who she is, Fas, and soon, for she is Trickster's turning point. I tell you, all the dreams of all the years depend on it. This is the Jinnaeon, the prophesied white-water of time. Now we change. Or we are changed. Period. Aunt ended the story here. She stretched slowly, rubbing her eyes. She looked over at Fasilla. The Asilliwir herbalist was sitting in her chair, her knees under her chin. Her face was very, very pale. Aunt touched her friend's arm gently. Fasilla jumped, Then, seeing Aunt, she said, «Them fools in Suxonli. They didna' train the girl.» «I know.» There was a long silence. Fasilla cleared her throat. «And me Ya do be mixed up in this, yes?» «Yes.» «How?» «I'm not sure,» said Aunt reaching for the remains of her cold tea. «Doogat says she may be one of Rimble's infamous loopholes. A fail-safe fail-safe.» Fasilla nodded. She was silent for a few moments, then glancing in the direction of Yafatah's room, Fasilla said calmly, «We go today, Aunt. Soon as me horses have rested. We go east to Speakinghast. You'll come with us, of course?» «Me?» said Aunt with surprise. She started to say more but was cut short by a strange rumbling sound. Eyes widening. Aunt grabbed breakable knickknacks off the walls of her cottage, yelling at Fasilla to protect Yafatah from falling objects in the tiny bedroom. Fasilla crossed the shaking floor with difficulty, her heart in her throat. So this was a «shifttime,» she thought—the Jinnjirri equivalent to an earthquake. She ducked a shelf of books as it came crashing to the floor right in front of her. Fasilla swore, deciding she much preferred the sandstorms of her native Asilliwir than this sliding and shaking of Jinnjirri. You could see a sandstorm coming in the desert, and you could take precautions. But when the earth itself moved, where was one to go? Fasilla threw open the bedroom door. Drugged, Yafatah was still sleeping comfortably. Gathering her daughter into her arms, Fasilla started to return to the kitchen with Yafatah. As she neared the thick doorjamb of the small bedroom, Aunt cried out: «Stay exactly where you are, Fas. Doorways are good during a shift.» Aunt grinned. «Like I said, change or be changed.» A few moments later, Fasilla heard Aunt swear. She followed the Jinnjirri's irritated gaze. Fasilla's terrified, hobbled mares were making for Aunt's hollyhocks—with Burni in hot pursuit. «Welcome to shifttime,» grumbled Aunt. «Rimble-Rimble.» Fasilla met Aunt's eyes. «You'll come with us to Speakinghast? Say you will.» Glancing at the broken knickknacks on the floor, Fasilla added, «I haven't the courage to go alone. Not after this.» There was a long pause. Aunt rolled her eyes, muttering, «Well, well, Doogat. Or shall I call you Zendrak? We'll meet again. Let's hope it's under better circumstances.» Sixteen years ago, Zendrak of Soaringsea had brought Kelandris to Aunt and entrusted the healing of her savaged mind and body to this capable Jinnjirri healer. Kelandris had been a terrible patient, trying to commit suicide whenever Aunt relaxed. It had been a long ordeal. However, Aunt was a Mayanabi and Zendrak was her commanding elder, so the Jinnjirri had stuck with it. And so Kelandris had lived. Chapter Sixteen As the earthquake in the northwest border of Jinnjirri reached its height, Mab woke with a start at the Kaleidicopia. Her long years spent in the shifting landdraw of Jinnjirri had heightened her sensitivity to its earthquake activity whether she lived there or not. This was a childhood legacy that Mab wished to forget. Mab grabbed the sides of her single bed out of habit, looking fearfully around her room for evidence of fallen objects. Seeing none, the Piedmerri sank back into her pillows, her breathing ragged. «You don't live there anymore,» Mab told herself firmly. «It's over with Jinnjirri. It's over. And whatever's going on there right now—it can't touch you. You're in Saambolin.» Mab swallowed, closing her eyes thankfully. «Saambolin,» she repeated, a trace of a smile on her lips. Suddenly, a passionate argument exploded on the stair landing just outside her room. It was Timmer and Tree; Timmer sounded furious about something. Mab pulled the brown blanket on her bed over her ears. This, too, reminded her of her life, in Jinnjirri. Moody silences and tempers. Mab's fingers clenched the bed so hard that her knuckles turned white. Nothing in Mab's life had been stable. Not her family life, not her friends, and not the land. She tried to tell herself she had been stupid to move into the Kaleidicopia, but she knew better. With all her heart, Mab wished she could live in an orderly Saambolin household, but she knew from experience that it would never work. «I'm just too weird,» she whispered. «You don't grow up in a Jinn artist's colony and not come out weird.» Mab scowled. «So I end up living at this house. Because I understand it. I don't like it,» she yelled in Timmertandi's general direction, «but I do understand it!» Voices out in the hall reached a fevered crescendo. Rolling her eyes, Mab got out of bed and stumbled blearily to the door of room two. She poked her head into the second floor hall. Scowling at both Timmer and Tree, the Piedmerri asked crabbily, «Do you have to do this now? And do you have to do it right outside my room?» She peered out the windows on the second floor landing. «I bet it's not even seven bell-morn yet.» «It's not,» said an equally crabby voice. Janusin lounged next to the open door of room six, his violet nightshirt crumpled, his hair dark blue with pronounced streaks of red. He looked as if he had hardly slept at all. The sculptor yawned and added, «So what's this about? Now that you've drawn an audience.» Timmer, who was dressed smartly in pastels and soft cottons, put her hands on her hips. Her long blonde hair tumbled backward over her slender shoulders. «It's about that scum-bum Podiddley. Not only did he leave his curry dish in the sink last night—some influence that Doogat is!—Po left all the spoons of the house in his bedroom. And then he locked it! Po could be gone for weeks. There's no telling what might flourish in his pigsty.» «Great gobs of mold probably,» muttered Mab. Janusin eyed Timmer and Tree with a baleful look. «You woke me up on account of dishes? That blasted house meeting went until one bell-morn!» «Oh, Jan—who're you trying to kid?» snapped Timmer. «My room is right across the hall from yours. You bawled most of the night.» Janusin's hair shot with brilliant red. «Shit,» muttered Tree, «now we've got fireworks for sure.» Before Janusin and Timmer could make a real go of it, however, they were interrupted by a remarkably fresh looking Rowenaster. Ignoring the color of Janusin's hair, he beamed merrily at the disgruntled Kaleidicopians as he joined them from the third floor. Doffing his feathered academic hat at Timmer and Tree, the Professor asked, «What's this? An early morning second floor landing party?» Tree swore. «Somebody wipe that frigging smile off his face, will you? It's too hard to take at this hour.» Rowenaster chuckled. « 'This hour' is the one at which I normally rise, Tree. Perhaps you'd like to accompany me to the Great Library. I could introduce you to a new concept: studying.» «That's it!» snapped Tree. «I'm leaving! And Timmer, I don't care who cleans up Po's room for the house inspection. You want to make it my job—fine! Meanwhile, I'm going out for breakfast!» Tree started down the stairs then wheeled around, his eyes meeting Mab's hopefully. «Want to come, too? I'll wait.» Timmer snorted. «Smitten,» she muttered. She stormed into room three and slammed the door. Mab swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. «Uh— «Oh, forget it!» said Tree and disappeared down the stairs to the first floor of the Kaleidicopia. Mab stared at the floor. Janusin muttered four-letter words under his breath and retreated to his room. This left the professor and Mab standing in the hall in silence. Rowenaster cleared his throat. «Charming place, don't you think? Probably makes you want to live here forever.» Mab shrugged. «Rent's cheap.» Rowenaster nodded. «Did you sleep well? Short as it was,» he added with a patient smile. Mab shrugged. «Sort of. Until the shift in Jinnjirri woke me.» «What shift?» Mab sighed deeply. «Curse of the draw. Mine, I mean. We Pieds are real close to the land. Sometimes we know things at a distance. It's like a twitching of the skin. I can't explain it.» She paused. «Just something I learned. Mostly, I just wish it would go away. I don't live in Jinnjirri anymore. And I'd rather forget I ever did.» «You don't miss your folks?» Mab shrugged. «Only a Saambolin would think to ask that. Miss them? They're too busy with their artistic lives for me to miss them. I was always underfoot. Oh, and very dull. I didn't know how to party, they said. I w
as too serious. Too intense. Dull.» Rowenaster chuckled. «One just can't win, can one? Over at the University, I'm perceived as something of a libertine because I choose to live in this house. The registrar is convinced I have orgies every weekend.» Mab didn't smile. «Well, they did—at my house.» There was an awkward silence between them. Mab shrugged, then ducked inside her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. Professor Rowenaster stood in the empty hallway in silence, his expression troubled. On the far side of town, deep in the heart of the labyrinthine Asilliwir Quarter of Speakinghast, the wooden sign for Doogat's Pipe and Tobacco Bazaar creaked in the warm breeze. At the back of the shop, Po «slaved» over a sink of dirty dishes while Doogat entertained him by reading Po a tediously dry Mayanabi text on the «Art of Personality and Gradual Self-Effacement.» «Nearly done?» asked Doogat cheerily, knowing full well that Po wasn't. «I was about to ask you the same thing,» muttered the little thief. Doogat put the text down, his expression disapproving. Po caught it out of the corner of his eye and whirled around. «Now don't start on me, Doogs. I've been minding my mouth and manners ever since I got to this dump—place—last night. And I'm worn out with the effort.» Doogat raised an eyebrow. He looked singularly unsympathetic. «Keep washing,» he said and picked up the Mayanabi text. Po swore under his breath. He scrubbed a particularly greasy pan in silence. Then he asked, «So when do I get to test for Eighth Rank?» Doogat grunted, refusing to answer him. There were nine ranks in total in the Order of the Mayanabi Nomad, and thirty-three degrees in each rank. Zero Degree, Ninth Rank was the starting point for any new initiate. Conversely, First Rank, Thirty-third Degree was the greatest mastery a Mayanabi Nomad could achieve. As far as everyone knew—Aunt included—there had never been a First Rank Master; the normal lifespan of two-legged mortals simply didn't allow for the time needed to learn that much. «Oh, come on, Doogat,» insisted Po. «Nobody's a Ninth Rank forever. Have a heart.» «And indulge your vanity?» retorted Doogat. «I don't think so.» Po rolled his eyes, banging the pot around in the sink. There was a sudden tinkle of breaking glass. Po froze, staring into the soapy water. He was certain there were no breakables in the rinse sink. He heard Doogat get to his feet behind him. Starting to sweat, Po reached gingerly into the water. «Shit,» he muttered, his hand still hidden by suds. «Well, pull it out and let's see the damage,» said Doogat disgustedly. Po hesitated. «Now Doogat—I swear there was nothing in this sink. Nothing that could break-I checked. Really, I did—» «Greatkin alive, Po—just pull it out.» So Po did. He blanched. He held the delicate hand-blown stem of Doogat's favorite and only red crystal glass. Po swallowed. «Uh—Doogs—I didn't put this in here. You've got to believe me.» «I do,» muttered the Mayanabi Master. Doogat reached into the rinse water and retrieved the red bowl of the glass. It was etched in magnificent goldleaf. Doogat pursed his lips. He shook his head, saying: «You miserable little—» Po stepped backward, flinging his wet hands to both sides of his face in an effort to protect his ears from Doogat's hefty punch. Doogat regarded him with surprise and said, «I wasn't referring to you, Po. I was referring to Greatkin Rimble.» Po frowned, completely befuddled. «Oh. Good. I think.» Doogat continued to stare at the broken crystal, his expression slowly changing from thoughtfulness to horror. Thinking Doogat was exaggerating his reaction for his benefit, Po rolled his eyes, saying, «Doogs—it's only a glass.» Doogat raised his head sharply, his black eyes boring into Po's. «Remember when I boxed your ear last night at the house meeting?» Po took another step backward. «Do you?» shouted the Mayanabi. «Yes, Doogat. Yes, I remember. Very well.» «Well, consider your ear boxed. Then for now.» «Now? Why now? What did I miss?» Doogat threw his dark blue riding cape over his shoulders. «A glass is never just a glass. Nothing is ever as it seems. You got that?» He met Po's eyes evenly. «Uh—sure, Doogs. Uh—where are you going?» «Out,» replied Doogat. Then, without a word of farewell or explanation, Doogat left the little tobacco shop, slamming the door after him. Po followed his trail into the front of the shop, the scent of rich tobacco leaves tickling his nose. Meerschaum pipes of every description hung on the far wall under glass. Jars of dried herbs and potpourri rested in neat rows on a long table. Mosaic tiles decorated the slanting archways of the small store. Po shrugged. It was almost time to open the shop for business. Catching a glimpse of Doogat disappearing down a crowded street, Po shook his head and muttered, «There's no predicting a Mayanabi Master. Especially one who smokes a meerschaum Trickster pipe.» Chapter Seventeen Doogat's transformation into Zendrak took place in a matter of moments. It occurred under the cloaking dark of Doogat's blue cape and cowl. As «Doogat» reached a small, private promontory overlooking the vast horizon of Lake Edu, something shimmered there and faded. And again. Finally, called from Neath by Trickster's Emissary, Further materialized in three-dimensional form. The mare stood at a proud eighteen hands, her blue-black coat exactly matching the sheen of Zendrak's raven hair. The last of Doogat's friendly wrinkles and crowsfeet vanished. The wisdom of sixty-two years was replaced with the lean intelligence of Zendrak's apparent forty-five. The eyes, however, remained the same: cold, reflective, and black like obsidian. This man's eyes—as well as his shape-changing ability—were both the result of his landdraw. Born on the «big island» in the Soaringsea archipelago, Zendrak had inherited the volcanic characteristics of this northern draw. The «big island,» also called Feralisle, not only turned the inside inside-out on a regular basis with lava and ash but it also wandered freely—popping up at unexpected locations, occasionally at odd intervals or «inbetween» times. Feralisle was just that: wild. Zendrak's body imitated Feralisle's structural mobility with precision, throwing off «skins» like the ash of its volcanic counterpart. Zendrak's body had the peculiar ability to completely renew itself with matter. What was molten on Feralisle became a process of molting on Zendrak's person. As a consequence, Zendrak's concept of self included a natural multiplicity of identity. And soul ache. As far as Zendrak knew, he was the two-legged landrace of Feralisle. This knowledge produced a gnawing loneliness of soul that threatened to overwhelm him on bad days. For like Kelandris, he was a kind of involuntary akindo. Made kinless by draw, Zendrak was a biological freak. He was a sport of nature. He was also the result of one of Trickster's improvements; Zendrak was the progeny of Rimble's recent love affair with Themyth. However, Zendrak was only three-quarters Greatkin. The final quarter was that of a Mythrrim Beast—and therefore quite mortal. Zendrak mounted Further easily, stowing his blue cape in his saddlebag and retrieving his dark green one. He sighed. Today was definitely turning out to be one of his bad days. First that hasty message from Aunt about the Tammirring child this morning at dawn. And now this: some kind of cryptic request from Rimble to meet with him immediately. The subject matter was apparently Kelandris; after all, Crazy Kel was slightly cracked. And so was the glass. Sounded like a fairly equivalent description of Kelandris to him. Zendrak swore softly as he whispered his destination to Further: southeastern Saambolin in the foothills of the Bago-Bago Mountains at an old standing-stone site. What made this particular site interesting, thought Zendrak grabbing a handful of Further's black mane, was that it had once been dedicated to Greatkin Phebene. «Hardly Rimble's usual fare,» he muttered to himself, squeezing the sides of the mare's body with his long legs. Further began to run in place. Gritting his teeth against the cold shock to come as Further and he entered the Everywhen, Zendrak urged the mare into a dead run. She complied. When Further reached the extreme of her speed, both horse and rider shimmered. And were gone. For Further, time was not fixed. Time could be «jumped» by travelling through a series of Trickster's loopholes: literal constellations of coincidence. To a Power of the Fertile Dark, cause and effect—like distance—were not facts; they were working illusions. As far as the mare was concerned, the past, present, and future were concepts and therefore as interchangeable or discardable as cards in a cut deck. For a denizen of Neath—a portion of the Everwhen of the Presence—time occurred simultaneously. Fur
ther nickered softly, signalling Zendrak to prepare for her «jump.» Freeing his left hand from the entanglement of her mane, Zendrak caught a line of time and tugged. A gate of coincidence opened. There was a wild whooshing sound, and they entered the Everywhen. A moment later, horse and rider galloped into the open plains of southeastern Saambolin. A muted, rolling mountain range loomed in the near distance: the Bago-Bago. This range, like the snowy Feyborne, marked a natural dividing line between landdraws—that of lawful Saambolin and musical Dunnsung. One of the best loved rites involving Phebene was a contest between musicians to see if they could make the mountains sing. They almost always succeeded. But then, thought Zendrak wearily, this is a much milder draw. Not like remote Tammirring. Zendrak's thoughts turned to Kelandris. He recalled Rimble saying he intended to nudge Yafatah to Speakinghast—but the sly bastard had not mentioned how or why. Zendrak suspected Trickster had entangled the two Tammirring women in some fashion; Rimble had been searching for years for the means to breach Kel's formidable psychic fortress of rage and fear. Zendrak's eyes softened with sorrow. «You crazy, lovely woman,» he whispered. Zendrak tried to put Kelandris from his mind. Her strong face lingered, however, tormenting him not with guilt, but with a profound sense of regret. He had long ago ceased feeling guilty for his role in Kel's tragedy; there was no point to it. Like Kelandris, Zendrak of Soaringsea had been royally duped. The scenario in Suxonli Village had been «improved» from the start. Trickster had meddled with Kel's bloodcycle just enough so that sixteen years ago, it arrived for the first time very late in Kel's adolescence: at the age of seventeen on the eve of Trickster's Hallows. And on that night, in those mountains, the scent of her blood had drawn Zendrak to her. His had been a Mythrrim response, instinctual and animal. Even now, Zendrak felt a trace of this four-legged lust. Groaning softly, Zendrak buried his face in Further's mane and salty horse smell. Images rose unbidden. Sweat and smiles. Regret stung Zendrak again. He knew that the Kelandris he had once loved—that trusting, passionate, seventeen-year-old—was gone forever. Suxonli had broken her mind with its barbaric Ritual of Akindo. Enough memories, thought Zendrak angrily. He guided the blue-black mare into a grove of deciduous trees and signalled her to slow. Further did so, hardly puffing from the brief eighteen-hundred-mile journey. The sun now stood directly overhead; a bare five hours had elapsed in real time. For Zendrak and Further, the trip had lasted but minutes. Further slowed to cross a leaf-strewn stream. She dipped her nose in the cold mountain water, drinking long and deep. Then she raised her head abruptly, her ears twitching backward and forward, her senses alert. Water dripped from her muzzle. Snorting, she continued drinking. Zendrak looked around himself. Trickster was here somewhere—of that he was sure. He decided to wait until the bandy-legged little Greatkin deigned to join him. Several minutes passed. Further raised her head again, her gaze fixed on something tall moving through the trees to their right. Zendrak peered into the dappled forest. If that was Trickster, he had grown about two feet. Zendrak shrugged. Why not? Changing form was Trickster's prerogative. All the same, it made Zendrak uneasy. He wondered if Rimble had done something so diabolical this time that the little Greatkin feared Zendrak's anger and fist—hence the increase in size? Zendrak dismounted from Further, his green boots disappearing briefly into the icy water at his feet. He told Further to remain close. The mare butted him with her wet nose and continued drinking. Zendrak left the mountain stream, heading for the shrouded figure standing in the forest. «Greetings, Trickster's Emissary and son,» said a melodious voice. Zendrak said nothing, his expression wary. The figure in front of him looked like Greatkin Phebene. Sounded like her, too, he thought. Trickster had really outdone himself this time. Zendrak put his arms over his chest, waiting to see what the little Greatkin wanted. Phebene smiled, removing her rainbow cowl from her radiant face. «So suspicious, Zendrak?» «What now, Rimble?» asked Zendrak with irritation. «You called. I've come. Let's get on with this, shall we? I'm not interested in your pranks today. Especially if this concerns Kelandris—' «Oh, it does,» said the tall Greatkin. She laughed merrily. «Come, my beleagured friend,» she said extending him her hand. «Where?» asked Zendrak, staying put. «To the clearing up ahead. To my memory stone—my mnem-lith. I've spread a picnic for us. You missed breakfast, did you not?» Zendrak made a brushing off gesture with his hands. «You go ahead. I'll follow, Rimble.» Phebene sighed sadly. «Zendrak—we're going to have to do something about this lack of trust.» Zendrak rolled his eyes. «You're not amusing, Rimble. You're really not. If I'm mistrustful, I have and have had good reason to be.» «Wise thinking when dealing with the Greatkin of Deviance. However, your attitude becomes foolish when speaking with the Greatkin of Love.» Zendrak snorted. «I'm not falling for it, Rimble.» Phebene shrugged. «Follow me anyway,» she said calmly, her soft voice taking on more authority. «And that's an order, Emissary.» Zendrak swore under his breath and did as he was told. Greatkin Phebene and Zendrak emerged some moments later in a lovely clearing ringed by trees covered in oranges and golds. In the center of the clearing stood a single, moss-covered standing stone. It was as the Greatkin had said—the memory-stone dedicated to the Remembrance of Phebene. A linen tablecloth covered with a wonderful array of gourmet dishes rested on the ground directly in front of the mnemlith. A spray of wild, green roses crowned the center of the picnic. Seeing the roses, Zendrak muttered, «Very authentic.» «Thank you,» said Phebene graciously. Then she took a seat on a round rainbow cushion, offering the other one to Zendrak. Zendrak grumbled and sat down. Phebene made light-hearted small talk for the next half an hour, plying Zendrak with the most wonderful assortment of foods imaginable (Jinndaven had helped with this). After a while, Zendrak began to wonder if maybe this wasn't the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts after all. An unsettling thought at best, he decided. Trickster's Emissary had little knowledge and little dealing with the Greatkin of Love. Phebene poured Zendrak another glass of black currant wine. Its taste was sweet but not cloying. As she replenished her own glass, she said, «So tell me about soulmates, Zendrak. Tell me about mating for life.» Zendrak scowled. This was a very personal topic to him. And he would not discuss it with Phebene unless he knew it was Phebene. Trickster would only use the information to his advantage; he would never respect it. Zendrak shrugged, saying, «There's not much to tell. I am Mythrrim—we mate for life.» Phebene pursed her lips. «You identify more with your mortal self than with your Greatkin inheritance?» Zendrak downed the remains of his wine. «When your father is the Greatkin of Deviance, it makes it easy to identify with anything but him.» . «And Themyth—who is your mother? What of her?» «I've never met her.» Phebene shook her head. «Nonsense, Zendrak. Every time you tell a Mythrrim, you're meeting the Greatkin of Civilization. Every time. Besides, it was Themyth who took the mortal form of Mythrrim to carry you. So, in a very real way, you do identify with the Greatkin in you.» «What's your point?» he asked grumpily, accepting more wine from Phebene. «I want you to consider the following: what if there were a Greatkin who didn't know it was a Greatkin? What if you had grown up without all the training you received from the Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea and the Mayanabi Nomads? What do you think that would have been like?» «Dangerous for everyone concerned. Especially for the Greatkin himself.» «Herself,» corrected Phebene. Zendrak frowned. «What are you saying?» «I'm saying, Zendrak,» said Phebene touching his cheek, «that Kelandris is your sister.» Chapter Eighteen Many miles from where Zendrak and Phebene spoke, the noonday bell ringer of the Great Library of Speakinghast fingered the ropes of the large, copper bells hanging in the wooden campanile. Like a reed bending in the wind, the young Dunnsung woman pulled down slowly. Copper clappers hit and resounded: Lunch. The carved doors to the University of Speakinghast swung wide. Gossiping students poured into the congested streets of the busy city. All of Mnemlith's two-legged landraces were generously represented in this scholarly group: the clannish Asilliwir; the aristocratic Saambolin; the passionate Jinnjirri; the music
al Dunnsung; the veiled Tammirring; and finally, the land-loving Piedmerri. As this student population swelled the sidewalks and cobblestone byways, well trained horses wheeled to avoid collisions. The riders shouted at the oblivious academics, their travelling cloaks billowing in the warm autumn wind. Alert shepherds ordered their dogs to protect young lambs from this noon crush while harlequin geese honked. Tammirring seers offered to read runes or bestow amulets for a price. Asilliwir merchants shouted prices of their luxury items and herbal cure-alls while Saambolin bookbinders exhibited their craft. Hatted Jinnjirri entrepreneurs sold roasted chestnuts on the street corners. Dunnsung bakers, dusted with the flour of their expertise, sang the wonders of their wares to tempted passersby—rows of custard tarts and chocolate filled pastries adding a sweet scent to the potpourri of existent smells. Piedmerri farmers watched for students attempting to pilfer their blush-apples and sweet pommins, swatting young, scholarly hands when they could catch them. Now the lace and velvet faculty of the University pressed forward. Professor Rowenaster was among their number. The seventy-year-old Saambolin edged out of the doors of the main classroom building with difficulty. He rolled his eyes, wishing he hadn't agreed to meet Barlimo for lunch at this hour. Thirty minutes earlier or later would have avoided this chaos. Pushed from behind, two Saambolin students fell against the professor. Seeing that it was Rowenaster—chair of the prestigious Myth and Religious Antiquities Department of the University and Archive Curator for the locked stacks and «permission-only» reference materials of the Great Library—the hapless students blanched. No one escaped the University of Speakinghast without taking Rowenaster's celebrated Greatkin Survey course. No one graduated without passing it either. Worse, the Professor had a well known memory for facts and faces. It was a gift of his draw. Mumbling profuse apologies, the students backed up. Rowenaster frowned at them. «Your names?» «Names, sir?» Rowenaster eyed them reprovingly over the rims of his silver bifocals. «Yes, names. Though your parents seem to have neglected instructing you in manners, I assume they were gracious enough to give you names?» «Dirkenfar and Crossi, sir.» «First term?» They nodded uncomfortably. The professor smiled. «Good. See you in six weeks.» He pointed at the ceiling. «Fifth floor. Room 99. Be prepared.» Rowenaster bowed his head slightly and walked down the steps of the main building. He was chuckling. Rowenaster turned left on Great Library Boulevard. As prearranged, he found Barlimo lounging next to a small marble fountain in one of Speakinghast's numerous parks. This particular fountain was of a young woman bending over pouring water. As the professor approached, Barlimo patted the rump of the lovely statue and said, «This has got to be my all-time favorite work of Janusin's.» Rowenaster chuckled. «Because he used your shapely behind for a model?» Barlimo grinned, her eyes twinkling. «So, professor. Where to?» She gestured in several directions. «Myself, I feel like something cheery.» «Cheery food. Well, that sounds like a request for Dunnsung cuisine to me. We're sure to be seranaded at this time of day—probably with a full complement of lotaris, drums, and flutes.» He paused. «In fact,» he said, turning east toward the Dunnsung Quarter, «isn't Timmertandi playing at that little place down on Ronpol Street? Might be fun to surprise her.» «I don't know, Rowen,» muttered Barlimo. «She sees enough of us as it is at the house. Maybe we should try somewhere else.» «You just don't like jazz and folk in one mix.» Barlimo scowled at him. «Oh, come on,» he said, taking her by the arm. «Who knows? It might be cheery. Just the thing to brighten your mood,» he added, nodding at a strand of escaped blue hair. Swearing, Barlimo tucked the telltale strand back under her lemon scarf. Today, Barlimo was dressed in several light layers of varying shades of yellow and aqua. As usual, she carried her multicolored wool shawl over her shoulder. Shrugging at a turning weathervane, she commented, «I want it to be fall.» Pulling out a monogrammed handkerchief and wiping his brow, Rowen pointed at his academic velvets and muttered, «Don't we all.» The Saambolin and the Jinnjirri walked slowly toward the large marble archway spanning the entrance to the Dunnsung Quarter of Speakinghast. As they approached it, the sound of street musicians singing a four-part harmony met their ears. Around the next corner, another Dunnsung ensemble played for coppers. Accompanied by a tin whistle and a gourd drum, two members of this six-person troupe stepped forward and began doing a lively folk dance. It involved swift hip shimmying and complicated hand movements reminiscent of the kind of «sacred signing» done at Dunnsung Remembrances. One of the dancers had bells attached to his ankles, and the other—a woman as blonde as Timmer—wore a wonderful set of green veils. They danced so wonderfully with each other that Barlimo and Rowenaster felt obliged to leave them a handful of silivrain—Saambolin silver tender worth five times a copper. As the two housemates walked away, Barlimo muttered, «I can tell this is going to be an expensive lunch.» «Nonsense,» said Rowenaster, bowing gallantly as they neared a small restaurant called The Piper's Inn. «I'm treating, Barl. And there'll be no discussion about it,» he added firmly as Barlimo started to protest. «Yes, professor,» muttered Barlimo drily. «Whatever you say, professor.» Rowenaster gave her a withering smile and propelled her toward the open door of the small eatery. A blond host met them in the open hallway. «Two?» he asked. When Barlimo nodded, the Dunnsung led them to a cozy corner table. It had a good view of the Lake Edu shoreline and of the brilliant orange foliage that graced it. «Lovely,» said Rowenaster, glancing at the teal-blue waves. «Couldn't have a nicer view,» he added to Barlimo «See? Cheery.» The host handed Rowen and Barlimo two beautifully scripted menus. Pointing to a chalkboard on a nearby pillar, he said, «That's the special of the day. We're featuring fresh laska fish sauteed in garlic, butter, and mild Piedmerri herbs. I recommend it,» he added with a smile. «I'll keep that in mind,» said Rowenaster, his stomach rumbling softly. The Dunnsung glanced toward center stage. «We'll also be offering you a musical treat shortly. One of the city's finest jazz and folk quintet ensembles will play for your listening pleasure. The group is called 'Core.' Please—feel free to sing along or dance. We Dunnsung think music and laughter help digest our food,» he added looking hard at the elegant Saambolin professor. Rowen patted Barlimo's hand. «Try not to be a stuffy Jinn today, dear.» Barlimo scowled. «Jinnjirri are never stuffy and you know it.» The host grinned. «Enjoy your lunch,» he said and left. Barlimo looked over at the professor. «One of the city's finest?» she asked, seeing Timmertandi's music in a different light. Her only encounter with Timmer's music to date had been several wee-hour rows with the Dunnsung musician over whether rent included practicing at odd hours in the studio. Barlimo—and the rest of the house—didn't think so. Timmer had accepted their verdict grudgingly. Barlimo hoped Timmer wouldn't be thrown off by seeing Rowenaster and herself here. Barlimo genuinely liked the Dunnsung; she just didn't like being kept awake by the endless repetition of Timmer's half-learned musical pieces. Furthermore, the lotari wasn't her favorite instrument in the world. It was stringed and made a reverberating drone. Still, Timmer had a strong, pure soprano. Barlimo settled into her chair, hoping for the best. After Rowenaster and Barlimo had made their food selections—Rowen choosing the special and Barlimo choosing a fresh water bouillabaisse—the two housemates began discussing the issue uppermost in Barlimo's mind: the Saambolin Housing Commission's continued harassment of the Jinnjirri residents of the city in general and of Barlimo in particular. Barlimo took a drink of water and asked, «Did you get a chance to speak to Master Curator Sirrefene this morning?» Rowenaster shook his head. «I had classes, and she had meetings. However, both she and her husband are attending The Merry Prickster play tonight. So I'll ply them with theater peanuts and see if I can't extract a promise out of Gadorian himself.» «What kind of promise?» «That he lay off the Jinnjirri. I'll point out to him that there are many academics on the Hill who are partial to the creative thinking of the Jinnjirri. Such partiality could hurt his reelection.» «Really?» «I doubt it,» said Rowenaster drily, «but Guildmaster Gadorian doesn't need to know that.» Barlimo ru
bbed her eyes. «I'm surprised Gadorian even listens to you, Rowen. Considering where you live.» «But that's exactly my point,» said the professor. «And my advantage. I live in the Jinnjirri Quarter. Therefore—as far as the Guildmaster knows—I've my Saambolin ear to the ground. I hear things, he thinks, that no one else does.» Rowen grinned. «Of course, I do hear things no one else does, but that's because there's no place in all of Speakinghast quite like our beloved Kaleidicopia. Speaking of which, you missed a beauty of fight this morning on the second floor landing. Timmer and Tree.» Barlimo grunted. «No, I didn't. I had the misfortune to be grilling some toast over the coals in the kitchen hearth when Tree grumbled in, grabbed some fruit from the cold storage, and slammed the back door. He's really quite smitten with Mab, isn't he?» «That's what Timmer says, too.» «Personally,» said Barlimo breaking off a piece of bread from the dark, round loaf in the center of their wooden table, «I don't see what Tree sees in the child. And I mean child. Mab's nineteen going on twelve.» Rowenaster handed Barlimo the dish with a fresh slab of sweet butter in it, saying, «I think there may be good reason for that, Barl.» Barlimo took the dish, waiting for him to continue. Rowenaster steepled his fingers. «I think Mab may be a little emotionally—uh—backward. Frozen.» He paused. «It was something she said this morning about her home life in Jinnjirri. It may be that Mab never had the chance to grow past the age of twelve.» Rowenaster shrugged. «What Tree finds attractive in this—well, I can't imagine it, either.» Barlimo's eyes softened unexpectedly. «I see,» she said. «A wooden boy and a snowflake girl. One is stiff and the other frozen. Makes a wild kind of sense.» She paused. «I'll tell you something that doesn't though—Gadorian going to see Cobeth's play. It's all Jinnjirri.» Rowenaster raised his gray eyebrows. «Oh, is it Cobeth's play now?» «That's the word at the house. Even Tree says so.» Rowenaster muttered something under his breath. Then he said, «The Master Curator doesn't share her husband's dislike of Jinnjirri.» «I wonder why that is?» Rowenaster cleared his throat, looked around himself, and whispered, «Sirrey had an affair with one of your draw. They only made love once, but apparently Sirrefene has never forgotten it.» «That bad?» «That good.» Barlimo buttered her bread. «Oh. That could explain a lot of things.» «Yes, it could,» agreed Rowenaster. «Sirrey and Gad were newly engaged at the time.» There was a long silence. Barlimo sighed. «I hate it when street politics are decided by private bedroom entanglements.» Rowenaster shrugged. «You should see the dirty laundry on the Hill. It makes Sirrey's indiscretion look noble.» Their conversation was suddenly curtailed by a lot of fanfare and shuffling around taking place in the center of the restaurant. The serving lad reached Rowen and Barlimo's table with their salads just as the quintet began tuning up their instruments. Turning his chair around so he could have a better view of Timmer, Rowenaster smiled at Barlimo and said, «Now remember, Barl. If you don't like Timmer's music—lie at dinner tonight, all right? I don't want indigestion before the play.» Muttering to himself, he added, «Presence only knows what Cobeth's going to do to my stomach.» Timmer introduced herself and the other members of the quintet. Then, without further delay, she broke into a bawdy Asilliwir ditty that bufooned the Saambolin. The Dunnsung roared with laughter as did the Asilliwir. Barlimo's hair turned bright yellow with delight. Leaning toward the professor—who was looking decidedly disgruntled—Barlimo said, «Very cheery.» Timmer continued with a series of swiftly paced pieces then ended the first set with a moody melody from Tammirring. The drone of the lotari filled the room with a strange yearning, as if each note were reaching for the next but never quite touching—like lovers parted. As the wild applause died down, Timmer caught sight of Rowenaster and Barlimo. Surprised at first, her expression speedily changed to naughty. Whispering hurriedly to the fellow playing the horn, she returned to center stage and said, «Before we break, there's one more song I'd like to play for you. I just learned it last night.» Timmer winked at her two housemates. «It's called 'Dicky Dunkin'.» Rowenaster hid behind his napkin. Barlimo put her head in her hands, muttering, «Tree—you're finally famous.» Chapter Nineteen Tree sat in the special effects and makeup studio of The Merry Prickster's playhouse. He was taking a momentary break from packing up all his belongings. At present, he held a crumpled playbill in his hand, his spiky hair a mottled red-black. Tree had returned to the playhouse an hour ago to retrieve the last of his special effects paraphernalia—particularly his flash pots and powders. Hearing someone come clattering down the stairs to the playhouse laboratory, he looked up, glowering. Rhu of Nerjii burst into the room. She was the stage manager for tonight's production of Rimble's Remedy. Seeing Tree's expression and furious shade of hair, she took a step backward. She held up the playbill in her hand, her voice tentative. «Uh—you saw it?» Tree grunted. «It's what I didn't see, Rhu. So I'm fired—okay—but I still think I deserve some credit for all the work I've done.» Tree threw the playbill to the ground. «My name is conspicuously missing, Rhu. I hope this wasn't your idea.» Rhu's Jinnjirri hair turned pink with embarrassment. «Good Greatkin, Tree—you know I wouldn't do something like that to you! We're friends. Once lovers. Come on. You know me better than that.» Tree pursed his lips. «I thought I did. But to tell you the truth, Rhu, I'm not sure of anyone's true feelings toward me here. Cobeth's pretty fucking charismatic. And I've noticed you two spending a lot of time together.» Rhu's hair turned flaming red. «So that makes me part of some kind of conspiracy? You got fired! Why can't you accept it with good grace?» Tree stood up. «I would, Rhu—if I'd been given the reasons for my firing. After two years, you'd think the Pricksters would have that much loyalty.» He threw some cast iron pots in the leather bag beside him. «You know—without my effects this show would be little more than top-heavy, preachy doggerel. And don't you deny it!» he snapped as Rhu started to do just that. The two Jinnjirri glared at each other. Tree shook his head, adding, «Why was I fired, Rhu? Or don't you know?» «Cobeth doesn't discuss all his decisions with me.» «Translation: you don't know.» Rhu ran her fingers through her hair and switched gender. Tree put his hands on his hips. «Oh—we're getting tough now?» «What?» asked Rhu. «Your apple's showing, sir,» said Tree touching Rhu's throat. Rhu's face and hair both turned pink this time. Wagging a finger, Rhu switched back to being a woman. «You make me so angry, Tree, that I can't even remember what I'm doing!» «Or who you are?» asked Tree idly. «What in Neath does that mean?» Tree slung his leather bag over his shoulder. «A word of advice, dearie. Cobeth's a cruel lover. We have one very drawn and quartered sculptor back at the house—» «Yeah,» retorted Rhu. «I know all about him. He's a slow sop.» Tree met her eyes evenly. «Janusin's a very gentle man, Rhu. You'd bloom in his company. Cobeth did.» «Not the way I heard it.» Tree snorted. «I'm the oldest member of the house—besides Barl—so I have a little perspective on Janusin and Cobeth. I was there the whole time. Believe me—Janusin catalyzed Cobeth's talent.» Rhu's eyes narrowed. «Cobeth has plenty of talent of his own, Tree! What's the matter with you? Jealous of him?» Tree's expression turned unexpectedly sad. «Not at all, Rhu. I wouldn't want Cobeth's kind of talent. I'm quite satisfied with my own—such as it is.» «You are jealous.» Tree shook his head. «Of a bloodsucker? Don't make me laugh, Rhu.» «A bloodsucker!» Tree walked toward the door of the laboratory and opened it. Looking back over his shoulder, Tree added, «Yeah. Cobeth of Shift Shallows can't do anything with his own talent, so he takes talent from everyone else, hoping their dedication and love of art will direct his own. When it doesn't, Cobeth leaves his victim drained of ideas. And nerve. Then he goes off in search of his next patsy. Better watch out, Rhu. I think you're next.» «I'm a stage manager, Tree. Not an actor like Cobeth. That's hardly the same catagory.» «Just the same, Rhu—Cobeth will take you and leave you. It's called envy, dear girl. And envy has many faces.» Rhu tried one last time to convince Tree that he was wrong about Cobeth. «Tree—you are jealous. Not that I blame you. Cobeth's good at anything he touches. But I think this—uh—attitude is be
neath you. I'm sure that if you work hard enough, you'll be as famous as Cobeth's going to be with this play. And when that day happens, Tree, I'll be there cheering you on.» Tree grunted. «If Cobeth leaves you your vocal cords.» Rhu's hair blackened with fury. «Get out! You and your bad feelings!» Tree smiled thinly. «Gladly, m'lady. Gladly.» Tree walked out of the laboratory, up the stairs into the main foyer of the playhouse, and through the large front doors of the two storey building. He shielded his eyes from the golden sunshine of late afternoon. In the Saambolin Quarter, bells told the time: five bell-eve. Tree scowled. Three hours until showtime at the playhouse. He couldn't decide if he wanted to attend the opening night of Rimble's Remedy or not. He knew Mab was planning to go—along with Barl, Timmer, and Rowen. The professor would sit with his academic cronies, of course, up in the box seats. Tree sighed. Must be nice to have that kind of silivrain, he thought tiredly. Then a gloomier thought occurred to him. He wondered how Rowenaster was going to take this play of Cobeth's. Tree bit his lower lip. Cobeth may have left Tree's name off the playbill, but he hadn't treated Rowenaster in this fashion. In fact, Cobeth had given the professor so many acknowledgments that it was almost embarrassing. Tree took a deep breath. «I don't know, Rowen. By this evening's end, you may wish we could exchange places. I wouldn't want to be known as the 'guiding inspiration' for Rimble's Remedy. I wouldn't want that at all.» Professor Rowenaster and Barlimo stopped by the Great Library on their way home from eating at The Piper's Inn and an afternoon of shopping for the house. Rowenaster had picked up a fresh supply of tapers and flax oil, and Barlimo had replenished the supply of spices and dried fruits for the «K's» well stocked pantry. «This'll only take a moment,» said the professor as they approached the front desk of the closed stacks in the basement of the Great Library. Smiling at the Saambolin Guildguard sitting at the desk, Rowenaster reached inside the drawstring purse he kept hidden in his velvet pocket. He pulled out a collection of Saambolin passes, searching for his «permission only» card that would permit him to pick up several texts in the locked archives. He frowned. The card appeared to be missing. «That's odd,» he muttered to Barlimo. «1 haven't used it in a week. I've been so busy with exams that I haven't had time to get down here.» «Maybe it's back at the house. Or in your office at the University,» said Barlimo. «Maybe so,» said Rowen going through the cards a third time. «Well, no matter.» He smiled at the Guildguard. «Noolie, could you let me in? I've just got a quick pickup to do. Barlimo will wait out here.» Noolie, who had known Rowenaster for the past thirty-four years, shook his head. «Sorry, professor. You know the rules. No card. No admittance.» Rowenaster stared at the old man. «For Presence sake, Noolie—can't you make an exception to the rule? I am the curator.» Noolie shook his head. «Nope. You'll have to get a pass from Sirrefene.» Rowenaster put his hands on the desk. «The Master Curator is gone for the day, Noolie.» The white-haired Guildguard shrugged. «I can't help that, Professor Rowenaster. Come back tomorrow. We're almost closing anyway.» Rowenaster swore. Then, reining his temper, he said, «You could go back there and pick up the texts for me—and I could stay out here at the desk. There's nothing in the rules that says the Archive Curator is forbidden to guard the desk.» «You sure?» asked Noolie. Rowen peered over his bifocals at the guard. «I wrote the rules, Noolie!» Barlimo rolled her eyes. «You Saambolin! If we Jinjirri were running this place, Rowen and I'd be halfway home by now!» The Saambolin Guildguard eyed her distastefully. «With all due respect—if you Jinnjirri were running this place, we wouldn't have a book left in the entire six storey building. Your people don't train the intellect the way we do. Probably can't. It's not your fault you're such an emotional draw.» Noolie smiled, his posture proud and patronizing. Barlimo's hair turned a steaming red-orange under her scarf. Rowenaster cleared his throat. «So, how about it, Noolie? Will you pick up these books from the Trickster Archives?» He handed the guard a slip of paper with three titles on it. All of them had to do with Suxonli. When Barlimo commented on this, the professor added, «Thought I'd brush up on a few things before the play tonight.» Noolie regarded Rowenaster warily. «I suppose I could go back there. Just this once.» He looked at Barlimo. «We Saambolin aren't in the habit of making exceptions to our rules.» The Jinnjirri architect said nothing. The Guildguard got to his feet slowly, removing a large key ring from the inside of his desk. He stumped over to the enormous wrought iron gates in front of them all and opened them. Giving Rowenaster a putout grunt, he locked them and disappeared into the rows and rows of bookcases that lined the room beyond. Of all the goods exchanged in Speakinghast, none equalled the value of the books in this closed storage area. Stealing from the Archives was tantamount to raiding the treasure trove of a monarch—these books being the crown jewels. In general, no self-respecting thief could resist the challenge of breaching Archive security; book theft from here accorded status and privilege to this underclass of the city. Black market prices for rare manuscripts and texts from the Archives fetched hefty fortunes in ransoms—ransoms that the academics on the Hill were more than willing to pay. Rowenaster had doubled security in the past year as there had been at least two successful breakins in the last six months. Before this time, there had been six thousand three hundred and forty-nine attempts during the thirty-seven years that Rowen had acted as Archive Curator. Attempts were fine with Rowenaster; they could be thrown out of court. Successful thefts on the other hand, could not. Furthermore, a successful theft these days would make a thief miserably intimate with a harsh system of justice known on the street as «Gadorian's Revenge.» A series of graduated punishments, «Gadorian's Revenge» was the result of a humiliating library internship that the Guildmaster had endured during adolescence. There had been no less than twelve successful breakins during the one summer he worked in this capacity. Furious that the existent laws for book theft were so lenient, Gadorian concocted the following—never dreaming that one day he would be able to implement his «program for redress»: First offenders were to be publicly humiliated by flogging. Then fed and housed by the Saambolin Guild for a period «not to exceed ten years,» thieves would work off their moral debt to society through indentured service to the City of Speakinghast. Translated, this group got stuck doing general street sewage collection and public privy cleanup. Second offenders were not so fortunate. Branded on the forehead with the searing imprint of the Seal of the Great Library—a wild Mythrrim Beast rising from flames grasping six scrolls in its taloned feet—second offenders were banished from Speakinghast. Family and friends could visit outside the city limits. The converse, however, was not true. Guards posted at the city's five gates enforced this with inspections and a complicated system of passes. Third offenders or persons disregarding banishment lost both hands to the fall of the bloody ax. So far, no one had gone the whole route. This pleased Rowenaster. In the professor's opinion, «Gadorian's Revenge» was barbaric and ought to be outlawed. Especially since the system of punishments had been the fantasy of an angry youth and not of a wise man. Barlimo nudged the professor. «Think Noolie's napping back there? He's been gone an awfully long time.» Rowenaster was just about to ask one of the other Saambolin Guildguards to go fetch Noolie when the old man reappeared, his expression annoyed. Rowenaster frowned. «Where are the texts?» «Suppose you tell me!» retorted Noolie. «I ain't got time for Trickster silliness, professor. I take my job very seriously. And if you've got any other fool errands you're thinking about—save them.» «What are you talking about?» asked Rowenaster indignantly. «I'm talking about there not being no section with these numbers!» Rowenaster stared at Noolie. «No section? Of course, there's a section. It's all my personal research on Greatkin Rimble.» «Ain't there,» repeated Noolie stubbornly. «And don't think you're going back there to check, neither. You need a card, professor, and that's my final word on the matter.» Noolie glared at Rowen, his hand reaching for the short sword at his side. Rowenaster rolled his eyes and swore, «All right, Noolie. But I'll be back here first thing tomorrow mornin
g, and if I find that there is a section on Greatkin Rimble in there—I'll have your mouth washed out with soap for your insolence to me today. I'll also see that you're suspended for the next week.» Noolie crossed his arms over his chest. «There ain't no section.» «Oh, yes there is!» snapped Rowenaster. Picking up his candles and flax oil, he strode angrily out of the basement of the Great Library. Barlimo followed the professor in silence, her hair turning thoughtful indigo under her scarf. Why was it that things like this always happened when Greatkin Rimble's name got mentioned? The Guardsman Noolie was probably a very nice person, underneath all his prejudice, she thought. But put Trickster in the middle of it, and Noolie doesn't even give Rowenaster the time of day—much less the respect he so obviously deserves as Archive Curator alone. She mentioned her thoughts to the professor as he hailed a happincabby to take them back to the Kaleidicopia. Rowenaster took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. «If Rimble's the reason for this mess, then just think what we've got to look forward to tonight. The Prickster play—my, that name sounds ominous suddenly—is all about Rimble. At this rate, Barl, I wonder if I shall survive Rimble's Remedy?» Barlimo sighed, thinking about the true purpose of the Kaleidicopia and said, «I wonder if any of us shall.» By the evening's end, Mabinhil Of Matterwise would be asking the very same question… Chapter Twenty The Speakinghast play-going crowd poured into the Jinnjirri playhouse slowly. With the exception of a small group of Saambolin university students (all of whom were seeking extra credit in Rowenaster's Greatkin Survey course), the professor himself, Guildmaster Gadorian, Master Curator Sirrefene, and the three residents of the Kaleidicopia entering now, the audience was comprised of an unhatted, neighborhood Jinnjirri membership. Mab's eyes remained wary as she followed Barlimo and Timmer to their seats in the third row. Mab hadn't mingled in the company of this many
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