The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

After supper, Angel got Brice on the phone, explained the situation, and begged him to get Remarr to agree. "I have the worst feeling about this whole thing," she confided.

  "Not to worry," Brice assured her. "Remarr's practically champing at the bit to get to Boston. Hang on. I'll get him."

  Soon, it was all arranged. When things were settled, Angel called Brigid. Though Brigid tried to be reassuring, Angel sensed her uneasiness, and she went to bed troubled.

  "I know you and Angel expect me to watch over Vihena," Remarr remarked, as he and Brice were getting ready for bed. "But what more do I need to know to keep us both out of difficulties?"

  Brice shrugged, then smiled crookedly. "A crash course in American culture."

  "Oh?" Remarr prodded, his expression puzzled.

  "That's my way of saying I don't know where to start. I could try to explain the Transit system, but if you start messing with trains and buses, you're sure to get lost—you can't even read the names of the stations."

  Remarr waited, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.

  Brice sighed heavily. "I don't think you have any idea, Remarr, how big Boston really is. It would be so easy to get lost, and I'm not sure you know enough about how things work here to manage." He trailed off. For a moment, the only noise was the chorus of crickets and night birds.

  "Perhaps you are wise to be concerned," Remarr said. "Vihena and I have tasted some of your people's strange ways—and she does not always consider before she acts. If we were to get lost, Brice, what should we do to get found again?"

  Brice thought for a moment. "Angel said her dad's meeting was at the Copley Plaza Hotel. If you got lost, you might take a taxi there."

  "What is a taxi?"

  Brice stared at his friend. "Yipes! That's what I mean. A taxi is a kind of car. You pay the driver to take you where you want to go. It's a lot more expensive than the bus or the subway—" He broke off in the face of Remarr's bafflement. "Bus, subway—big magic carts that carry lots of people all at once; that's the Transit system. They follow set routes, but you can't read the station names, and I really think you'd be better off with a taxi. At least you can ask the taxi driver questions."

  "How would I recognize a taxi?"

  "They're labeled—" He broke off with an exasperated laugh. "And a fat lot of good that will do, since you can't read. Lots of them are bright yellow. They usually have the company name on the side, and a little lighted box on top. But look, if you stand on the curbside and wave like this"—he demonstrated—"saying, 'Taxi! Taxi!' eventually one will stop for you."

  Remarr was silent for a moment; then he asked, "Would a taxi driver accept a song as payment?"

  "A song?" Brice repeated; then his eyes widened. "No! The driver would want money—you know, that paper and metal stuff we use to buy things."

  "I haven't any," Remarr pointed out.

  Brice pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, then went to his desk, and found a ten, two fives, and three ratty ones. He gave the bills to Remarr, showed him how to tell them apart, and explained the difference in value. When he could think of nothing more to tell Remarr, he said good night, and they turned out the light. He could only hope that the minstrel understood enough to stave off disaster.

  Shortly after nine in the morning Mr. Newcomb left Remarr and Vihena on the pavement outside the hotel. He had given them what he called a T Map; but as neither one could make sense of the colored lines and strange black markings, Remarr stowed it in his harp case.

  "So," he said blandly. "Have you a plan?"

  "Surely you're not at a loss?" Vihena said mockingly.

  "You've been here before; I haven't. I bow to your greater experience."

  "I haven't been to this part," she protested.

  Remarr struggled with his temper. "For the love of the wise gods, Vihena," he said with hard-won evenness, "what would you have done if I hadn't come with you?"

  "Looked for 'Tsan!" she snapped.

  "Indeed?" His eyebrows arched. "Without Iobeh? And what would you do with her if you found her? Judging from Ychass's experience, she would be unable to listen to you."

  "If you think this a hopeless task, why did you come?''

  "Because Brice and Angel asked me to. They were uneasy about your being alone in this place."

  "So they think I need a cowardly minstrel for a guardian?" Vihena asked bitterly.

  "You have many good qualities, Vihena," Remarr said evenly, "but you are not given to caution."

  "Caution?" she demanded. "Why you arrogant—"

  "Surely we have better things to do than trade insults on the street like a pair of bickering children?"

  Remarr's tone brought her up short; her fury cooled to sarcasm. "So controlled, Remarr. So sensible. Don't you ever get tired of being so reasonable?"

  "Yes. Often." A glint of emotion lit his eyes, as he continued. "But I live in a world, Vihena, where one word could be my death. I cannot afford to have a temper. I may look like a Khedath, but I have no sword with which to avenge my honor, no Weapons Discipline with which to defend my life. So I am sensible, and I am also still alive."

  "You are a coward," she stated, her own voice as colorless as if she had said he was blond.

  The minstrel was silent while a range of emotions passed over his face. "How can you say that?" he whispered. "Is it cowardice to refuse to fight over something that is not worth dying for?"

  "But Remarr," she said, exasperated, "you don't think anything is worth that price! That's exactly what I mean."

  The minstrel's face went blank and ashen; when he spoke, his voice was thick with bitterness. "I spat in the Trickster's face. Have you, with all your posturing, done as much?"

  Vihena looked away in the face of his challenging gaze. They made a tableau in the midst of the incurious pedestrians. She couldn't bring herself to apologize—nor to revise her perception of Remarr as weak and cowardly; but she could be spurred to action. Mention of the Trickster had awakened her anger; there had to be a blow Vihena could strike against the meddling god! As she thought, a plan began to take shape. She and the minstrel were a gauntlet flung in the Trickster's face—if only she could be made to notice them. And when she came, Vihena would be ready.

  "I have a plan," she began slowly. It wasn't a good idea to tell Remarr the whole of it; but she would not sink to falsehood. "We must do something to attract attention—something to proclaim our origin without alarming the people of this world. If you play your harp and I dance, perhaps we shall attract her." (Let him think she meant 'Tsan—she had not said it.)

  "Even if she comes, Vihena, what makes you think we can get through the spell?"

  "Music is supposed to be soothing," she retorted. "Come, Remarr: it is something to do, and perhaps a hope."

  He considered her. "I didn't think you knew how to dance."

  Vihena smiled sourly. "I don't—but I know the Forms of the Discipline. If you play music that matches their rhythms, these barbarians will think it dance."

  Remarr well remembered the ancient teaching Forms. Vihena was right: it would look like dance to the people of this place. "Where shall we do this?"

  Vihena shrugged. "This city is vast. How should we judge? Let us trust in the guiding which led us here." She gestured toward a broad paved square near where they stood. "There?"

  Soon, Remarr's harp was tuned and Vihena had finished her limbering exercises. Automatically, Remarr set out his harp case to receive coins, then began to play. He took his tempo from Vihena's controlled, familiar movements, and buried his hurt and anger in the wild power of the harp.

  ***

  Alexandra's train ground to a halt in Manhattan, spilling sleepy travelers into a gray, muggy dawn. As it was far too early for Rolly Castleman to be in his office, Alexandra went in search of some breakfast. She found a restaurant and was content with tired croissants and indifferent coffee. She had slept on the train, but not deeply, and not long enough.

  She lingered over her coffee, reluctant to l
eave the restaurant's shelter. Here, they wouldn't be able to sneak up on her. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment. When she opened them, she saw her father sitting in the chair across from her.

  "You're dead," she said, numb. There was no room in her even for fear.

  "Yes," Alister Scarsdale agreed.

  "Why are you here?"

  "I thought you needed looking after."

  Alexandra expelled her breath scornfully. "I needed looking after three and a half years ago, but you died; you left me. You didn't care then. Why now?"

  "I didn't choose to die—"

  "You didn't choose to stay, either! You never thought about me; you never considered my needs. I was never real to you!"

  Alister Scarsdale's sarcasm bit. "I'd say you're the one who's having trouble with reality, Zan."

  "What do you mean?" She felt cold.

  He turned one hand palm-upward in a characteristic gesture. "I'm dead, remember? I'm not here—but you are talking to me. So what's real, Zan? What's real?"

  He disappeared before Alexandra could reply. She looked up with a start to find the waitress hovering with a check. She paid and went out into the street. If she walked to Rolly's office, it would take up the time.

  There was a new receptionist, but as soon as she heard Alexandra's name, she saw to it that Rolly was interrupted in his meeting.

  Rolly came bustling out and ushered Alexandra into his office. "I'm glad to see you, Alexandra. I've been worried about you, ever since your Dr. Marchbanks called."

  "He called you?" she squeaked. She felt as though a hand were closing around her heart.

  Rally nodded. "Saturday. I've been frantic with worry!"

  "What did he say?"

  "That you weren't well—but I knew that, because the school called me after you were admitted to Stillman." Some of her consternation must have shown on her face, for Rolly laughed apologetically. "Well, good heavens, Alexandra; I'm practically your next of kin. Anyway, he said you'd disappeared and they had no idea where you'd gone."

  "Rolly, I don't want to go back," she blurted, desperate. She could see where he was leading.

  "But Alexandra, Dr. Marchbanks is trying to make you better."

  "He's making me worse. Please, Rolly; you've got to help me." She grasped at a straw. "I think Dr. Marchbanks is connected with the cult," she whispered.

  It was a mistake. She knew it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She could tell what Rolly was thinking as clearly as if the words were written above his head. Dr. Marchbanks said she was paranoid. He tried to soothe her. "Now, Alexandra, you're having a bad time, I know; but the cult can't touch you. Dr. Marchbanks is trying to help you. But we can get him to refer your case to someone else. You can get treatment here if you prefer."

  Alexandra didn't reply. She recognized Rolly's immovably reasonable mood. She couldn't make him understand that anyone Dr. Marchbanks recommended was bound to be connected with them.

  "Now," Rolly went on, not noticing her silence. "Here's what we'll do. I'll give you the key to my apartment; you go there and wait. I've got two appointments this morning, but I'll cancel my afternoon ones, and then we can call Dr. Marchbanks and decide what's best to be done. Okay?"

  "Okay," Alexandra lied. She knew what she had to do. She took Rolly's key and left the office; she even went to his apartment building, to slip the key into his mailbox, just in case it was his only one. Then she went back to the station. She considered boarding a train bound for somewhere unexpected and distant, but she knew she needed more money if she were to undertake such a jaunt. She would have to return to Boston. Once there, she could close out her savings and checking accounts, and disappear to Toledo, or Phoenix—someplace they would never think to look.

  ***

  Isaac Marchbanks sat in his office, presiding silently over the remains of a roast beef sandwich in its white paper skin. His next appointment wasn't until two. He needed a distraction; his thoughts were too troubling. Briefly, he wondered what Antekkereh was up to—then his thoughts shied away from her. There was too much strangeness, too many inexplicable coincidences. He would not think about it.

  He shook his head. How human it was to try to override the mind with the will—and how impossible. The intercom peeped. It was the receptionist, wondering whether he would take a call from a Mr. Roland Castleman.

  "This is Dr. Marchbanks," he said.

  Castleman's voice lacked the urbane quality Isaac remembered. He sounded anxious, almost breathless. "It's about Alexandra Scarsdale. She came to my office this morning. She didn't look very good, but she seemed rational. I never dreamed—I sent her to my apartment; I told her I'd come home early, and we'd talk about what to do. She seemed all right—she really seemed to be comfortable with the arrangement. But she's gone again. She left my key in the mailbox and vanished."

  Isaac fought to keep his voice calm. "Think back: did she give you any clue as to what sent her off again?"

  "She did say—she told me she didn't want to go back to Boston. I said we could look into getting her treatment here in New York. I was trying not to scare her off, Dr. Marchbanks, but I seem to have done it anyway."

  "It's not your fault," Isaac assured him. "Alexandra isn't rational. Things that seem straightforward to you or me seem very different to her."

  "That was the thing that made me know she was sick: she said you were connected to the cult."

  Isaac's voice remained serene. "That's common with cases like hers, to identify the therapist with the perceived enemy. Tell me, Mr. Castleman: what do you think she will do now?"

  "I hesitate even to guess," the literary agent responded. "I can't think of any other person she would be likely to seek out. She and her father didn't really establish roots anywhere."

  "Do you think she'll come back to your apartment?"

  "No, I don't. She wouldn't have made such a point of leaving my key if she had any intention of returning."

  "Have you spoken with the police? Refer them to me; I'd be willing to tell them that she may be a danger to herself, if it would spur them to action."

  "Doctor, is she a danger to herself—or to others?"

  Isaac sighed. "I don't know. I dare not rule it out, but I just don't know for sure."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Trickster feigned sleep until she heard Dr. Marchbanks leave for work. She found his bewilderment impossible to face; she felt both guilty and feckless, as though she had damaged something precious, something she had no skill to mend. Remorse was unexplored territory for the Trickster.

  Wrapping herself in Isaac's spare bathrobe, she went into the kitchen. She found a note:

  I LEFT THE COFFEE POT ON FOR YOU.

  PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO TURN IT OFF.

  I'LL BE HOME AROUND SIX.

  The Trickster poured herself a cup of coffee, turned off the machine as he had shown her, and sat down at the table. Idly, she leafed through one of the strange, glossy, soft-covered books, only looking at the bright pictures. There were many pictures of women—all shorter and more delicate than she was. The Trickster frowned. Then she got up, and taking her coffee with her, went into the bathroom. The smooth, flawless glass of the mirror was not gentle with her reflection. Using a small amount of her power, she ran her hands through unnaturally orange, spiky hair; the fluorescent color drained away to its normal bright copper; the spikes softened and lay flat. Her hair was still shorter than most of the pictures she had looked at, but it would take more power than she dared spend to restore it to flowing waves. Then she considered the black leather jumpsuit. In a blaze of power, she summoned a completely different outfit: a soft blouse of a dusty pale green, ivory-colored tailored trousers with an oversized silk jacket to match, and a pair of flat shoes. She dressed, and without consulting the mirror again went out.

  The Trickster didn't have a clear plan of action except to get away from Isaac's place, so she boarded a bus bound for downtown Boston. She watched the other passengers as they got on and o
ff; and she gazed at the passing sights. The city was dirty and crowded, full of summer heat and the unpleasant smell of the traffic. She had been riding for some time when her attention was caught by a lithe young woman moving in a way that looked suspiciously like the Forms of the Discipline. Her gaze sharpened. Yes! It was Vihena—and Remarr was with her. The Trickster did what she had seen other passengers do: pulled the string running above the windows to signal the driver to stop; when the bus came to a panting halt at the curb, she left it.

  The Trickster lurked in the back of the smallish crowd as she considered what to do: no open attack; there were too many people, and it would upset Isaac if he had to rescue her from the police again. As she listened to the swirl of harp music and watched the motion of the Forms, she noted that people would step forward to leave an offering in Remarr's harp case before they went on their way. A masterful idea occurred to her. From her pocket, she removed a bus token. She Marked it, embedding an invisible fragment of her power in the metal. Sweat prickled her brow with the effort, but when she was done, the coin called to her inner senses. The Marking enabled her to locate the coin with her mind; if Remarr kept it, she would be able to find him at will. Further, the Marked coin acted as a channel for her influence, rendering the person who carried it susceptible to rash impulses of her devising. This effect was enhanced if the item were carried in a pocket or worn, but even if the token stayed in the harp case, she could subtly color the minstrel's or his companions' thinking. It was not the first time she had used such a device. Her memory supplied the image of Edevvi's engraved silver medallion: it had been Marked. With a smile, she dropped the token into the harp case, then walked quickly away.

  ***

  During the noon heat, Remarr and Vihena rested. The minstrel deftly sorted the morning's take, separating the bills from the coins and dividing the bills into the groups Brice had taught him. He folded them and tucked them into his pocket. The coins he poured into the doeskin pouch that housed his spare tuning key and his extra strings. He wedged the bulging pouch into the harp case and tucked his instrument tenderly away.