The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

  "A gift from Ohmiden: power he stole from the Trickster. Take it; use it. Nothing will curb her as potently as her own strength."

  "How did he get this? Why did he take such a risk?"

  "He did not choose this, Dreamweaver. The Trickster tried to bind and use him. He could not triumph, but neither could the Trickster break him. In such a case, death is a mercy it is mine to offer. I gave him my shears, old woman, so that he could cut his thread free." Wonder crept into the Harvester's voice. "He cut the Trickster's bindings instead and loosed the full force of her rage against him. He could not withstand her—Ohmiden was a mortal, and old. But he dealt the Trickster a bitter blow indeed. Use the silk, Dreamweaver, to strengthen the Loom."

  Eikoheh studied the Harvester's face, then she took the skein of silk. As Eikoheh's hand closed on the silk, the Harvester vanished. The silk thrummed with power. Eikoheh knelt by the bier where she had laid Ohmiden's body out for burial.

  "So this is your legacy," she said. "No doubt I should be grateful. After all, you gave everything to gain us this weapon. " She looked from his tranquil face to the skein of glowing silk and back. "It seems a poor trade to me, old man." Tears blurred her vision. "Ohmiden," she murmured, then her voice rose to a wail, "Oh, gods, Ohmiden, I will miss you!" For the first time since the old dreamer had ceased breathing, Eikoheh wept.

  SIXTEEN

  In the morning, Angel arrived at Horizon Stable radiant with confidence. Things were finally going right. They knew where the Five's elusive friend was (even though no one had gotten her on the phone); and further, Angel's parents had agreed to let her invite Vihena to stay with them. Brice and Mark also arrived with invitations for Remarr and the twins. This left Ychass, but Angel knew the shapeshifter could stay in Brigid's apartment. She went through the morning chores whistling.

  Her breezy confidence didn't survive chores. As soon as Mark managed to catch a few moments alone with her, he said, "Angel, I've been thinking. It's summer. What if this Alexandra Scarsdale is away?"

  "Wouldn't the school have said?" Angel demanded.

  "How would I know? But if we don't get her today or tomorrow, we're never going to be able to keep the Five from going down there to look for her."

  "A trip to Boston might be fun," Angel suggested with a belligerent optimism that Mark knew well.

  "Get real. They'd get eaten alive in the city."

  "Okay," she snapped. "Keep your shirt on. We'll think of something."

  Angel set her mind to scheming. She needed a plan before she confronted the others with this collection of worries.

  In the tack room, she found the Five deep in a heated discussion. They started guiltily at her entrance, but resumed once they realized who she was.

  "Won't you at least try, Ychass?" Vihena asked. "How fitting for us to tum her own weapon against her."

  "No, I won't!" the shapeshifter flared. "I haven't any training; I'm no match for a god!"

  "What's this about?" Angel murmured to Remarr.

  "Scrying," he reported, then seeing her baffled look, he added, "using a mirror to see over distance."

  "I didn't know Ychass could do that."

  "She can't," Remarr whispered back.

  "Then why are they arguing?"

  Remarr's lips twitched. "It passes the time."

  Just then, Brice poked his head in. "Hop to it, guys," he called. "There's a hay wagon coming. Kelly says she needs it unloaded and out of the arena as soon as possible. She has two lessons to teach this morning."

  Angel was glad of the mindless work of heaving and stacking the fresh hay bales; it gave her time to think—and she desperately needed to come up with a workable plan.

  ***

  The Infirmary had a hushed feeling. The Trickster paced the waiting room. What was taking so long? The small woman in white had disappeared several minutes ago. The Trickster wished she had dared expend the power to control the lackey, but she needed to conserve her strength.

  The click of heels announced the woman's return. "This way, please." She gestured. "Dr. Marchbanks will see you."

  The Trickster stopped short, glaring at her. "I don't want to see Dr. Marchbanks," she said. "I want to see my friend."

  The woman wilted, but just then Dr. Marchbanks himself appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression stern.

  "I'm afraid you can't see your friend."

  The Trickster rounded on him. "You promised."

  Isaac Marchbanks propelled her into his office. "The good of my patient has to take precedence. I'm sure you agree that I must do what is best for Alexandra." He steered her to a chair, indicating that she should sit down.

  The Trickster fixed her gaze on his face. "I will see my friend." Her voice pushed inexorably against his reasoning.

  "No."

  Though the Trickster's temper began to fray, she maintained her persuasive tone. "But I must see my friend; it will make her better to see me. I only need a moment, and she will be much, much better. Indeed, do what is best for her: let me see her."

  Isaac Marchbanks felt her arguments like a physical force, but he resisted. "I must decide what is best for her. I do not think it would be helpful for you to see her."

  The Trickster's temper broke free. "Then suffer the consequences of your pigheadedness!" she growled. Lashing out with her hoarded power, she took 'Tsan's location from his mind and strode down the corridor. She had not gone far before she realized what she had taken from him was worthless. The place was a maze; the hallways looked alike. She had taken the image of the place where 'Tsan was, but not the key to the maze.

  In his office, Isaac Marchbanks came to himself. As his surroundings steadied, he reached for the phone. "Security? This is Dr. Marchbanks. There's a deranged person roaming the halls. Could you send someone up here? She's over six feet tall, wearing black leather and orange hair, and she's stronger than you'd expect." He put the phone down and stared at it. His mind felt thick. He was still battling lethargy when the Trickster burst into his office.

  "Call them off," she ordered.

  He didn't need to ask what she meant. "No. You need help."

  "Not their help and not yours. Call them off—or I may be forced to do you harm."

  "Forced by whom? If you are threatening me you will have to decide whether or not to hurt me. That choice comes from you, not from some outside impulse. You make your choice, and then you have to live with the consequences of your actions."

  She stared at him. "You are standing a hair's breadth from death, yet you are quibbling over words. Do you think I cannot harm you? Call them off."

  "I have no doubt that you could hurt me—"

  "I could kill you. You are extremely annoying."

  "Are you in the habit of killing things that annoy you?" he asked mildly.

  "If a fly bites"—she ground her hands together—"I crush it."

  "People aren't flies."

  Before she could respond, there was a knock. A look passed between them, then he gestured with his chin. "Stand behind the door. And don't try to be clever. Yes?" he called.

  The door opened about ten inches and a security guard stuck his face in. "We looked all over, Doctor. Your visitor seems to have found her way out."

  "Well, thanks for trying."

  "All in a day's work." He laughed, then withdrew.

  The Trickster studied the doctor for several moments before she spoke. "I don't understand you. You whistled up those hounds; why didn't you tell him I was here?"

  "I didn't think I needed to. Was I wrong?"

  The hint of a smile softened the Trickster's cool gaze. "I don't think so. Will you let me see 'Tsan—my friend—now?"

  "No," he said, with a sudden surge in his heart rate. The people in Alexandra's delusional world called her 'Tsan.

  "You must enjoy living on the edge of danger," the Trickster purred.

  "Not particularly. But I have to stand by what I believe is best for my patients."

  "When may I
see her?"

  Isaac Marchbanks fixed the woman with a serious gaze. "When Alexandra is rational, I will ask her whether she wants to see you; then, if she does, we can arrange a short visit."

  "When?"

  He spread his hands, still holding her gaze. "I don't know. Tell me your name."

  "Antekkereh," she responded. Her eyes widened, as though she had said more than she'd intended. She jerked away from his probing gaze. "Why did you want my name?" she asked.

  "So I can tell Alexandra who wants to see her."

  The Trickster went to the door. "She doesn't know my name," she said. Before Isaac Marchbanks could react, she was gone.

  ***

  Eikoheh studied the Fate as she fingered the skein the Harvester had given her. The silk was like nothing else. How could she cast this shifting color into her subtle pattern and expect anything but chaos? And yet she must. The Harvester had told her to; besides, it was Ohmiden's last gift. She sighed.

  As her thoughts circled, her fingers began to worry at the silk. It was then that she made her discovery: the silk could be drawn out to a filament so fine it retained only the faintest shimmer of color. It could be stretched until it was delicate as cobwebs, but not broken. Suddenly, the Dreamweaver understood how to use the stolen power. There—yes!—there was a color that would be enhanced and strengthened by a little of Ohmiden's silk. She spun a length of iridescent filament and added the power to the thread she had selected, rewinding the bobbin with care. Then, with a grim smile, she sent the shuttle singing through the warp. Maybe this would give the Trickster pause!

  ***

  The Trickster left the Infirmary in a state of deep frustration. She couldn't understand how Marchbanks had compelled her name from her! She had lost power, she knew, when the old seer had defied her—but surely not enough to undermine her ability to control mortals. Perhaps Marchbanks had some inborn talent. He was a healer; maybe that made him resistant to her. She frowned. And now he had her name. Names were power, and Marchbanks was already strong enough.

  She sighed explosively as she mounted her two-wheeled horse. She might not be able ride the winds in this ridiculous world, but she could at least create the illusion with her powerful machine. She roared down the street.

  The Trickster shot through traffic with little regard for the rules others followed. When she reached a stretch of clear road, she sped over the pavement like a black-and-orange lightning bolt. Behind her, the air erupted into wails; blue lights flashed in her mirrors. The Trickster laughed; the speed was exhilarating. The wind of her passage raked her spiky hair.

  After a time, she was forced to brake. One of the slow, foolish crate-vehicles had wedged itself across the road. It signaled its distress in sharp, bright blue flashes. The Trickster was looking for a way around it when an unnaturally loud voice boomed out: "ALL RIGHT, HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!"

  She looked for the source; by the sound, the speaker would be formidable indeed.

  "FREEZE!"

  The Trickster halted, awaiting further developments. A young man in blue livery approached. "Where's the fire?" he asked.

  The Trickster was puzzled. "Which one?"

  "Cute. Speed limit's forty. Radar clocked you at ninety-seven. You'd better have a pretty good excuse."

  The Trickster was silent.

  "I need your license, registration, and proof of insurance."

  The Trickster felt a squirm of unease; the man from whom she had bought this thing had mentioned a license before she made him forget it. "Is it terribly, terribly important?" she asked, her voice silken. "For if it is, you will have to wait here while I go fetch them."

  "Yes, it's terribly important," he said, mimicking her tone. "But I'm not going to wait here because I wasn't born yesterday." On the last four words, he vented blistering sarcasm. The Trickster stiffened. "Now, do you or do you not have your license with you?"

  The Trickster reached for her hoarded power. "Why don't you forget you ever saw me," she suggested. For an instant she thought she had him; then fury blazed in his eyes.

  "Forget I ever saw you? I've been chasing you for the past fifteen minutes and radioed headquarters about you. I damn well won't forget I saw you! I don't know what you think you're offering me, but whatever it is, I don't want it!!"

  Another liveried man approached them. "Trouble, Simmonds?"

  "Trouble? Fifty-seven miles per hour over posted limit, no helmet, no license, no registration, no proof of insurance—and an attempt at bribery! It's all in a day's work, sir."

  "Is the bike stolen?"

  "Computer's checking."

  The older man turned to the Trickster. "All right. Get off the bike; put your hands on the side of the squad car."

  She fell in with his wishes, but when he started to frisk her, she bridled. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Looking for concealed weapons," he said coolly. When he had finished, he opened the rear door of the squad car and motioned her inside. "Get in. Now. "

  The Trickster started to protest, but thought better of it. These men weren't responding at all to her attempts at control. At least Marchbanks had had to struggle to defy her.

  "All right, Simmonds," she heard him say. "I'll take her in and book her. Check in with me before you go off duty."

  The words made no sense to the Trickster. What did it mean to 'book her'? She suspected the phrase 'take her in' did not mean they were offering her shelter. The two men finished and the older one joined his companion in the front of the vehicle. No one spoke to the Trickster as they started away. Her uneasiness grew and strengthened. For the first time she felt—not irritation, not anger, but—fear.

  SEVENTEEN

  With a satisfied sigh, the Dreamweaver laid her shuttle down and stretched her aching shoulders. It was working: the way she was winding Ohmiden's gift into the pattern. She could feel the stolen power restraining the Trickster.

  A faint noise spun the old woman around. The Weaver was there, watching her.

  "Don't you knock anymore?" she demanded.

  He smiled an apology. "I felt the changes in the Loom; I came to see how you were doing it. That's the power Ohmiden stole, is it not?" At her nod he went on. "Your use of it is brilliant. You've clipped her pinions—yet you still have quite a bit of the silk left."

  The old woman nodded. "If the Trickster went after me directly, I'm sure she could break through what I've woven; but for some reason, she seems to be avoiding direct assaults."

  "She is devious."

  "I don't think so," the Dreamweaver responded. "She faces constraints that are no part of my weaving; the Five face the same. 'Tsan's world is not reconciled to mystery."

  The Weaver was silent. "So what next?" he asked at last.

  "Should we tell the Five, or their Allies, that we have lessened the Trickster's power?"

  Elgonar considered. "Even thus weakened, the Trickster is dangerous. I would not give the Five cause for false optimism."

  Eikoheh raised her eyebrows. "Or cause for real hope? They went feeling very overmatched. This might encourage them. "

  "I will ask the others." The god laid a hand on the old woman's shoulder. "In the meantime, rest."

  His words summoned a prickle of unshed tears as Eikoheh was reminded of Ohmiden. She managed a weak smile, but words were beyond her.

  ***

  "Brigid!" Angel whispered. "Come here!"

  Brigid followed Angel out to the manure pile. "What's up?"

  "Maybe nothing—maybe a problem. You haven't reached Alexandra, have you?" At her negative gesture, Angel continued. "Well, Mark reminded me that it's summer, and lots of students leave campus. What if she's away? We've got to find out."

  "Have you got a plan?"

  "Well, the skeleton of one. See, someone needs to call the school and try to weasel out whether she's enrolled for the summer term. I'd do it, but I don't see how I can without causing some problems when Kelly gets her phone bill. Besides, I don't want to worry the others
until we know the worst."

  Brigid nodded. "Okay. I think I can manage the phone. Cut through the pasture to Kelly's and I'll meet you there."

  "You're going to ask her?" Angel demanded, almost forgetting to keep her voice down.

  "Sure. This is the Brigid Chandler Direct Approach. I ask permission, give her a couple of bucks to pay for the call, and—presto!—long-distance call with no questions asked. Go on, Angel. I'll see you in a few minutes."

  A short time later, having extracted the university's phone number from Information, Angel dialed the number.

  "Hello?" she said loftily. "I say, I hope you can help me out. I'm trying to get in touch with a friend of mine who's an undergraduate. Her name's Alexandra Scarsdale. I have her telephone number, but she hasn't been home, and I can't remember whether she said she'd be taking classes this summer or not. I thought perhaps you could tell me whether she's enrolled for the summer session?" There was a pause. "Alexandra Scarsdale." Angel looked over at Brigid and held her crossed fingers up. "Yes? She is. Oh good. Well, I guess I'll just have to keep ringing her, unless—I don't suppose you could tell me her address, so I could drop by with a note? It would be such a pity to miss her." Angel snatched a pencil. "E-fifty-two Dunster House. Thanks ever so much. Goodbye." Angel hung up. "Success!" she crowed. "She's there and we have her address. How do you feel about a trip to Boston?"

  "Something tells me I'd better answer in the affirmative. But I can't get us all into my car, and I'm not doing the negotiating—if you know what I mean. We could go tomorrow; I'm not working on Fridays this month."

  "Tomorrow! All right!" Suddenly, Angel's face fell. "But tomorrow's the Competitive Trail Ride! We have to work on it!"

  "Friday's the only day off I have," Brigid said. "Ask Kelly whether she can manage without you."

  Angel thumped her fist into her palm. "She's already complained that she's understaffed. She'll kill us if we rat out!"

  "I didn't volunteer. Tell the Five that I'll take two of them with me to Boston tomorrow." Brigid took pity on her. "Cheer up, Angel. We may get her on the phone before we leave."

  Angel managed to smile. "Yeah. Besides, the important thing is finding her, not who's there when we run her to earth. Let's go back. It's got to be time for chores."