Tricksters Touch

by Zohra Greenhalgh

  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

  Zendrak's patient ministrations. Catching sight of several wasps lighting on Zendrak's shoulder, Yafatah cried, «Zendrak—watch out! You'll get stung, too!» The man in green chuckled. «One of Rimble's best known names is Old Yellow Jacket. I am his son. These angry little beasties won't harm me. At least, they better not,» he added, picking a wasp up by the waist and eyeing it carefully. The worker-wasp buzzed at him. Zendrak made an answering reply, his eyes amused. Podiddley craned his neck forward. «What did the wasp say?» Zendrak smiled. «Seems she dislikes getting caught in Yafatah's hair as much as Yafatah dislikes being stung.»

  Yafatah swore. «It doon't be fair! I must have thirty stings. And I didna' do anything to them beasties.» Zendrak opened the window and let the captive wasps fly free. The rest of the swarm who still remained outside the house did not enter Yafatah's yellow bedroom. Rowenaster thought this was odd. «Why aren't they coming in?» he asked. «Because he told them not to,» said Kelandris in a monotone. Nearly equal in height to her brother, Zendrak, Kelandris cut a formidable figure at

  six-feet-four. Born in the land of Tammirring, she usually wore a veil to hide

  her face and feelings. Inside the Kaleidicopia, however, she tended to leave the veil in her bedroom on the third floor. Rowenaster sighed. Day after day at the university, he tried to teach people the names of the Greatkin, a process that most students vigorously resisted. To the modern mind, the Greatkin were the personages of myth and were therefore unimportant. To Rowenaster, who happened to live with Greatkin, they were a bold, disconcerting reality. The professor had long ago concluded that what scholars wrote in the history books and thought about the Greatkin was mostly romantic doggerel. Pulp at worst and speculation at best. Clearly, the academics had never had firsthand experience with a Greatkin. Scholars thought the Greatkin were gentle beings of endless compassion. Rowenaster shook his head. On more than one occasion, he had seen Zendrak box both of Po's ears. And Kelandris? Well, she was mostly like ice. As if to prove Rowen's point, Kelandris continued speaking to Yafatah, her

  voice without inflection, her green eyes distant. «In Suxonli they say wasps are the messengers of Rimble.» She chuckled derisively. «His holy messengers. If they sting you, we say you've been kissed by the Power of the Fertile Dark. You'll never be the same afterward, of course.» «Thanks!» snapped Yafatah, who was beginning to feel ill with the poison of her many stings. «You do be real comforting there, Kel. Just a joy to be around. Why doon't you take your sarcasm and bad times to your room, huh? I doon't remember inviting you in.» «Suit yourself,» said Kelandris stiffly, and left. Zendrak inclined his head toward Yafatah. «I think you hurt her feelings.» «Impossible,» retorted the young girl sullenly. «That bitch hasna' got any. And doon't you lecture me on my mouth.» «I wouldn't dream of it, Ya,» said Zendrak mildly.

  Rowenaster interrupted at this point. «Well, I think you should show a little respect there, Yafatah. After all, Kelandris is a Greatkin.» Yafatah pulled away from Zendrak's hands, her face slightly puffy, her expression furious. «Yeah? Then why doesna' she act like one?» Zendrak pulle
d Yafatah's head toward him again. «And how should a Greatkin act?» he asked. «Like this,» she replied. «Like what you're doing. You know, helpful.» Podiddley burst into peals of laughter. Po, who was a street-wise criminal by profession, was also a Mayanabi Nomad. For the past twelve years he had been a member of this heretical spiritual order, and for the same period of time, Zendrak had been his spiritual guide. In addition to being Trickster's son, Zendrak was also the ranking Mayanabi in all Mnemlith. This was understandable. Zendrak was over five hundred years old. Five centuries was ample time to perfect one's

  spirit. The combination of Zendrak's Tricksterish blood and his long years of training as a Mayanabi master made him a tough, inventive teacher. It also made him unorthodox. Podiddley was laughing now because he thought Zendrak was rarely helpful in the usual sense of the word. Everyone in the room, including Zendrak, knew Po's feelings on the subject. Zendrak glanced at Po. «Go fetch some stingtrap from Barlimo's herb

  pantry. Mix it into a paste with boiling water and bring it to me. Quickly.» Po, who was feeling lazy, began to argue. «Just do it.» Po scowled. Rowenaster smiled, impressed. Zendrak could turn anything into a teaching situation, he thought with admiration. Rowen watched Po stride out of the room angrily. Now Yafatah spoke. «Did you say stingtrap?» she asked Zendrak. «I did.» Yafatah groaned. «That'll turn my scalp green. I doon't want my scalp to turn green.» «Do you want to survive all these stings? Or would you prefer to die tonight?» he asked amiably. Yafatah stared at the Greatkin. «Die?» Zendrak nodded. «Thirty stings of this particular wasp can kill. It's a southern variety. Just arrived.» He winked. «Rimble-Rimble.» «Just arrived?» asked Rowenaster, feeling puzzled.

  «Yes,» said Zendrak, his black eyes suddenly reflective like mirrors. «These are the heralds of the Jinnaeon. They are the new breed. Trickster calls them univer'silsila. According to dear old Dad, there's something special about these wasps—that we get to discover, of course.» «Of course,» said Yafatah without enthusiasm. «You want life too easy, Ya. You want all the answers immediately. You want adults to behave predictably. And Greatkin to be perfect.» «What's that supposed to mean?» Before Zendrak could answer, Po returned with the steaming stingtrap. Yafatah grimaced at the smell and sight of the foul herb. She shut her eyes, clearly feeling unwell. When she opened them again, Zendrak asked, «Trust me?» «Sometimes.» «So trust me now, and I'll make you all better,» said Trickster's son. Yafatah regarded him warily. «Yeah, Rimble-Rimble. Trusting you could make me an idiot in three counties.» «Maybe,» replied Zendrak, dipping his hands into the paste, his dark eyes amused. «You seem to forget one thing.» «What's that?» «Rimble's my father, yes. But Themyth's my mother. And she's the Patron of Civilization. This means that I can be constructive. As you say—helpful on occasion.» Rowenaster thought this was funny and began to laugh. He subsided when Zendrak glared at him. Yafatah eyed the green mess in Zendrak's hands. «I hope this is one of those occasions,» she grumbled. Rowenaster braced himself for the yells he knew were coming. Stingtrap was a powerful antiseptic as well as a tried-and-true remedy for wasp venom. Rowen's mother had dressed a cut with it once when he was a small child; all Rowen could remember of the episode was that the stingtrap hurt worse than the cut. He winced. Such were the ways of some types of healing. *6* Fasilla reached the Saambolin town of Window by dusk. She and her roan mare passed through the Jinnjirri landdraw border without mishap, receiving

  little more than a feeling of slight disorientation. Window was aptly named, thought Fasilla, reining her mare to a walk as she approached the town limits. Window was just that—a Saambolin trading city that looked out across rolling, verdant Jinnjirri. Asilliwir caravans made regular stops in Window, landdraws from every country in Mnemlith enjoying the laxness of the border rules thanks to the nearby Jinn influence. Border towns in Mnemlith were often like this. Where two or more draws met, customs and

  strict identities blurred. Anything could happen in a border town, and often

  did. Still, the prevailing draw of the land directly under the town would hold the strongest influence. Window rested on glacial territory, the oldness of

  the earth informing its people with a sense of history and pride in tradition. Therefore, it was not surprising to Fasilla that the keepers of spiritual tradition in Mnemlith, the Order of the Mayanabi Nomads, frequented Window. Fasilla eyed the Saambolin inn straight ahead of her with distaste. Aunt said the place was a notorious meeting place for Mayanabi. In earlier, less tolerant days, this particular inn had protected the Mayanabi, too. Fasilla dismounted from her roan. Hobbling the mare, she turned toward the Inn of the Guest. In Mayanabi theology, the Presence was often referred to as the

  Guest. Fasilla hesitated, her stomach turning in fear. Fasilla didn't fear the Mayanabi as much as she feared the fact that the order was an ancient, secret society. Although she had never met a Mayanabi she hadn't eventually liked—with the two single exceptions of Podiddley and a pied-eyed crone named Old Jamilla—Fasilla wished to keep her affairs in the daylight. Dealings with people who met in underground rooms and behind closed doors could only end badly, she thought. If she had been a praying sort of person, Fasilla would have chosen one of the denizens of Eranossa as her patron Greatkin. The Mayanabi had too much of Neath

  about them to make Fasilla feel safe. Fasilla walked to the front door of the Inn of the Guest and knocked tentatively.

  When no one answered, Fasilla felt a mixture of relief and irritation. If the message from Aunt had been about anything other than Fasilla's beloved child, the Asilliwir herbalist would have left Window without a further attempt to make her presence known. Biting her lower lip, Fasilla knocked a second time. Still no one answered. «What kind of inn do this be?» she muttered under her breath. Fasilla stepped back from the oak door and scanned the upper dormer windows. Fasilla frowned. Every window curtain was drawn shut. Odd, she thought. Putting her hands on her hips, Fasilla decided to just make a nuisance of herself until someone came out to shut her up. Cupping her hands to her lips, Fasilla yelled, «Aunt? Aunt, where are you? It do be your friend, Fasilla!» At the mention of the word «friend,» the front door of the Inn of the Guest opened. Fasilla peered into the darkness of the building. Glancing over her shoulder at the last soft light from the setting sun behind her, Fasilla hesitated, chills creeping across the back of her neck. «If this werena' for me Yafatah, I wouldna' do this thing,» she grumbled, and walked into the Mayanabi stronghold. Fasilla was met inside by a tall man with a beard and quiet brown eyes named Himayat. He was about forty-five, his temples graying. He wore a pair of brown glasses perched on his large nose. He smiled at Fasilla and welcomed her in her native tongue. From his physical appearance, she judged Himayat to be Asilliwir-born like herself. Relieved, Pasilla said, «Well, I do be pleased to meet you, Mr. Himayat. I was fierce scared that—well, never you mind Tis me own fears.» Himayat chuckled, his brown eyes forgiving. «Be of good cheer. You're among Friends,» added the Mayanabi, putting ever so slight an emphasis on «Friends.» Fasilla took a deep breath. «Well, that be good news.» She smiled raggedly. «I be looking for the Jinnjirri named Aunt. Do you know where I may find her?» Himayat's face sobered. He reached for Fasilla's hands. She gave them to him without knowing why she did so. Himayat's eyes grew wet with tears. «I am sorry.» He paused. «Aunt died early this afternoon.»

  Fasilla's face paled. «Died?» she said in a disbelieving voice. Tears sprang to her own eyes now and slipped down her cheeks. «Aunt is dead?» Sobs

  rose from deep inside her. Aunt had been Fasilla's closest and oldest friend. They had shared everything together. Fasilla's knees gave way and she slumped to the floor. Himayat put his arms around her and held her as she wept. After a few minutes, Fasilla coughed back her tears and said, «I came because Aunt told me something in me mind. Something important. It

  must've been just before she died,» added Fasilla, her voice trailing off into a numb silence. Her mind felt empty with shock. «We will speak of i
t, Fasilla. But perhaps not right now? Maybe you would

  join us for a bite of supper. You may bathe first if you so desire. Our house is yours,» he added, opening his arms to include the entirety of the Inn of the Guest. «But why?» asked Fasilla, her expression bewildered. «I doon't even know you.» «You are Aunt's friend. That makes you our Friend.» Fasilla swallowed. Hospitality as generous as this wasn't known to Fasilla outside her own Asilliwir clan. She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. Without introduction, she asked Himayat how Aunt had died. Himayat replied calmly, «Aunt was stung by a holovespa wasp. She had a lethal reaction to it. It happens sometimes. Even with people who have no previous history of allergies.» Fasilla pressed her lips together. Not to Aunt, she thought stubbornly. Fasilla didn't know how she knew, but she was absolutely certain that Aunt had not died from a toxic reaction to a wasp. Something in the urgency of Aunt's last message made Fasilla feel suspicious—and angry. But why? she asked herself. I have noo reason to think this Himayat a liar. Then she thought, Maybe he didna' know Aunt as well as me. Fasilla nodded quietly to herself. Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet and asked where she could bathe. She would talk to these Mayanabi. She would find out everything they knew and didn't know about Aunt's death. Then maybe she would know why Aunt thought Yafatah was in danger. As it turned out, dinner was a preparation for Aunt's burial ceremony—Mayanabi style. The meal was celebrated in the same spirit as a wedding feast. Those cooking for it referred to the Presence as the Beloved and to Aunt as the lover who was now returning to the Beloved's house. This was a strange concept to Fasilla, but she held her tongue as she helped decorate cakes and other pastries. As evening wore on, out-of-town Mayanabi began to arrive in Window by the droves. It seemed that Aunt had been very well known and well loved by several generations of Mayanabi. Incredible, thought Fasilla, when one remembered Aunt was thirty-six years old at the time of her death. Special Dunnsung-born musicians gathered in the cozy eating hall of the Inn of the Guest. As they set up their lotaris and drums, Fasilla overheard the following conversation. «I came by way of the Feyborne, how about you?» «I'm wintering in Dunnsung. So I rode in from the south. Weather's chill on the peninsula. More chill than I've ever remembered it, Shruddi. Here, let me help you with that case.» «Thanks,» said the first musician, pulling out a ceramic drum with a floral design stained on the leather drumhead. «It was so weird,» she added. «What was?» «What I saw—I mean, what I didn't see on the cliffs.» «You're not making any sense. Start over.» «You know the flower the winterbloom?» «Sure. They bloom in the dead of winter.» He grinned. «When no flower in its right mind would do so.» «That's right. That's their magic. Their message. Winterbloom flower when nothing else can. And this is their season. Winter.» Shruddi paused, her voice slightly tense. «There wasn't a single winterbloom to be seen in the Feyborne.» The lotari player shrugged. «There's been an awful lot of snow, Shruddi. Maybe the blooms were buried.» She nodded. «That's what I thought. So I got off my horse and dug into the snow. I found the winterbloom. They were dead.» The lotari player, who was also a Mayanabi Nomad, stiffened. «Dead?» He whistled low under his breath. «What kind of sign is that?»