t on the «Art of Personality and Gradual Self-Effacement.» «Nearly done?» asked Doogat cheerily, knowing full well that Po wasn't. «I was about to ask you the same thing,» muttered the little thief. Doogat put the text down, his expression disapproving. Po caught it out of the corner of his eye and whirled around. «Now don't start on me, Doogs. I've been minding my mouth and manners ever since I got to this dump—place—last night. And I'm worn out with the effort.» Doogat raised an eyebrow. He looked singularly unsympathetic. «Keep washing,» he said and picked up the Mayanabi text. Po swore under his breath. He scrubbed a particularly greasy pan in silence. Then he asked, «So when do I get to test for Eighth Rank?» Doogat grunted, refusing to answer him. There were nine ranks in total in the Order of the Mayanabi Nomad, and thirty-three degrees in each rank. Zero Degree, Ninth Rank was the starting point for any new initiate. Conversely, First Rank, Thirty-third Degree was the greatest mastery a Mayanabi Nomad could achieve. As far as everyone knew—Aunt included—there had never been a First Rank Master; the normal lifespan of two-legged mortals simply didn't allow for the time needed to learn that much. «Oh, come on, Doogat,» insisted Po. «Nobody's a Ninth Rank forever. Have a heart.» «And indulge your vanity?» retorted Doogat. «I don't think so.» Po rolled his eyes, banging the pot around in the sink. There was a sudden tinkle of breaking glass. Po froze, staring into the soapy water. He was certain there were no breakables in the rinse sink. He heard Doogat get to his feet behind him. Starting to sweat, Po reached gingerly into the water. «Shit,» he muttered, his hand still hidden by suds. «Well, pull it out and let's see the damage,» said Doogat disgustedly. Po hesitated. «Now Doogat—I swear there was nothing in this sink. Nothing that could break-I checked. Really, I did—» «Greatkin alive, Po—just pull it out.» So Po did. He blanched. He held the delicate hand-blown stem of Doogat's favorite and only red crystal glass. Po swallowed. «Uh—Doogs—I didn't put this in here. You've got to believe me.» «I do,» muttered the Mayanabi Master. Doogat reached into the rinse water and retrieved the red bowl of the glass. It was etched in magnificent goldleaf. Doogat pursed his lips. He shook his head, saying: «You miserable little—» Po stepped backward, flinging his wet hands to both sides of his face in an effort to protect his ears from Doogat's hefty punch. Doogat regarded him with surprise and said, «I wasn't referring to you, Po. I was referring to Greatkin Rimble.» Po frowned, completely befuddled. «Oh. Good. I think.» Doogat continued to stare at the broken crystal, his expression slowly changing from thoughtfulness to horror. Thinking Doogat was exaggerating his reaction for his benefit, Po rolled his eyes, saying, «Doogs—it's only a glass.» Doogat raised his head sharply, his black eyes boring into Po's. «Remember when I boxed your ear last night at the house meeting?» Po took another step backward. «Do you?» shouted the Mayanabi. «Yes, Doogat. Yes, I remember. Very well.» «Well, consider your ear boxed. Then for now.» «Now? Why now? What did I miss?» Doogat threw his dark blue riding cape over his shoulders. «A glass is never just a glass. Nothing is ever as it seems. You got that?» He met Po's eyes evenly. «Uh—sure, Doogs. Uh—where are you going?» «Out,» replied Doogat. Then, without a word of farewell or explanation, Doogat left the little tobacco shop, slamming the door after him. Po followed his trail into the front of the shop, the scent of rich tobacco leaves tickling his nose. Meerschaum pipes of every description hung on the far wall under glass. Jars of dried herbs and potpourri rested in neat rows on a long table. Mosaic tiles decorated the slanting archways of the small store. Po shrugged. It was almost time to open the shop for business. Catching a glimpse of Doogat disappearing down a crowded street, Po shook his head and muttered, «There's no predicting a Mayanabi Master. Especially one who smokes a meerschaum Trickster pipe.» Chapter Seventeen Doogat's transformation into Zendrak took place in a matter of moments. It occurred under the cloaking dark of Doogat's blue cape and cowl. As «Doogat» reached a small, private promontory overlooking the vast horizon of Lake Edu, something shimmered there and faded. And again. Finally, called from Neath by Trickster's Emissary, Further materialized in three-dimensional form. The mare stood at a proud eighteen hands, her blue-black coat exactly matching the sheen of Zendrak's raven hair. The last of Doogat's friendly wrinkles and crowsfeet vanished. The wisdom of sixty-two years was replaced with the lean intelligence of Zendrak's apparent forty-five. The eyes, however, remained the same: cold, reflective, and black like obsidian. This man's eyes—as well as his shape-changing ability—were both the result of his landdraw. Born on the «big island» in the Soaringsea archipelago, Zendrak had inherited the volcanic characteristics of this northern draw. The «big island,» also called Feralisle, not only turned the inside inside-out on a regular basis with lava and ash but it also wandered freely—popping up at unexpected locations, occasionally at odd intervals or «inbetween» times. Feralisle was just that: wild. Zendrak's body imitated Feralisle's structural mobility with precision, throwing off «skins» like the ash of its volcanic counterpart. Zendrak's body had the peculiar ability to completely renew itself with matter. What was molten on Feralisle became a process of molting on Zendrak's person. As a consequence, Zendrak's concept of self included a natural multiplicity of identity. And soul ache. As far as Zendrak knew, he was the two-legged landrace of Feralisle. This knowledge produced a gnawing loneliness of soul that threatened to overwhelm him on bad days. For like Kelandris, he was a kind of involuntary akindo. Made kinless by draw, Zendrak was a biological freak. He was a sport of nature. He was also the result of one of Trickster's improvements; Zendrak was the progeny of Rimble's recent love affair with Themyth. However, Zendrak was only three-quarters Greatkin. The final quarter was that of a Mythrrim Beast—and therefore quite mortal. Zendrak mounted Further easily, stowing his blue cape in his saddlebag and retrieving his dark green one. He sighed. Today was definitely turning out to be one of his bad days. First that hasty message from Aunt about the Tammirring child this morning at dawn. And now this: some kind of cryptic request from Rimble to meet with him immediately. The subject matter was apparently Kelandris; after all, Crazy Kel was slightly cracked. And so was the glass. Sounded like a fairly equivalent description of Kelandris to him. Zendrak swore softly as he whispered his destination to Further: southeastern Saambolin in the foothills of the Bago-Bago Mountains at an old standing-stone site. What made this particular site interesting, thought Zendrak grabbing a handful of Further's black mane, was that it had once been dedicated to Greatkin Phebene. «Hardly Rimble's usual fare,» he muttered to himself, squeezing the sides of the mare's body with his long legs. Further began to run in place. Gritting his teeth against the cold shock to come as Further and he entered the Everywhen, Zendrak urged the mare into a dead run. She complied. When Further reached the extreme of her speed, both horse and rider shimmered. And were gone. For Further, time was not fixed. Time could be «jumped» by travelling through a series of Trickster's loopholes: literal constellations of coincidence. To a Power of the Fertile Dark, cause and effect—like distance—were not facts; they were working illusions. As far as the mare was concerned, the past, present, and future were concepts and therefore as interchangeable or discardable as cards in a cut deck. For a denizen of Neath—a portion of the Everwhen of the Presence—time occurred simultaneously. Further nickered softly, signalling Zendrak to prepare for her «jump.» Freeing his left hand from the entanglement of her mane, Zendrak caught a line of time and tugged. A gate of coincidence opened. There was a wild whooshing sound, and they entered the Everywhen. A moment later, horse and rider galloped into the open plains of southeastern Saambolin. A muted, rolling mountain range loomed in the near distance: the Bago-Bago. This range, like the snowy Feyborne, marked a natural dividing line between landdraws—that of lawful Saambolin and musical Dunnsung. One of the best loved rites involving Phebene was a contest between musicians to see if they could make the mountains sing. They almost always succeeded. But then, thought Zendrak wearily, this is a much milder draw. Not like remote Tammirring. Zendrak's thoughts turned to Kelandris. He recalled Rimble saying he intended to nudge Yafatah to Speakinghast—but the sly bastard had not mentioned how or why. Zendrak suspected Trickster had entangled the two Tammirring women in some fashion; Rimble had been searching for years for the means to breach Kel's formidable psychic fortress of rage and fear. Zendrak's eyes softened with sorrow. «You crazy, lovely woman,» he whispered. Zendrak tried to put Kelandris from his mind. Her strong face lingered, however, tormenting him not with guilt, but with a profound sense of regret. He had long ago ceased feeling guilty for his role in Kel's tragedy; there was no point to it. Like Kelandris, Zendrak of Soaringsea had been royally duped. The scenario in Suxonli Village had been «improved» from the start. Trickster had meddled with Kel's bloodcycle just enough so that sixteen years ago, it arrived for the first time very late in Kel's adolescence: at the age of seventeen on the eve of Trickster's Hallows. And on that night, in those mountains, the scent of her blood had drawn Zendrak to her. His had been a Mythrrim response, instinctual and animal. Even now, Zendrak felt a trace of this four-legged lust. Groaning softly, Zendrak buried his face in Further's mane and salty horse smell. Images rose unbidden. Sweat and smiles. Regret stung Zendrak again. He knew that the Kelandris he had once loved—that trusting, passionate, seventeen-year-old—was gone forever. Suxonli had broken her mind with its barbaric Ritual of Akindo. Enough memories, thought Zendrak angrily. He guided the blue-black mare into a grove of deciduous trees and signalled her to slow. Further did so, hardly puffing from the brief eighteen-hundred-mile journey. The sun now stood directly overhead; a bare five hours had elapsed in real time. For Zendrak and Further, the trip had lasted but minutes. Further slowed to cross a leaf-strewn stream. She dipped her nose in the cold mountain water, drinking long and deep. Then she raised her head abruptly, her ears twitching backward and forward, her senses alert. Water dripped from her muzzle. Snorting, she continued drinking. Zendrak looked around himself. Trickster was here somewhere—of that he was sure. He decided to wait until the bandy-legged little Greatkin deigned to join him. Several minutes passed. Further raised her head again, her gaze fixed on something tall moving through the trees to their right. Zendrak peered into the dappled forest. If that was Trickster, he had grown about two feet. Zendrak shrugged. Why not? Changing form was Trickster's prerogative. All the same, it made Zendrak uneasy. He wondered if Rimble had done something so diabolical this time that the little Greatkin feared Zendrak's anger and fist—hence the increase in size? Zendrak dismounted from Further, his green boots disappearing briefly into the icy water at his feet. He told Further to remain close. The mare butted him with her wet nose and continued drinking. Zendrak left the mountain stream, heading for the shrouded figure standing in the forest. «Greetings, Trickster's Emissary and son,» said a melodious voice. Zendrak said nothing, his expression wary. The figure in front of him looked like Greatkin Phebene. Sounded like her, too, he thought. Trickster had really outdone himself this time. Zendrak put his arms over his chest, waiting to see what the little Greatkin wanted. Phebene smiled, removing her rainbow cowl from her radiant face. «So suspicious, Zendrak?» «What now, Rimble?» asked Zendrak with irritation. «You called. I've come. Let's get on with this, shall we? I'm not interested in your pranks today. Especially if this concerns Kelandris—' «Oh, it does,» said the tall Greatkin. She laughed merrily. «Come, my beleagured friend,» she said extending him her hand. «Where?» asked Zendrak, staying put. «To the clearing up ahead. To my memory stone—my mnem-lith. I've spread a picnic for us. You missed breakfast, did you not?» Zendrak made a brushing off gesture with his hands. «You go ahead. I'll follow, Rimble.» Phebene sighed sadly. «Zendrak—we're going to have to do something about this lack of trust.» Zendrak rolled his eyes. «You're not amusing, Rimble. You're really not. If I'm mistrustful, I have and have had good reason to be.» «Wise thinking when dealing with the Greatkin of Deviance. However, your attitude becomes foolish when speaking with the Greatkin of Love.» Zendrak snorted. «I'm not falling for it, Rimble.» Phebene shrugged. «Follow me anyway,» she said calmly, her soft voice taking on more authority. «And that's an order, Emissary.» Zendrak swore under his breath and did as he was told. Greatkin Phebene and Zendrak emerged some moments later in a lovely clearing ringed by trees covered in oranges and golds. In the center of the clearing stood a single, moss-covered standing stone. It was as the Greatkin had said—the memory-stone dedicated to the Remembrance of Phebene. A linen tablecloth covered with a wonderful array of gourmet dishes rested on the ground directly in front of the mnemlith. A spray of wild, green roses crowned the center of the picnic. Seeing the roses, Zendrak muttered, «Very authentic.» «Thank you,» said Phebene graciously. Then she took a seat on a round rainbow cushion, offering the other one to Zendrak. Zendrak grumbled and sat down. Phebene made light-hearted small talk for the next half an hour, plying Zendrak with the most wonderful assortment of foods imaginable (Jinndaven had helped with this). After a while, Zendrak began to wonder if maybe this wasn't the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts after all. An unsettling thought at best, he decided. Trickster's Emissary had little knowledge and little dealing with the Greatkin of Love. Phebene poured Zendrak another glass of black currant wine. Its taste was sweet but not cloying. As she replenished her own glass, she said, «So tell me about soulmates, Zendrak. Tell me about mating for life.» Zendrak scowled. This was a very personal topic to him. And he would not discuss it with Phebene unless he knew it was Phebene. Trickster would only use the information to his advantage; he would never respect it. Zendrak shrugged, saying, «There's not much to tell. I am Mythrrim—we mate for life.» Phebene pursed her lips. «You identify more with your mortal self than with your Greatkin inheritance?» Zendrak downed the remains of his wine. «When your father is the Greatkin of Deviance, it makes it easy to identify with anything but him.» . «And Themyth—who is your mother? What of her?» «I've never met her.» Phebene shook her head. «Nonsense, Zendrak. Every time you tell a Mythrrim, you're meeting the Greatkin of Civilization. Every time. Besides, it was Themyth who took the mortal form of Mythrrim to carry you. So, in a very real way, you do identify with the Greatkin in you.» «What's your point?» he asked grumpily, accepting more wine from Phebene. «I want you to consider the following: what if there were a Greatkin who didn't know it was a Greatkin? What if you had grown up without all the training you received from the Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea and the Mayanabi Nomads? What do you think that would have been like?» «Dangerous for everyone concerned. Especially for the Greatkin himself.» «Herself,» corrected Phebene. Zendrak frowned. «What are you saying?» «I'm saying, Zendrak,» said Phebene touching his cheek, «that Kelandris is your sister.» Chapter Eighteen Many miles from where Zendrak and Phebene spoke, the noonday bell ringer of the Great Library of Speakinghast fingered the ropes of the large, copper bells hanging in the wooden campanile. Like a reed bending in the wind, the young Dunnsung woman pulled down slowly. Copper clappers hit and resounded: Lunch. The carved doors to the University of Speakinghast swung wide. Gossiping students poured into the congested streets of the busy city. All of Mnemlith's