***
The Trickster paced her cage. The men had told her she didn't have to answer any questions. She recalled their droning singsong: "You have the right to remain silent. . ." Why were they so angry with her when she chose not to speak? Many of the questions she heard lurking in their minds had no answers—or no answers they would accept. If she told them she was a god from another world it would be disastrous. So instead, they kept her caged—waiting for the judge to set bail, whatever that meant. She had no allies, no hope of aid. Perhaps she could pull herself back across the void, but what if she failed? What if the attempt depleted her power still further? Besides, to retreat would be to concede to the Weaver, and she couldn't bear that!
Time crawled past, while she maintained her dogged silence. She paced—and worried.
***
Miles away from the Trickster, Alexandra struggled with a different sort of prison: she could not find her way out of her own disordered mind. People spoke to her, but their words evoked no response, their faces evoked no sign of recognition. She ate what was set before her—or some of it—and slept when she felt the need. She was passive, withdrawn; nothing shook her.
Isaac Marchbanks stifled a sigh. Talking with Alexandra was worse than talking to a wall. He let his gaze wander around the little cubicle, as he sought another topic of conversation. He noticed that someone had covered the mirror with a pillowcase. "Did you cover the mirror, Alexandra?" he asked. No response. He removed the shrouding pillowcase, watching her reaction. She made a brief, agitated gesture, then turned her back to him.
"It's a mirror, Alexandra," Isaac said as he unhooked it from the wall. "It won't hurt you. It just reflects the room—see?" He held it out to her. She turned away. "What is it that frightens you, Alexandra? Is it something you see in the mirror?" He held it in front of her face again.
She shut her eyes. He waited several minutes, but she did not relent. He suppressed a sigh. "I going now, Alexandra, and I will take the mirror away. I'll talk with you again tomorrow."
In the hallway, he ran into a colleague. "How's the Scarsdale girl?" the man asked.
Isaac sighed. "I got a reaction out of her—but not a hopeful sign. She had covered her mirror; when I uncovered it, she reacted with distress. When I pushed her, she closed down completely. Damned if I know what to do."
"Remember what I said about electroshock therapy."
"I do," Isaac admitted. "But I'd rather exhaust other options first."
The other man shrugged. "Well, good luck."
When he reached his office, Isaac propped the mirror up on his desk and collapsed into his chair. Alexandra had told him about the episode with the mirror in her bathroom; no wonder mirrors bothered her. But he had really hoped she would break her silence; instead, she had withdrawn further. Nothing he tried worked. Maybe electroshock was the answer—but not yet. He'd give it a little longer—through the weekend, anyway. Then, if there wasn't significant improvement, he would move her to the psychiatric hospital and see what wisdom his colleagues there could offer.
***
"Look, isn't there someone you want to contact?" one of the Trickster's jailors asked her again. "You can make a call. Surely there's someone who's worried about you."
The Trickster shook her head. She was used to being alone. The worst thing was the boredom. One of the guards had offered her something to read, but she was loath to spend the power now to acquire the written language. In the world of the Loom, only the Vemathi used writing much—and mostly to keep accounts. If only she had a mirror. Scrying did not use much power, and it would amuse her. But there was no mirror in her cell—
She broke off the thought with a muffled oath. Had her wits gone begging? She pulled the cord of her sunglasses over her head and began gazing into their mirrored surface. An image formed slowly. She didn't guide her scrying, just opened her mind to anyone involved in the search for 'Tsan. As the image steadied, her eyes widened. She had expected one of the Weaver's allies, or perhaps 'Tsan herself. What she saw brought laughter to her lips. Of course! It was simple! Why hadn't she thought of it? As she smiled to herself, the image in her glass raised his head and looked straight at her. The shock on his face pulled her into action; she dismissed the scrying swiftly. There was no sense in frightening poor Isaac Marchbanks to death. He was going to get her out of this place!
EIGHTEEN
It was finally decided that Ychass and Vihena would go to Boston with Brigid. Vihena was so eager for action that she didn't argue when asked to leave her sword behind. Angel, Mark, and Brice turned their energies to organizing Remarr, Iobeh, and Karivet to help out with the Competitive Trail Ride.
The next morning, Brigid and Ychass stopped at the stable around seven to pick up Vihena.
"How are you getting along with the Newcombs?" Brigid greeted her.
Vihena smiled a little ruefully. "In the interests of making myself welcome, I baked a batch of honey cakes. Mr. Newcomb said he wasn't going to let me go back to Greece."
"I wouldn't have thought that, even for intrigue's sake, you would consent to do such a womanly task," Ychass drawled.
Vihena didn't rise to the bait; instead, she said to Brigid, "How are you managing with our shapeshifter?"
Brigid laughed. "I was worried about how uncomfortable Ychass would be on my couch. It's not really long enough, and it is very lumpy. Imagine my surprise when I found a large gray tabby cat asleep on the cushions!"
Ychass's expression held a hint of feline smugness. "Cats can make themselves comfortable in nearly any situation."
The drive to the outskirts of Boston took them a little over three hours. As they drew nearer the city, Ychass and Vihena were astounded at the crowded neighborhoods. "There are so many people," Ychass said more than once. "How can they bear being pressed together like grains of sand in a dune?" The city was vast and terribly untidy; there were people and buildings everywhere. They had never imagined the world could contain so many souls.
Finally, Brigid guided the car into a space that seemed several sizes too small. "Well, we're here," she told them. "This is Harvard Square. Come on. Let's look around."
Both Ychass and Vihena watched as Brigid pushed coins into the slot on the meter. When it made a strange, churring noise, Vihena asked why it ate metal. Brigid explained as well as she could. When they reached Harvard Yard, a student gave them complicated directions, then pointed them toward the river and suggested that if they didn't find Dunster House, they ask again when they were nearer.
As it turned out, they found it fairly easily. Dunster House was a huge, sprawling brick structure that looked large enough to house a castleful of students. They went through the main entry hall into a courtyard; there were many doors and over each one was a neatly stenciled legend. Brigid steered them to E ENTRY, and up to the fifth floor. Vihena strode to the door and knocked. The knocking echoed in the stairwell like the pounding of the hand of fate. There was no answer.
"Oh, merciless gods," Vihena groaned. "Where can she be?"
"We could leave her a note," Brigid suggested.
"You'll have to write it," Ychass reminded her. "We are not familiar with the written language."
After a moment's scribbling, Brigid read her note for their approval.
11:20 AM, July 26th. Dear Alexandra:
Vihena and Ychass are in Boston for the day. We hope to connect with you before we go back to Vermont. We'll come back around 1:00 PM, and again right before we head out of town. Leave a note if you can't be here. Our departure time is flexible, and we would REALLY like to see you! If we miss you, Ychass is staying with me, Brigid Chandler, at 115 Harrington St. Apt. 3, Barre, VT 05641. Phone: (802) 470-5758. Please get in touch with us; we want desperately to see you.
Brigid, Ychass, & Vihena.
"Can you sign it or make some mark she would recognize?"
Vihena took the pen and scrawled the emblem of the House of Moirre at the bottom of the note. They sealed the note and wedged i
t between the door and the frame, where Alexandra couldn't miss seeing it. Then, they went in search of lunch.
***
The Trickster left the police station with Isaac Marchbanks. As he unlocked his car, he gave her a harried look and said, "You owe me, Antekkereh."
"Owe you what?" the Trickster responded warily.
"Well, at least an explanation. Let's go back to the Square, get something to eat—then you can explain."
She studied his profile as he pulled into traffic, then said, "I have the right to remain silent." Her words were almost a question. She didn't want to explain—but he had used her name.
"I'm not putting you on trial," he protested. "I just want to know what the hell is going on."
The Trickster was silent. When they reached the Square, they walked through the busy streets to a small, quiet cafe, in the basement of a house. A bored waiter handed them menus. The Trickster watched Isaac, copying him as he scanned the menu. After a moment, he laid it aside.
"Do you know what you want?" he asked; then, his gaze sharpened on the menu in her hands. It was upside down.
"I want not to have to give you an explanation."
"I meant to eat," he clarified.
"What are you having?"
"A cup of cappuccino and a croissant."
She nodded. "That sounds fine. I'll have that, too." As he ordered for them, she wondered idly what sort of food the waiter might bring. It couldn't be as awful as what she had been eating for the last several days.
"How about that explanation?"
"Where should I begin?"
"At the beginning?" Isaac offered.
"That makes for a long tale," she replied with a shrug. "Before the beginning of history, I came to be, born of the mischief in the Mother's laughter. When she saw what she had done, she told me that I should be the one to keep her other children from growing complacent. Through the ages of my youth—"
"Let's narrow the focus a little," Isaac Marchbanks cut in, a hint of sardonic amusement in his tone. "Or we may be here all week. How did you get the bike, Antekkereh? Did you steal it?"
"I am not a thief!" she blazed. "I understand the game and I don't cheat. I bought it," she added, as an afterthought.
"Where did you get the money?"
"People gave it to me."
"Wait a minute! You have people who would give you enough money to buy an expensive motorcycle, but you stay in jail four days because you can't think of anyone who'd bail you out?"
"There is more to caring than simply giving money."
Isaac Marchbanks sighed. "True enough. So let's leave the bike for now. How do you know Alexandra?"
The Trickster shrugged. This was bad. She considered expending the power to nudge the waiter into interrupting, but before she could do this, he arrived with their food. After he left, Isaac tried to pick up the conversation.
"You told me Alexandra doesn't know your name. You can't be much of a friend. Why do you want to see her so badly?"
"She is bedeviled by fear and memory. I want to give her peace."
Isaac said, with a hint of grimness, "Is that true?"
"Would I lie to you?" she parried.
"You certainly might not tell me the whole truth."
This counterthrust startled the Trickster into laughter. "I certainly might not," she agreed, with reluctant respect.
"How would you give her peace?"
The Trickster picked words carefully as she blended truth and misrepresentation. "Her memories cause her pain: she cannot believe what she remembers and does not remember that which she believes. I could resolve her conflict—make her belief and memories run parallel again. I am something of a catalyst."
The doctor silently pondered her words. Looking up, he captured her gaze. "Antekkereh. I want you to tell me why you want to give Alexandra peace. Is it for her sake—or for your own?"
The Trickster wrenched free of his pinioning eyes, but she could not evade his question. "I want to be free," she whispered. "This is one way to accomplish that. But it would also free Alexandra from her torment." She met his eyes. "I would give her peace, Isaac. I swear it. I swear it by my name."
The doctor's expression clouded. "But is it a peace she would choose, Antekkereh?"
The Trickster looked away. "Isaac, I don't know. But I do believe that it is the only peace she will find, here."
Isaac was silent. Part of him longed to believe her, longed to turn over some of the responsibility for this perplexing case to Antekkereh. But peace meant different things to different people. "Tell me," he said, when the silence began to feel confining. "Of what do you want to be free?"
"I want to be free of restraints."
"But we all have restraints; it is the price of being civilized."
"Civilized!" she snarled. "I have no use for order." An avid—almost feral—expression lit her face. "I was meant to be a sower of chaos! I want to ride the winds, laugh with the storm, and dance with fire! And I want to fulfill my destiny to keep the rest of the Mother's children from complacency!"
"It sounds lonely to me."
"Lonely?" The word was a scornful laugh. "What use have I for others?"
"That's exactly what I mean." He reached across the table and caught her wrist. "I need your promise that you will give up trying to see Alexandra. She needs peace, but she must find it in her own way."
"Very well," the Trickster replied. "I promise—on my honor." The Trickster's honor, she knew, was double-edged.
His grip tightened on her wrist. "Antekkereh, swear on your name."
She could not break free. Between the binding of her name and the keen edges of her honor there was not space enough to maneuver. Rebellion smoldered in her eyes, and bitterness colored her words. "I, Antekkereh, swear that I will not come next or nigh 'Tsan—whom you know as Alexandra. I swear I will neither impose my will nor use my influence upon her. This I swear on my name, and may the Namegiver hear me and hold me to my oath. Are you satisfied, Isaac Marchbanks?"
"Yes." He released her wrist. "Look, Antekkereh, have you got a place to stay?"
His change of subject caught her off guard. "No. But I'll find someplace."
"Come back to the office," he suggested. "I'll give you a spare key and directions to my house. You can stay with me."
"Don't you fear I'll murder you in your bed?"
"I am far more afraid for you than of you, Antekkereh," he said pensively.
She set her cup back on the saucer with a sharp click. "More fool you."
Isaac Marchbanks smiled. "I don't think so. Not this time. Come on: let's go."
***
Brigid picked the restaurant: a Middle-Eastern deli called The Hungry Persian. After they'd eaten, they wandered around, watching street-jugglers, and observing the masses of people.
"I've never been to a market this large," Ychass said.
"Nor one with such diversity of dress and behavior," Vihena said. "Look at her, " she added, nodding toward a tall woman in black leather, with neon-orange hair and mirrored sunglasses.
Brigid grinned. "It certainly takes all kinds. You know, I think it's time we headed back to Alexandra's."
As they walked back to Dunster House, each was careful not to voice doubts or fears and none of them—not even Vihena—noticed the extraordinarily flamboyant woman following them.
Their note was still in the door, undisturbed.
"Curse the perversity of the gods!" Vihena said. "We are so close to 'Tsan I can almost smell her, and"—she spread her hands in exasperation—"she is not home. What must we do? Camp on her doorstep?"
"It is frustrating," Brigid agreed. "Let's knock again; maybe she was asleep before."
Vihena pounded loudly enough to wake the dead. As the echoes died, the door across the landing opened.
A young man looked out. "Are you looking for Alexandra?"
"Yes!" Brigid responded. "We're just here for the day, but we really wanted to catch up with her."
&n
bsp; A look of trouble crossed his face. "She's in Stillman—that's the Infirmary. She had kind of a—breakdown, I guess. I don't know whether she can have visitors."
"She's ill?" Vihena demanded, before Brigid's hand closed on her wrist.
"She kind of lost it—freaked out, or something. It might have been drugs."
Or a spell? Ychass's thought-voice queried. Remember, the Trickster is here.
The young man gave them directions to the Infirmary, and they set out, leaving their note in the door—just in case.
None of them noticed the figure that slipped inside the doorway from which they had come. As they headed to the Infirmary, the Trickster climbed the stairs to Alexandra's aerie. She pounced upon the note like a lioness on her prey and tucked it into her pocket. She couldn't read it, but she knew she could find someone to read it for her. And though she had given her word that she would leave 'Tsan alone, she had made no promises at all regarding the Wanderer's friends and allies!
NINETEEN
The Infirmary was located in a glass-and-concrete tower overlooking the Square. Brigid led them to the elevator and guided her friends inside. The doors hissed shut and they ascended.
"We'd like to see Alexandra Scarsdale," Brigid told the receptionist. "We're friends from out of town. Alexandra's neighbor told us she was here."
The white-clad woman looked doubtful. "Dr. Marchbanks said no visitors, but if you like, I'll check with him."
Brigid nodded thanks and the receptionist disappeared. She returned a moment later.
"Doctor Marchbanks is with a patient. If you'd like to wait, he should be finished in ten or fifteen minutes."
"Thank you. We'll wait," Brigid said.
Ychass raised an eyebrow. "Actually," she said aloud, "I think I'll run that errand I mentioned. It shouldn't take very long." Under the words, her thought-voice gave a different message. The guardian doesn't think Dr. Marchbanks will let us see his patient. I'll shift and sneak in to see her.
Wait, Brigid thought back. Let me see if I can help you. "Maybe you could find a nice card for her," she suggested aloud, then turned to the nurse. "What room is she in, so we can send her flowers or something?"
The Feast of the Trickster Page 12