Tricksters Touch

by Zohra Greenhalgh

  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.