirri head in the room turned an outraged red. Out of respect to Rowenaster, not to Gadorian, who outranked the professor by a great deal, the Jinn in Rowen's class had remained seated when Gadorian entered the room. Now they got to their feet. Giving Rowen furious scowls, the Jinnjirri students walked out, their hair fluctuating scarlet and black. Rowenaster watched them go, his expression stunned. He whirled on the guildmaster.
"How could you do that, Gad? This is my classroom. This is a safe place for them to come. I don't allow that kind of bigotry here. Damn you!" he added, his eyes blazing with indignation.
"I think the question was quite fair," said Gadorian. The guildmaster paused, listening to the city bells as they tolled the noon hour. Class was over. "You interested in lunch?" he asked as the remaining students filed out quickly, all of them thankful to be escaping the bad feeling in Rowen's classroom.
Rowenaster glared at Gadorian. "You interested in the Jinnjirri?"
Gadorian chuckled. "Only in election years."
"Then I'm not interested in lunch. Furthermore, we've been through this over and over. Now, get this once and for all: I like living at the Kaleidicopia!"
Gadorian raised an eyebrow. He got to his feet slowly. "Look, Rowen—it was an honest question. To a chauvin-istic Saam like me, the way you live looks pretty strange. And anyway, you don't need shifts in your class. What good is a classical education going to do any of them? They'll just waste the space. Better the seat should be taken by someone with a future."
"The Greatkin Survey course is for everyone," said Rowenaster icily. "The Greatkin created all the draws, including the Jinnjirri."
Gadorian snorted, his expression amused. "Surely you don't believe that.
Not really."
Rowenaster refused to comment. Without a word, he turned away from Guildmaster Gadorian. Rowen walked up the stairs leading out of the lecture hall and slammed the door behind him.
Gadorian shook his head. "Shit if he isn't starting to act like a shift. Passion for passion's sake." He grunted. "Well, I hate surprises. Especially among my own draw."
While Rowenaster walked angrily toward the Jinnjirri Quarter of Speakinghast, intent upon grabbing a quick bite of lunch at home, tricksterish trouble was afoot at the "K." The Kaleidicopia Boarding House, or the "K" as it was affectionately called by the nine people who lived there, was an almost legal establishment located deep in the bohemian, renegade section of the city: the Jinnjirri Quarter. As Guildmaster Gadorian had just pointed out, living in such a place was an odd choice for a tenured, fastidious, Saambolin professor of independent means. Usually students populated this low-rent, flamboyant district—the majority of them Jinnjirri.
Like the rest of his housemates, Rowenaster resided at the "K" for reasons that few in Speakinghast would understand. Rowenaster was one of a select circle of nine Contraries, one of Greatkin Rimble's Own. This did not mean that he was biologically related to Trickster, only that he had proved to have a "certain capacity." Rowen was not exactly sure just what this
"certain capacity" was. He suspected it might have to do with a kind of flexibility of mind and contrariness of spirit.
For some reason both of these qualities had endeared him to Greatkin Rimble—so said Kelandris.
"Whatever that means," muttered the professor under his breath as he walked up the stairs leading to the fuchsia-colored front door to the Kaleidicopia Boarding House. It was a loud shade of pink, one well suited to the Jinnjirri neighborhood in which the house was located; keeping up with the neighbors was a creative, demanding task in this quarter of town.
Rowenaster opened the front door and walked in.
The sound of bedlam met his ears.
Rowenaster sighed, looking toward the large spiral staircase that led to the upper two floors of the house. Bedlam was a normal occurrence at the
"K." Even so, thought the professor, someone screaming in terror on the second floor was a little out of the ordinary. He decided to investigate.
Apparently three other members of the Kaleidicopia decided to do the same thing. Zendrak, dressed in green as usual, tore up the stairs.
Podiddley, an Asilliwir pickpocket, and Kelandris, dressed in yellow, followed Zendrak swiftly. Rowenaster took the stairs at a slower pace.
When the elderly man reached the second floor, he heard frantic crying coming out of Yafatah's room. Yafatah was black-haired like all of her draw and possessed a compelling voice that was both husky and pure. At the moment, however, her voice was cracking with fear and whimpers.
Frowning, Rowenaster entered he
r room. He was met with the unexpected sight of Zendrak pulling stinging wasps out of Yafatah's long dark hair.
It seemed that the sixteen-year-old had been washing the outside windowpanes of her second-storey bedroom when she accidentally jostled a nest of yellow jackets under the eave of the house. Yafatah had nearly fallen off the roof when the wasps swarmed her. She had stumbled back through the open, circular window of her room and shut it as best she could, crushing a few of the marauding insects on the windowsill as she did so. Now she struggled against
Zendrak's patient ministrations. Catching sight of several wasps lighting on Zendrak's shoulder, Yafatah cried, "Zendrak—watch out! You'll get stung, too!"
The man in green chuckled. "One of Rimble's best known names is Old Yellow Jacket. I am his son. These angry little beasties won't harm me. At least, they better not," he added, picking a wasp up by the waist and eyeing it carefully. The worker-wasp buzzed at him. Zendrak made an answering reply, his eyes amused.
Podiddley craned his neck forward. "What did the wasp say?"
Zendrak smiled. "Seems she dislikes getting caught in Yafatah's hair as much as Yafatah dislikes being stung."
Yafatah swore. "It doon't be fair! I must have thirty stings. And I didna' do anything to them beasties."
Zendrak opened the window and let the captive wasps fly free. The rest of the swarm who still remained outside the house did not enter Yafatah's yellow bedroom. Rowenaster thought this was odd.
"Why aren't they coming in?" he asked.
"Because he told them not to," said Kelandris in a monotone. Nearly equal in height to her brother, Zendrak, Kelandris cut a formidable figure at six-feet-four. Born in the land of Tammirring, she usually wore a veil to hide her face and feelings. Inside the Kaleidicopia, however, she tended to leave the veil in her bedroom on the third floor.
Rowenaster sighed. Day after day at the university, he tried to teach people the names of the Greatkin, a process that most students vigorously resisted. To the modern mind, the Greatkin were the personages of myth and were therefore unimportant. To Rowenaster, who happened to live with Greatkin, they were a bold, disconcerting reality. The professor had long ago concluded that what scholars wrote in the history books and thought about the Greatkin was mostly romantic doggerel. Pulp at worst and speculation at best. Clearly, the academics had never had firsthand experience with a Greatkin. Scholars thought the Greatkin were gentle beings of endless compassion. Rowenaster shook his head. On more than one occasion, he had seen Zendrak box both of Po's ears. And Kelandris?
Well, she was mostly like ice.
As if to prove Rowen's point, Kelandris continued speaking to Yafatah, her voice without inflection, her green eyes distant. "In Suxonli they say wasps are the messengers of Rimble." She chuckled derisively. "His holy messengers. If they sting you, we say you've been kissed by the Power of the Fertile Dark. You'll never be the same afterward, of course."
"Thanks!" snapped Yafatah, who was beginning to feel ill with the poison of her many stings. "You do be real comforting there, Kel. Just a joy to be around. Why doon't you take your sarcasm and bad times to your room, huh? I doon't remember inviting you in."
"Suit yourself," said Kelandris stiffly, and left.
Zendrak inclined his head toward Yafatah. "I think you hurt her feelings."
"Impossible," retorted the young girl sullenly. "That bitch hasna' got any.
And doon't you lecture me on my mouth."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Ya," said Zendrak mildly.
Rowenaster interrupted at this point. "Well, I think you should show a little respect there, Yafatah. After all, Kelandris is a Greatkin."
Yafatah pulled away from Zendrak's hands, her face slightly puffy, her expression furious. "Yeah? Then why doesna' she act like one?"
Zendrak pulled Yafatah's head toward him again. "And how should a Greatkin act?" he asked.
"Like this," she replied. "Like what you're doing. You know, helpful."
Podiddley burst into peals of laughter.
Po, who was a street-wise criminal by profession, was also a Mayanabi Nomad. For the past twelve years he had been a member of this heretical spiritual order, and for the same period of time, Zendrak had been his spiritual guide. In addition to being Trickster's son, Zendrak was also the ranking Mayanabi in all Mnemlith. This was understand-able. Zendrak was over five hundred years old. Five centuries was ample time to perfect one's spirit. The combination of Zendrak's Tricksterish blood and his long years of training as a Mayanabi master made him a tough, inventive teacher. It also made him unorthodox. Podiddley was laughing now because he thought Zendrak was rarely helpful in the usual sense of the word. Everyone in the room, including Zendrak, knew Po's feelings on the subject.
Zendrak glanced at Po. "Go fetch some stingtrap from Barlimo's herb pantry. Mix it into a paste with boiling water and bring it to me. Quickly."
Po, who was feeling lazy, began to argue. "Just do it." Po scowled.
Rowenaster smiled, impressed. Zendrak could turn anything into a teaching situation, he thought with admiration. Rowen watched Po stride out of the room angrily. Now Yafatah spoke. "Did you say stingtrap?" she asked Zendrak.
"I did."
Yafatah groaned. "That'll turn my scalp green. I doon't want my scalp to turn green."
"Do you want to survive all these stings? Or would you prefer to die tonight?" he asked amiably.
Yafatah stared at the Greatkin. "Die?"
Zendrak nodded. "Thirty stings of this particular wasp can kill. It's a southern variety. Just arrived." He winked. "Rimble-Rimble."
"Just arrived?" asked Rowenaster, feeling puzzled.
"Yes," said Zendrak, his black eyes suddenly reflective like mirrors. "These are the heralds of the Jinnaeon. They are the new breed. Trickster calls them univer'silsila. According to dear old Dad, there's something special about these wasps—that we get to discover, of course."
"Of course," said Yafatah without enthusiasm.
"You want life too easy, Ya. You want all the answers immediately. You want adults to behave predictably. And Greatkin to be perfect."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Before Zendrak could answer, Po returned with the steaming stingtrap.
Yafatah grimaced at the smell and sight of the foul herb. She shut her eyes, clearly feeling unwell. When she opened them again, Zendrak asked,
"Trust me?"
"Sometimes."
"So trust me now, and I'll make you all better," said Trickster's son.
Yafatah regarded him warily. "Yeah, Rimble-Rimble. Trusting you could make me an idiot in three counties."
"Maybe," replied Zendrak, dipping his hands into the paste, his dark eyes amused. "You seem to forget one thing."
"What's that?"
"Rimble's my father, yes. But Themyth's my mother. And she's the Patron of Civilization. This means that I can be constructive. As you say—helpful on occasion."
Rowenaster thought this was funny and began to laugh. He subsided when Zendrak glared at him.
Yafatah eyed the green mess in Zendrak's hands. "I hope this is one of those occasions," she grumbled.
Rowenaster braced himself for the yells he knew were coming. Stingtrap was a powerful antiseptic as well as a tried-and-true remedy for wasp venom. Rowen's mother had dressed a cut with it once when he was a small child; all Rowen could remember of the episode was that the stingtrap hurt worse than the cut. He winced. Such were the ways of some types of healing.
6
Fasilla reached the Saambolin town of Window by dusk. She and her roan mare passed through the Jinnjirri landdraw border without mishap, receiving little more than a feeling of slight disorientation. Window was aptly named, thought Fasilla, reining her mare to a walk as she approached the town limits. Window was just that—a Saambolin trading city that looked out across rolling, verdant Jinnjirri. Asilliwir caravans made regular stops in Window, landdraws from every country in Mnemlith enjoying the laxness of the border
rules thanks to the nearby Jinn influence. Border towns in Mnemlith were often like this. Where two or more draws met, customs and strict identities blurred. Anything could happen in a border town, and often did. Still, the prevailing draw of the land directly under the town would hold the strongest influence. Window rested on glacial territory, the oldness of the earth informing its people with a sense of history and pride in tradition.
Therefore, it was not surprising to Fasilla that the keepers of spiritual tradition in Mnemlith, the Order of the Mayanabi Nomads, frequented Window.
Fasilla eyed the Saambolin inn straight ahead of her with distaste. Aunt said the place was a notorious meeting place for Mayanabi. In earlier, less tolerant days, this particular inn had protected the Mayanabi, too. Fasilla dismounted from her roan. Hobbling the mare, she turned toward the Inn of the Guest. In Mayanabi theology, the Presence was often referred to as the Guest. Fasilla hesitated, her stomach turning in fear. Fasilla didn't fear the Mayanabi as much as she feared the fact that the order was an ancient, secret society. Although she had never met a Mayanabi she hadn't eventually liked—with the two single exceptions of Podiddley and a pied-eyed crone named Old Jamilla—Fasilla wished to keep her affairs in the daylight. Dealings with people who met in underground rooms and behind closed doors could only end badly, she thought. If she had been a praying sort of person, Fasilla would have chosen one of the denizens of Eranossa as her patron Greatkin. The Mayanabi had too much of Neath about them to make Fasilla feel safe. Fasilla walked to the front door of the Inn of the Guest and knocked tentatively.
When no one answered, Fasilla felt a mixture of relief and irritation. If the message from Aunt had been about anything other than Fasilla's beloved child, the Asilliwir herbalist would have left Window without a further attempt to make her presence known. Biting her lower lip, Fasilla knocked a second time. Still no one answered.
Trickster's Touch Page 5
