face blanched. Po jumped to his feet. «I told you I'd smack your face if you said anything to him, Timmer!» «I didn't!» she cried, taking refuge behind Doogat. «Tell him I didn't say anything to you,» she begged the Mayanabi Master. Doogat, who appeared to be enjoying her discomfort, regarded her innocently. «What're you talking about, Timmer?» «For Presence-sake, Doogat!» she hissed as Po made a fist with his right hand. Before the Asilliwir could swing, however, Doogat reached out and grabbed the little thief by the shirt collar. «Didn't Barlimo tell you how she felt about this kind of thing, Po?» Doogat shook the Asilliwir roughly. «Didn't she?» Po, who had broken out in a sweat by now, muttered a meek, «Yes, Doogat. She did. She told me.» «And what did our good architect say, hmm?» Po swallowed. «No violence in the house.» Doogat let go of his grip, and Po crumpled to the floor. Doogat surveyed him with approval and turned to Barlimo. «See,» he said conversationally, «Po listens. You just have to know how to remind him.» Barlimo snorted. «I'll leave that to you, Doogat.» Folding her hands in her lap, Barlimo looked down at Po and asked, «Did you have any business?» Po shook his head, putting his face in his hands. He stared at the interlocking Asilliwir design on the rug beneath him, ignoring everybody. «All right, then,» said Barlimo happily, «I move this meeting be closed. We'll have another one just before the Trickster's Hallows. For guest lists and food particulars. Uh—let's say, in three weeks? Okay?» Heads nodded dutifully. Then people scrambled to their feet carrying mugs into the kitchen. In the street, the Great Library bells tolled one bell-morn. The entire group groaned, and everyone save Po and Doogat shuffled off to bed. Doogat waited for Po to get what he needed from his room—clothes, toilet articles, and Mayanabi texts—and ushered the little Asilliwir out of the Kaleidicopia. As they walked down the front steps, Po asked, «How long do I have to stay with you, Master Doogat?» «Until the House catches the real thief of Janusin's money.» Po stopped dead. «You knew? You knew I didn't do it?» «Of course, I knew,» muttered Doogat. «You're a Mayanabi first, Po. And a thief second.» The little Asilliwir smiled broadly. «Thanks, Doogs. Thanks for the confidence.» Doogat grunted and hailed a happincabby. As a pair of bay horses pulling a small covered carriage trotted toward them, Po asked, «So—how long do you think it'll be? Me staying at your place.» «That,» said Doogat calmly, opening the carriage door for Po, «will depend on a great many things.» Part II: Shifttime Mythmaker, Mythmaker—the Revel's begun, Come speak the spell of Once Upon! Let all things familiar be struck away. The world's invited to a Prickster Play! Chapter Twelve In Piedmerri, on the morning following the Kaleidicopia's house meeting, Fasilla and Yafatah pulled away from the Asilliwir caravan camp, heading due east toward the land of Jinnjirri. Fasilla clucked to the pair of roan mares drawing their brightly painted wagon. Seeing a signpost just ahead, she said, «Read me the miles, child. Your eyes do be better than mine in this foggy dawn.» The fifteen-year-old girl did as she was bid. «One mile to the Jinnjirri landdraw border, Ma.» Yafatah's glance fell to the wooden pointer hanging neatly below the crooked Jinnjirri one. She shook her head dazedly. Fasilla caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. «Something wrong?» «No,» said Yafatah, pulling an orange blanket over her shoulders, «The sign for Speakinghast. It do remind me of something. That be all.» «A dream from last night?» Yafatah, who was angry with her mother for taking her to Jinnjirri, refused to discuss it. Her mind, however, would not leave her alone. Finally, Yafatah looked back over her shoulder, unable to read the mileage for Speakinghast from this direction. Even so, the number remained in her memory: two hundred ninety-seven. «How long would it take to get to Speakinghast?» asked Yafatah, hoping the question sounded idle. «Depends,» replied her mother, giving her a hard look. «Would you be travelling by horse—or by foot?» Yafatah glared at her mother. «I doon't be planning to run away!» «Who be saying you did?» There was an awkward silence between them. Fasilla reined the pair of roans to a stop. Yafatah huddled under the blanket farther, hating the fog, hating the early hour, and hating herself for having dreams that made people think she might be crazy. «Ma,» she said more loudly than she had intended, «I doon't want to talk about it. I asked about Speakinghast because I do be curious. Because I havena' ever been there. All right?» «No,» replied her mother, trying to keep her temper. «It be not all right, Ya. You do be rude to me since breakfast, and I willna' have it. I realize, you do be sick. But you must try to be better to me, Ya.» Fasilla's voice choked unexpectedly. «I love you, child. And—and you worry me.» Yafatah rolled her eyes under the blanket. «Then just leave me be, Ma. Doon't talk to me. Just drive.» Fasilla started to retort, then stopped herself. Her expression strained, she clucked again to the horses, heading for the worst Jinnjirri border of them alclass="underline" the famous northwest shift—Mab's nightmare. Yafatah shut her eyes under the blanket, her body rocking to the slow motion of the horses' gait. The wagon creaked as it rolled across muddy ruts and small potholes. The early morning fog swirled around them, and Yafatah shivered from the dampness. Shadowy forms from last night's sleep taunted her, their images remaining just out of reach. Except one. Trickster. Yafatah swore softly under her breath. Of course, she thought bitterly. Of course, you would be clear. You, stupid Greatkin Rimble. Yafatah bit her lower lip. It scared her that she was dreaming of Trickster. He was no good. No good at all. And it angered her that Rimble had appeared as old Jamilla in her dream. She loved Jammy. She would do almost anything for Jammy. Jammy was her friend. Not like Trickster. «I would even go to Speakinghast for Jammy,» she muttered. Yafatah shrugged under her blanket. The thought of running away to a big city like Speakinghast appealed greatly to her right now. She could be anyone in such a place. No one in Speakinghast would know about her bad dreams, either. No one in Speakinghast would think she was sick. Or crazy. Yafatah sighed, her eyes downcast. Maybe if she had been born in a country like Saambolin, her mother might understand her better. Maybe. And maybe not. This last was a singularly depressing thought, and Yafatah wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye. «Why doon't you ever talk to me about me Pa?» she asked suddenly. Fasilla stiffened. Without looking at her daughter, she said tersely, «Because there be nothing to talk about, Ya. You were carnival-begat. He was wearing a mask. It was dark.» «So, I was a mistake,» Yafatah grumbled. «Now, Ya—we do go over this many times. You were noo mistake. You do be an accident, but that doesna' mean I love you less. In Tammirring, they have a name for what you be: a Crossroads Child.» Yafatah raised her head. Her mother had never told her this. Genuinely curious, Yafatah asked her mother to explain further. Fasilla shrugged. «I doon't speak Tammirring so well, but near as I can translate, it means you do be a gift from the Presence. Because you be carnival-begat. Protected, too, by the Greatkin.» «They doon't exist,» scoffed Yafatah. «They do. And mind your mouth lest one of them hears you.» «Oh, Ma,» she muttered, her voice disappointed. «You do be so superstitious. Just like Cass. She thinks old Jamilla can give me the evil eye.» Yafatah sighed. «Just because she be Mayanabi. And half-blind.» As this subject was a sore point between mother and daughter, Fasilla decided not to answer Yafatah. They would be at the door of the Jinnjirri healer in less than an hour. Let her handle Yafatah's strange allegiance to that old Mayanabi woman. Fasilla was certain Jamilla was at the root of Yafatah's illness. The Mayanabi were a crazy people, and some said their craziness was catching. The horses suddenly stopped, their hindquarters quivering. They refused to walk farther. Fasilla gave the reins to her daughter and jumped off the caravan wagon. Going around to the back, the Asilliwir woman unhooked a leather feedbag. It was filled with oats and a potent mixture of wild baneberry. Baneberry was a tranquilizer; the horses would need it to get across the Jinnjirri landdraw border. She patted the roans' necks as she fed them. Fasilla, who was a skillful herbalist, watched their pupils. When she was satisfied that the drug had taken full effect, she returned the feedbag to the hook on the back of the red and blue wagon. She took her seat next to Yafatah once more and picked up the damp reins. «This fog do add to the shift, doon't you think?» asked Fasilla conversationally. «We doon't have to go to Jinnjirri, Ma,» snapped Yafatah. «We could turn 'round, you know. Head to the Asilliwir desert for winter.» Fasilla slapped the reins on the rumps of the roans and urged them forward. She refused to argue with Yafatah about this one more time. They were going to Jinnjirri. And that was final. As the horses crossed a narrow stretch of road, Yafatah's stomach lurched. She could feel the comforting draw of Piedmerri recede. Piedmerri was the home of Mnemlith's natural parents and caretakers. Famous for their skill at fostering—children, animals, or even plants—the Piedmerri were a race of ample laps and big families. The land itself was fertile and provided Mnemlith with most of its farm produce. The land of Jinnjirri was fertile, too, but in a way wholly unlike gentle Piedmerri. In Jinnjirri, the fertility was of a raw, unbounded variety; in Jinnjirri, anything went. Status in Jinnjirri was not measured by a person's ability to provide an atmosphere that granted one the right to grow in an enclosed environment of emotional safety. In Jinnjirri, people were expected to reach their psychological edge and go beyond it. In Jinnjirri, status was based on originality verging on the eccentric. The more bizarre the relationship, project, or concept was, the greater acclaim the Jinnjirri accorded it. This was why only the dullest Jinnjirri—said the most eccentric Jinnjirri—would ever live in Speakinghast. Such persons were a disgrace to the draw, they added. Who but a bore could prosper in the confinement and structure of Saambolin? Yafatah regarded the lavender mist swirling ahead of the wagon with distaste. She forcibly relaxed her mind. The weirdness of the shift would be temporary, she told herself. Just a matter of a few disagreeable moments. Unfortunately for Yafatah, things didn't quite turn out this way. Rimble-Rimble. Chapter Thirteen An eighth of a mile from where Yafatah and Fasilla prepared to cross the northwest Jinnjirri border, Kelandris of Suxonli forded a shallow forest river. Picking up her black skirts, she stepped lightly on the surface of protruding, moss-covered rocks. Halfway across she hesitated. The billowing mist of the Jinnjirri landdraw rose like a shimmering lavender wall not twenty feet ahead of her. Kelandris shivered. She remembered crossing into Jinnjirri before, and she remembered disliking it. The shift had made her feel nauseous, and she had heard voices. She had also seen things—Tammirring fashion. The landrace of Tammirring were Mnemlith's natural mystics. It was they who nurtured the spiritual psyche of the world. Psychics, seers, and prophets of all kinds abounded in this northern land. Being a people of extreme psychological sensitivity, the Tammirring rarely left the protection of their draw. The bustle and psychic smorgasbord of cities overwhelmed their acute inner senses, leaving a Tammirring feeling nervous and internally soiled. Even in their own country, the men and women of Tammirring wore veils to shield themselves from unwanted intrusions on their inner privacy. In this way, the Tammirring were similar to the hatted Jinnjirri. However, unlike the Jinnjirri, the Tammirring rarely involved themselves in politics or social reform. The Tammirring preferred the solitude of their own thoughts and inner promptings. Many claimed direct communication with the Presence. A few claimed to have actually seen a Greatkin. Kelandris was one of these latter. She claimed to have not only seen, but also to have spoken with the King of Deviance himself, Greatkin Rimble. He appeared for the first time, she said, soon after her eighth birthday. Rimble had remained her childhood companion. Then, at age sixteen, he had inexplicably abandoned her to the «justice of Suxonli"—just after she had danced for him and just after she had made love to a dark-eyed man professing to be Trickster's emissary. Kelandris shivered again, watching the lavender landdraw mist with dislike. The bright yellow of the leaves along Jinnjirri's border hurt her eyes. She regarded the color with the same hatred she reserved for the black robes she habitually wore. Yellow and black were Trickster's colors; they were The Wasp's Own. Kelandris scowled at the trees. Autumn was Trickster's glory. And her curse. Kelandris glanced around herself furtively. Making sure she was completely alone, she raised her veil in an effort to see the mist more clearly. The late afternoon sun warmed her bronze-colored skin. The autumn wind caught several strands of her thick, black hair. The strands trailed over her broad shoulders, silky and glinting with blue highlights. Her hair was alive and full of motion. In contrast, Crazy Kel's pale, green eyes remained cool and devoid of passion. Only the acrimony of her perpetual sneer hinted at the furies this woman controlled. At thirty-three, Kelandris was a woman aged before her time. Her lips were thin, her sex frozen. Black bangs blew into her icy, green eyes. Intent on watching the sideways motion of the lavender mist in front of her, Kelandris made no move to push the bangs out of her face. She stood alone, isolated—like a cold, stone statue at the entrance to a forgotten underworld. Neither ugly nor beautiful, Crazy Kel remained unfinished, her features as uncommitted as her passion. The woman in black frowned. She was trying to remember why she had left the Yellow Springs. Her lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. The girl, she thought. The Tammirring spy from Suxonli. The child who had seen something in the woods during the attack of the wild dogs. What had the child said in the darkness? What were her exact words? He's gone. Kelandris savored the words in her mind, wondering anew at their meaning. Abruptly, Kel's mood changed to anger. The child had seen with her inner senses what Kelandris could not! This puzzled Kelandris and simultaneously outraged her. Kel had been the Revel Queen—chosen by the Coins of Coincidence (also known as the Luck of the Trickster) to dance for Greatkin Rimble on the eve of his hallows. She was the one they had been waiting for; Kel was the prophesied he. She was the woman who could turn inside inside-out for Trickster. So who was this young Tammirring kitten? This rival vixen who would take her place? Crazy Kel's expression hardened, and she felt for her knife. This was a nervous gesture. Since yesterday, it had also become automatic. The Jinnjirri mist swirled. Kelandris considered crossing the river a little farther down, but decided against it. Moving south would bring her closer to the Tammirring girl. If she got too close, Kel was sure the Suxonli spy would pick up on her psychic nearness. Kel had already been hit once with a dart; she wouldn't give the child a chance to do it again. «If it was a dart,» Crazy Kel added to herself. She scratched at the small, angry scab in the middle of her forehead. This, too, was a nervous gesture. And like reaching for her knife, Crazy Kel was completely unaware of doing it. Blood from the torn scab wet the tips of her fingers. Crazy Kel frowned, staring at the crimson color. She swallowed, feeling queer, all of her psychic senses on alert. Something was going to happen, she thought uneasily. Something strange. Kelandris flinched. The mist had left the bank and was swirling toward her legs. Jinnjirri draw was sneaky. Like the gender and hair color of its people, Jinnjirri landdraw was extremely mobile, able to change its location. Kelandris took a step backward and nearly lost her footing on the rocks. Making a hasty but ineffective gesture at the mist with her hands, she said, «Shoo. Go away.» The mist ignored her commands. Kelandris took another step backward and slipped into the cold river. The water reached to her knees. Kel ignored the shock of the cold and continued to bac