thief out in the street—or into debtor's prison. After all, the little Asilliwir owed her six months' back rent. There was also the matter of Po's bad attitude toward his portion of the household chores. And so on. Barlimo lifted the steaming, black cauldron out of the fire easily, her strong muscles flexing as she did so. She set the cauldron on an iron rack to cool. Selecting a wooden bowl from one of the kitchen cupboards, Barlimo served herself some curried stew. As she did so, she spoke to Timmer. «Podiddley has as much right to live here as you do, girl. I realize Po's habits of cleanliness and integrity fall far below your own—» «And the house's,» retorted Timmer defensively. «And the house's,» agreed Barlimo. «Nonetheless, Timmer, I think you should remember just how destitute you were when you arrived here last winter. You were between jobs and pulling the starving artist routine—» «I was starving!» replied the musician indignantly. Barlimo smiled. «Then be a bit more charitable, won't you? Like we were to you?» Timmer scowled at Barlimo and lowered her eyes. Barlimo pursed her lips. Guilt, she thought drily. Works every a me. Po said nothing, turning his back on both women to stare moodily into the kitchen hearth. The flames crackled as charred wood tumbled gently into a bed of deep ash. «Is that why Doogat's coming?» he asked finally. «To reprimand me about the dishes?» «Who knows why Doogat does what he does, Po?» she replied. «I certainly don't.» She shrugged. «He's a Mayanabi Master.» «Yeah,» snapped the little thief, «mine.» «So?» asked the Jinnjirri, blowing a cool breath on her teaming dinner. «So that's a fucking low trick, Barl. You know damned well if Doogat gets it into his head that I'm being disrespectful to the house—or to you in particular,» he added, nodding at the colorfully dressed Jinnjirri, «by night's end he'll have me washing his dishes, too.» Po paused. «Ever been to his tobacco shop, Barl? A good housekeeper he's not.» Barlimo smiled. Timmer sniggered. «I think I'll ask Doogat to take you with him when he leaves. We'll call it Remedial Dishwashing.» Po whirled around, his face furious. «You do that, and I'll smack your mouth!» Barlimo slammed her wooden spoon against the counter, making both Po and Timmer jump. «We'll have none of that in this house! Do you understand? No physical violence! Clear?» When neither Po nor Timmer answered her, the Jinnjirri stepped between them, slipping her powerful arms around their waists. «Act like children, and I'll treat you like children. Neither of you is too old to be sent to bed without dinner. Translated—you lose your kitchen privileges for a week. And I keep the key to the pantry.» «With the way you've stunk up the kitchen,» muttered Timmer, «who'd want to cook anything in here!» The swinging door opened, ushering in an immaculately dressed, dark-skinned, seventy-year-old man. His name was Rowenaster. He was a renowned professor of religious antiquities at the University of Speakinghast. A scholar of impeccable standards, Rowenaster's area of emphasis was Greatkin Rimble. An odd choice for a tidy-minded Saambolin professor. And everyone on campus knew it. Rowenaster sniffed the air appreciatively. «What smells so delicious?» Barlimo grinned. «Finally—someone with taste. Want some?» «I'd be delighted to share in your repast,» said the professor gallantly. «How many bowls shall I fetch?» he asked, giving Po and Timmer an inquiring glance each. Po shrugged a «yes.» He could take or leave Asilliwir curries. He grew up on them. Timmer, however, sneezed, made a disagreeable face, and fled the room. Rowenaster watched her leave, his expression amused. «For someone so concerned with what's trendy in town, you'd think she'd display better manners. This is Saambolin territory. The very bedrock of all things civilized.» «Ain't got no class,» remarked Po, taking his bowl of curry in his hands and also leaving the kitchen. Barlimo slumped against the counter. Then, without warning Rowenaster, she removed the scarf she wore on her head. A fine spray of Jinnjirri hair fell to her square shoulders. Its shade was mottled red. Rowenaster stared at Barlimo's hair color in surprise. «What in Neath has made you so angry, Barl?» he asked, watching the Jinnjirri's shifty-tempered locks darken to a burnt scarlet in perfect emotional mimicry of her frustration with the denizens of the Kaleidicopia. «Same old things, Rowen. Same old things,» she repeated, her hair now streaking with depression blue. In a state of deep meditational creativity, Jinnjirri hair shone a milky opalescent with hints of fiery color from the full light spectrum in each strand. Since the Jinnjirri born hailed from a land of shifting topographical and climatic patterns, Jinnjirri hair naturally changed color with their moods. The process was so completely involuntary and emotionally revealing that the Jinnjirri often wore hats to protect their privacy. Fortunately for the Jinnjirri, their smooth faces were devoid of facial hair of any kind—including eyebrows and eyelashes. Even so, the hatters of Speakinghast enjoyed a booming business, their fashions so imaginative that even members of other landraces were tempted to purchase or barter for them. In any event,