which the child had been conceived. Earthquake-prone Jinnjirri gave birth to a race of people who enjoyed «breaking new ground.» Most of them grew up
to be artists, iconoclasts, and political dissidents. The hair and gender of this passionate people shifted with their moods like storms and sunshine playing hide-and-seek across the Jinnjirri Central Plains. In contrast to the freewheeling Jinnjirri, the Saambolin-born were as emotionally contained as the lakes that dotted Saambolin's tidy landscape. Speakinghast, the capital of Saambolin, was clean, orderly, and organized. This city boasted most of Mnemlith's lawmakers, administrators, and educators among its number. Predictably Sathmadd, the Greatkin of Mathematics, Organization, and Red Tape, was the patron of this fair city. In the southwest the desert country of Asilliwir produced a people of nomadic temperament. Composed mostly of rolling sand and treeless islands, the draw of Asilliwir fashioned a people who lusted for all the
things this arid land could not sustain. Over the centuries, the Asilliwir had become the natural traders of Mnemlith, their prices high and their goods exotic. Although this race engaged primarily in commerce and business, its exchange included not only money but news. The Asilliwir caravan wagons covered thousands of miles every year; in short, the Asilliwir kept all of Mnemlith informed about the issues (and gossip) of the day. To the west lay Piedmerri. This land race echoed the fertile, protected valleys found in this country. Here was a people who were round-faced and blessed with an abundant ability to conceive and foster children
everywhere, their schools famous for putting the needs of the children first. Generally cheerful and large-of-lap, the Pieds were a gentle people. In the southwest stood the sea-loving Dunnsung-born. This race was a close cousin to the artistic Jinnjirri. The Dunnsung were gifted with beautiful voices that slid up and down the scale with ease and power. Theirs was a musical talent that could make even the most callous weep. Dunnsung mothers often gave birth in the shallow waters of the sea which surrounded the Dunnsung peninsula, the rhythm of the waves imprinted on the psyches of this fair-haired people from the first moment of life. And finally to the far north lay Tammirring. Cold, remote, and mountainous, the Tammirring draw impressed its people with a love of secrets. A race of extreme psychic sensitivity, the Tammirring-born usually wore veils to protect themselves. This draw produced seers and mystics, and Elder Hennin was no exception. Native ability paired with an accelerated Mayanabi training from her youth now made Elder Hennin a formidable adversary. Currently, like Rimble, Elder Hennin was conducting an experiment; she was meddling with nature; specifically, the venom of the holovespa wasp.
Unlike Rimble, however, Elder Hennin didn't care one whit if this experiment was remotely in line with the wishes of the Presence. And this was the great difference between Hennin and Trickster. Unfortunately, Hennin's understanding and interpretation of Rimble's activities among the Greatkin sadly missed the bigger picture. For Hennin, Rimble was an excuse to do whatever she pleased to whomever she pleased without guilt or conscience. Since Hennin had been raised in Suxonli Village, the place most sacred to Trickster in all Mnemlith, Hennin felt she had an inside and therefore more correct view of Trickster's real nature. After all, the Mythrrim had given Suxonli the honor of enacting Trickster's ritual of remembrance each fall: Rimble's Revel. Secure in her «knowledge,» Elder Hennin believed herself to be a kind of mediumistic mouthpiece for Rimble. No one had challenged this until Trickster's daughter came along and spoiled the charade. Before
Kelandris could really speak, however, Hennin silenced her. And for the last sixteen years Kelandris had remained silent—lost in the miasma of her own craziness. With the help of Trickster's son and an argumentative group of seven other Contraries, Kelandris had regained her sanity in the last year. Hennin had recently discovered this and intended to destroy Kelandris for once and for all. A toxic dose of drugs and a severe beating had not killed the woman sixteen years ago. But Akindo would. Hennin smiled. Yes, Akindo most certainly would. Akindo would be her long arm of menace now. It would do her bidding; it would carry a hive of deadly poison on its back to Kelandris. And that was all to the good, she thought as she fed a poisonous pollen to a hive of agitated holovespa wasps. As far as Hennin was concerned, there could be only one wasp queen from Suxonli Village. Hennin. And while she was at it, she thought to herself with pleasure, she might as
well kill off the idiots who lived at that house in Speakinghast. As she saw it, three months ago the Kaleidicopians had indirectly caused the death of her favorite student: Cobeth of Jaiz. So she had a score to settle with them, and with their ring leader, Zendrak. He had once been her Mayanabi teacher. When Hennin refused to wash his dishes one day—informing him that she was beyond «all that"—he kicked her out of his house and told her to return when she had lost some of her arrogance. Hennin liked her arrogance and so had never lost it. Nor did she ever return to Zendrak's
tutelage. All in all, Hennin felt terribly justified in harming these people. And now she finally had the perfect means. Akindo. Akindo was the name she had given to the ambulatory draw of Suxonli, the thing that shuffled, the thing she now controlled. No one but Hennin herself was immune to Akindo. Hennin smiled, imagining herself to be acting on behalf of Greatkin Rimble himself. Funny thing about it—she was. *3* It was winter in Mnemlith. A small inn near the border of Jinnjirri and Saambolin stood banked in two-foot snow drifts, icicles from last week's momentary thaw hanging off the roof like crystal spikes, the setting sun shining golden through them as it disappeared over the distant mountains. A Jinnjirri-born woman trudged through the freshly fallen snow, her destination the small woodshed behind the inn. Her name was Aunt.
A friend of the innkeeper's, Aunt had just offered to bring in a new load of dry wood for the fireplace in the eating hall. She was bundled from top to bottom in brightly dyed wools and fuzzy boots. Her Jinnjirri hair escaped the confines of her stocking cap, turning a cheery shade of yellow as she whistled a happy tune. Her yellow hair telegraphed her good mood to two stableboys who were busily grooming a couple of horses belonging to guests of the inn. They were Jinnjirri-born like herself, and grinned as she passed them. It would be good, thought Aunt to herself, to be in Jinnjirri shortly. She had spent the last three months in the bustling but stuffy Saambolin city named Speakinghast. She longed for her Jinnjirri home in the northwest. Nothing moved in Saambolin—not the ground or the opinions of its people. Aunt sighed opening the door to the woodshed. As she did so a cold blast of air, seemingly from the inside of the squat building, dislodged her hat and spun it against the nearby wall of the stable. Frowning, Aunt went to pick up her hat. The horses she had just passed shied and threw their heads nervously. The Jinnjirri stableboys tried to calm them. They met with remarkably little success. With each passing moment, the agitation of the horses increased. Hearing the frantic whinnies of the horses and the surprised shouts of the boys, Aunt ran back to the stable. When she arrived there, one of the horses threw himself against the rope shank that held him, and broke it. Suddenly free, the bay horse bolted. His stablemate screamed after him, plaintively. Aunt reached up to calm the mare. Snorting the mare reared in fear against her. Shocked, Aunt jumped out of the way. Never in her life had she had an animal respond with fear toward her. Before Aunt could think about this further, the mare also ripped free from the shank that bound her. Like the bay gelding she ducked out of the stable and galloped away across the adjacent snow-covered pasture. None of the
three Jinnjirri said anything. They were all speechless. After a while, Aunt grunted and returned to the woodshed. As she slipped through the half-open door, she was stung instantly on the exposed part of her neck by one of Elder Hennin's holovespa wasps. Aunt flicked it away angrily, saying, «Never heard of such a thing this time of year. Wasps die in fall,» she added, rubbing the place where the wasp had deposited her venom. The reaction to the poison would take a few minutes to set in. Unaware that she had less than a quarter hour left to live, Aunt gathered wood for the inn. As she piled logs in her strong arms, she puzzled over the strange behavior of the horses. «Like they were terribly afraid of something. Me possibly,» she noted. Aunt sighed. Nothing in nature had acted as it should for the past year. Autumn had been unseasonably warm and winter had been unusually heavy with snowfall. The way things were going, Aunt wondered if monsoons would replace thunderstorms come summer. But, she reminded herself, this was Jinnaeon, when nothing would behave predictably. This was Trickster's glory, the transition between two ages when the foundations of civilization would shake and perhaps tumble to the ground. All that was false would be exposed and all that was true would remain standing. Such was the action of Greatkin Rimble. He was the tester of the Real, and this was his time. Touching the sting on her neck again, Aunt smiled ruefully, thinking about how the constellation known as the Wasp was ascendant in the northern sky now. Had been since fall. Aunt shrugged, picking up some stray kindling. So why should she be the least surprised that a holovespa had managed to survive winter? The Wasp was one of Rimble's other names. Old Yellow Jacket, they called him in Suxonli. Aunt winced. Suxonli. What a disaster. Aunt was a master herbalist and healer. She was also a member of the spiritual confraternity known as the Order of the Mayanabi Nomads. Her membership in this somewhat secret society gave her access to a world view uniquely different from that held by most of the landdraws of Mnemlith. Whereas the villagers of Suxonli blamed Kelandris, Trickster's daughter, for the tragedy of that night, Aunt blamed the ignorance of the villagers themselves. Aware that two-legged belief and interest in the Greatkin was on the wane, sixteen years ago Trickster devised the means to shock the very geological foundation of Mnemlith into wakefulness and remembrance. This infusion of the New had been a prophesied event. His own daughter, Kelandris, was to have acted as a kind of two-legged ground wire for the geo-electric current that would pour through her body during the turning dance celebrated in
Rimble's honor at Trickster's Hallows in Suxonli every autumn. But raised in ignorance like the members of her adopted village, neither Kelandris nor the villagers had known she was Rimble's daughter. That fateful night power had risen in her. Power had poured through her. Power had struck the draw and spun out of control. Power had then killed the eight people who had joined her in the turning ceremony. Including Kelandris, this small group was Rimble's original ennead, his Nine. Eight died that night. Only Kelandris survived the turn. Everyone wanted to know how she had raised such power in the first place.
In all the years of dancing for Rimble, nothing like this had ever happened. Then the village discovered Kelandris was menstruating for the first time that night. This was a village taboo. Although no one (except Hennin) knew why, no Wasp Queen was allowed to dance on the eve of her first blood.
Perceiving that sixteen-year-old Kelandris had willfully broken this law, the villagers were outraged. Elder Hennin, who had never liked Kelandris since the moment the child had been brought into the community as a homeless infant, decided the girl must be made into an example. The village indulged in a mock trial—or so it seemed to Kelandris—and pronounced her without
kin: akindo. She must be punished severely, said all of the elders. She must face the Ritual of Akindo. So Kelandris was beaten and force-fed a toxic dose of holovespa venom. Either of these two tortures would have killed a normal person. However, Kelandris was not a normal person. She was a Greatkin. Furthermore, she was the daughter of the Patron of the Impossible, the Unexpected, and the Deviant. So she did not die. Carried by Zendrak her lover-brother, out of Tammjrring into nearby Piedmerri, Kelandris of Suxonli was nursed back to physical health by none other than Aunt herself—at Zendrak's request. The emotional healing of Kelandris was still continuing, however. no one knew how long that would take, thought Aunt, again touching the slightly swollen sting on her neck. She swallowed and frowned. The part Aunt hated most about the whole Suxonli thing was the fact that Suxonli refused to this day to be held
accountable for their part in the tragedy. Kelandris had been prophesied, for Presence sake. The village elders should have trained her as a mystic. But did they? No. Why? Because the only person in the village with knowledge of this kind had perceived Kelandris as her spiritual rival. Aunt chuckled sourly. Hennin's assessment was truly laughable. Kelandris was so far out
of and above Hennin's spiritual station, it made one giddy to think about it. Kelandris wasn't a Mayanabi; she was an incarnate Greatkin like her brother, Zendrak. The world had not seen such ones as these for centuries. No, there was no comparison. None. Aunt swallowed again, noticing that she was having a little trouble doing so. Well, she had been stung on the neck; some swelling was to be expected. Aunt carried the wood out of the shed and started back toward
the inn. Aunt continued to reflect on Kelandris. Despite Kel's best efforts to make Aunt hate her during the time that Kelandris healed in Piedmerri, Aunt had grown to love the troubled woman and even now wished her well. Aunt weighed what had happened in Suxonli from yet another perspective, and considered the following carefully: Being a Greatkin, even untrained and ignorant as she had been, Kelandris would naturally have attempted to make the two-leggeds of Mnemlith become aware of their distant but very real relationship to the Greatkin. Greatkin were great kin—not gods and goddesses. And from the Greatkin point of view, two-leggeds were Greatkin in training. In time, the Greatkin expected the entire race of two-leggeds to take their place on the evolutionary line along with their «older» brothers and sisters. So even at sixteen Kelandris would have felt the impulse to help the people of Suxonli remember their divine inheritance. Aunt pursed her lips, the logs in her arms feeling heavier. What if the tragedy in Suxonli had been something more than simply a situation that pitted village law against cosmic law? What if Kelandris had unwittingly but very naturally taken on the ignorance and cruelty of the villagers—brought it out into the open by her heinous actions—and tried to absorb it, thus making the emotional burden of this
twisted village lighter? It was a possibility that no one had ever looked at, thought Aunt. If this were true, no wonder it was taking Kelandris so long to heal. Thanks to Hennin's influence, for years now Suxonli had been a hotbed of decadence and amorality. Aunt winced. Trickster often duped those he loved best. Was it possible that Kelandris had been his dupe and Greatkin self-sacrifice? Was this why he had not told Zendrak of the trial and Ritual of Akindo until it was too late? Because Rimble had wanted Kelandris to help Suxonli? Possible, concluded Aunt. And not very nice if you view it from the two-legged perspective. Aunt stumbled in the snow. Falling to her knees, Aunt suddenly realized she was feeling very light-headed. Her pulse was also racing and her throat felt thick. Her healer's senses alert now, she dropped the logs where she sat and staggered through the drifts toward the inn. Pushing open the back door that led into the kitchen, she knocked a serving lad out of the way as she
ran into the pantry. Pulling jars of herbs off of the shelf, she ordered the head cook to make her a tea comprised of two parts stingtrap and one part five-alive. The first was an antidote to severely allergic wasp and bee reactions and the second was a heart stimulant. Water already boiled on the wood stove, so Aunt felt confident she would be able to stop the wasp poison from doing her lethal harm. She put the herb mixture to her lips and
drank it. Minutes later, she realized her body was going into shock. Opening her trained Mayanabi senses, she slumped against the wall. Then Aunt sent her closest friend a last message. Protect Kelandris. Protect the Nine. Protect Yafatah. Outside in the snow near the barn, something dressed in gray shuffled and drooled. A mouth opened on its smooth face, yellow teeth glistening. It smiled. The experiment had been successful. The victim was dead, it said telepathically to Elder Hennin. What draw? Jinnjirri. Selection was random. Fine. Go on to Speakinghast. Tell me when you have killed Rimble's Nine. As you wish, replied Akindo. *4*
Fasilla received Aunt's dying message while bartering for a bolt of blue silk at a Jinnjirri shop near the southwest corner of Jinnjirri. The shop stood less than fifty miles from where Aunt lay dead in the kitchen at the Saambolin inn. Fasilla, who was Asilliwir-born and a natural haggler, stopped bartering midsentence, her thirty-six-year-old face paling. She was not used to hearing voices inside her head; she was not a Tammirring or a Mayanabi Nomad. Licking her lips nervously, Fasilla bought the silk for its
original price and hurriedly left the Jinnjirri shop, the bolt under her arm. Fasilla was on a buying trip for several members of the Kaleidicopia Boarding House in Speakinghast. She had accompanied Aunt as far as the Saambolin border and left the Jinnjirri Mayanabi there to spend time with Aunt's other Mayanabi cronies. Fasilla, who had a healthy dislike of
religious types, had declined Aunt's invitation to stay the night at the inn. Fasilla could tolerate Aunt's involvement in the Order of the Mayanabi Nomads, but only because they went back a long way. Aunt and Fasilla had attended herbalist school in Piedmerri some twenty years ago and remained fast friends ever since. Fasilla had a daughter—her only child—whose name was Yafatah. She had left the girl in Speakinghast under the care of Barlimo, the Jinnjirri architect that ran the Kaleidicopia Boarding House. Dropping the bolt of blue material into the back of her wagon, Fasilla reached in her pocket and pulled out her daughter's last letter to her. Her hands shook as she unfolded the letter. Had she missed something? What kind of danger were Yafatah and the others in? Swallowing, Fasilla read: Dearest Ma, Tis still snowing here in the city. Has been off and on ever since you left two weeks ago, so we now have three-foot drifts outside the «K.» Being a northern Tammi myself, of course I love it. I doon't think the rest of the Kaleidicopians share me joy, though. I think I've shoveled more snow than anybody else here! Well, except maybe Mab. She always does her chores
and a bit of everybody else's, too. But I doon't need to tell you that. You've been living here same as me these past three months. So I should give you all the most recent news. (Gossip, says Timmer, who do be reading this letter over me very shoulder. No privacy anywhere in this hooligan house.) Anyway, as I was saying, the news be this: Janusin has started a new
sculpture in the back studio and he willna' let a single soul see it 'til it do be done. Barlimo says the Jinn draw get like that about their art sometimes. Says nobody should take it personally. Janusin just wants us
to keep our criticisms and opinions to ourselves 'til he do be satisfied with it. Po says—well, who cares what Po says? You guessed it, Ma. That rotten rascal hasna' done one dish since you do be gone. Everybody keeps telling Zendrak to do something about Podiddley, but Zendrak just smiles that
mystery smile of his and lets the bum get away with it. I think Kelandris do be ready to punch Po out. I wouldna' wish such a fate. Kel be a Greatkin and powerful tall, as you know. That Po, though. Stinky. Mab do be pretty good these days. Those bad dreams about Cobeth have stopped and she doesna' cry every time somebody says something about drugs. Po though—he was baiting Mab for a while. I swear he talked about the drugs in the street just to make Mab bawl her eyes out in the downstairs bathroom. Zendrak—he says Po was helping Mab get over the thing with Cobeth. Making her less sensitive or something. I guess. Actually, Zendrak says I would like Po if I'd just give him a chance to be something other than what he looks like—which is stinky. Sometimes, I think Zendrak sees the good in people too much. I mean, Zendrak says Po do be a teacher for me. I say no, no, no. About Zendrak and Kelandris? Well, Tree says they do be starting to squabble again at night. Something about sex. Tree says he canna' imagine
the act with either of them two. Tree says the Jinn like their sheet-sharing playful, and them two Greatkin are anything but these days. Po says Zendrak told him the GK are arguing at their dinner thing at Eranossa and so naturally Kel and Zendrak are feeling the bad times, both of them being GK themselves. But who cares what Po thinks! Now that I've mentioned Tree, let me consider what to tell you about him. He do be working over at the university now. Professor Rowenaster got him the job. Pays to have friends on the Hill. Mostly, Tree says he hates it.
Says them Saambolin are so nasty to the Jinnjirri that he feels like starting a student protest. He may, too. I doon't think he's had green hair in three
days. Just a furious Jinnjirri red. As usual, Tree blames all the trouble on Guildmaster Gadorian. Says if he didna' love the theater and his pyro stuff so much, he'd quit. But Tree does love it, so he keeps bringing home the silivrain and coppers to Barl. Speaking of the rent, I paid ours to Barlimo last night. She acted fierce pleased. Said the Housing Commission do be still sniffing around—looking for a way to close the «K.» Having enough coppers and silies to keep things up to code helps, she said. Of course, Zendrak bails her out when it gets really bad. It is his place, after all, and so I suppose he wants to keep it going. He's mostly Zendrak these days, by the way. Hardly ever old Doogat. It's okay by me, Zendrak being just Zendrak. Gets confusing otherwise. And so like Trickster. Oh, yes—the brindle dog has disappeared again. Mab still willna' believe the dog was Greatkin Rimble. Everybody else do be convinced, however. Especially Timmer. Excuse the language, but Timmer says every time she muttered the word «shit» under her breath, the dog would shit. When she said «fuck,» the dog would start humping her leg. Nobody misses the dog except me. Pi kept me company in my room after you left. And he was always nice. Timmertandi has been playing music at a couple of Jinn cafes! She says they do be more lively than her native Dunnsung ones. Tree and Janusin say playing for the Jinnjirri will revolutionize her music. Barlimo says maybe—maybe not. In any event, Timmer seems quite happy playing for the Shifttime Tavern on Nerjii Street. Let's see. Who did I leave out? The professor. Well, he do be teaching as usual over at Speakinghast University, flunking half the class. That Rowenaster do be such a tough teacher. But what a nice old man, really. I
think I like him best of all the ruffians at this house. He do be so regular, you know. Him and his «afternoon cookie» at teatime every day. And he do
be so cheery. I'd like to be that cheery when I get that old. But being just sixteen, I guess I have some time yet before that happens. And about me? I do be mostly fine. I miss the dog, Pi, like I said. Also miss you and Aunt. Everybody was sorry to see Aunt go. Especially Barlimo. Them both being Jinn, they were acting almost like sisters by the time Aunt said she had to get back to her student, Burni. And her hollyhocks. For Presence sake, we canna' forget the hollyhocks even in winter! Right now, I do be reading some books of the professor's. Easy stuff about the Greatkin. It do be nice to learn about them. They must have been a wonderful race. Wish I could've met them. Well, I guess I shouldna' say that. I mean, I do be living with two of that race—Kelandris and Zendrak. But in truth, Ma, them two doon't act like the GK in the professor's history books. The GK in the books do be sweet and loving and almost perfect. Kelandris and Zendrak? They do be always bickering about something or running off and never saying when they'll be coming home. No, they doon't act like Greatkin at all. Besides, Kel's socks smell. Hope you find all the goodies everybody asked for from Jinnjirri. If you do be still with Aunt, give her me love. See you in a few weeks. Love and merry meet! Ya……..
Fasilla folded the letter from her daughter again and slipped it back into her tunic pocket. She bit her lower lip anxiously. Nothing in Yafatah's letter seemed amiss. Then why had Aunt sent her such a desperate message? Protect Yafatah and the others? From what? Surely Barlimo was capable of handling any adolescent crisis that might develop. And as the child said, she was living with two Greatkin. That ought to count for something. Still,
if Zendrak said the Greatkin were fighting at Eranossa, it was possible that neither Zendrak nor Kelandris would be able to keep the peace in Speakinghast. Fasilla ran her fingers through her short brown hair. She had barely begun to do the shopping she needed to do in Jinnjirri. Should she return to Speakinghast? Maybe a visit with Aunt was in order. Fasilla
squinted at the early afternoon sun. If she rode a fast horse, she might still catch Aunt at the Saambolin inn by nightfall. Maybe that would be best, she decided. Go and see Aunt. Find out why she had sent such a message. Asilliwir-born, Fasilla did not possess the Mayanabi ability to check on a
person's welfare long-distance. Still, Fasilla had sound mothering instincts. At this particular moment, she felt no fear in her heart for her daughter's
safety. And Fasilla was a natural worrier. Frowning, Fasilla unhooked one of her roans from the harness. She would ride to the Saambolin border in haste. Something wasn't right. Indeed it wasn't. *5* Today was the second month in the winter school term in Speakinghast. Professor Rowenaster wore the academic finery to suit the icy weather outside. Clad in yellow velvet, white fur, and gold trim, he cut a regal figure. The seventy-one-year-old educator walked in a stately manner toward the podium of his lecture hall. As always, he was teaching the first-year students. His Greatkin Survey course was a requirement at Speakinghast University; it was also so celebrated that many of Rowen's students came back to visit it, adding their comments to classroom discussion. The professor encouraged this. Teaching this course was the love of his life, and if students felt they had missed something the first time around—entirely possible, as Rowenaster covered vast amounts of difficult material in each short term—they were welcome to return and refresh their memories! There was one danger in this, though. If no one in his current enrollment knew the answer to a question, Rowenaster would call on the old-timers. Guildmaster Gadorian had been Rowen's student some twenty years ago; he now entered the lecture hall. Rowenaster turned to the Saambolin guildmaster, who had just taken a back-row seat. The guildmaster was a personal friend of Rowen's and had it in mind to ask «Rowenaster out to lunch when class was over. Unfortunately for Guildmaster Gadorian, no one knew the answer to the next question. Gadorian saw Rowen look in his direction and froze.
«Perhaps you'd like to tell the class your recollection of what a Greatkin is?» Gadorian's face went scarlet. «Presence alive, Rowen!» he protested. «You can't be serious. I took this class years ago. I don't remember what a Greatkin is.» He shrugged. «The stuff of folktales.» The class tittered with amusement. Guildmaster Gadorian was a large man of three hundred pounds and a formidable politician. He wielded power easily, as did most Saambolin. It was hard to imagine him as forgetful. Gadorian scowled at the eighteen-year-old faces in the room. He drew himself up in his chair, his blue robe rustling as he did so. «Well?» asked Rowen. «I'm waiting.» Gadorian stared at Rowenaster. Then he burst into laughter. «That's exactly what you used to say to me in class. And I never knew the answer.» Rowenaster grinned. «He was a terrible student,» he said to the students surrounding him. «Never studied. Personally, I think he was eyeing the girls.» Rowen chuckled. «Maybe he still is,» added the professor raising a single gray eyebrow. The Saambolin girls in the room looked aghast; Gadorian was very married, and everyone in Speakinghast knew it. Seeing the mischievous smile on Rowenaster's old face, Gadorian settled back in his chair, certain that Rowenaster would leave him alone now. But this was not to be. Rowenaster's special area of emphasis was Greatkin
Rimble. After years of studying Trickster, a year of living with Rimble's own children—Kelandris and Zendrak—and having participated in a turning ceremony last year during a party his housemates threw for Trickster's Hallows, Rowenaster had become a little tricky himself. «Give it your best shot,» said Rowen, coming over to stand next to Gadorian's chair. The Guildmaster blinked. «Now, don't take this too far,» he muttered in a low voice to the professor. «I don't know what a Greatkin is, and furthermore I don't care what a Greatkin is.» «Well, you should,» said Rowen coolly. «My business is with this city. It's alive. The Greatkin are part of a dead religion. They're finished. And they've nothing to do with me.» «Ah, the modern mind,» said Rowenaster, his voice slightly sarcastic. Turning to the class, he asked, «Let's see a show of hands. How many of you think the Greatkin ever existed?» Everyone's hand shot into the air, including Rowen's and Gadorian's. «Okay,» continued the professor. «How many of you think there are Greatkin alive now?» Only Rowenaster raised his hand. «Worse than last year,» said Rowen. «But hardly surprising. This is the Jinnaeon: the shifttime of the world when no one can tell the difference between what is seemingly urgent—election results and grades—and what is unquestionably most important. The Greatkin being the latter,» he added with a sigh. «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 handsome man, his hair gray, his skin dark brown, his posture absolutely perfect. His beard was neat, as were his fingernails. 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 fanatics, 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 guild-master, 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 chauvinistic 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 her 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