lin. 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 two-legged landraces were generously represented in this scholarly group: the clannish Asilliwir; the aristocratic Saambolin; the passionate Jinnjirri; the musical Dunnsung; the veiled Tammirring; and finally, the land-loving Piedmerri. As this student population swelled the sidewalks and cobblestone byways, well trained horses wheeled to avoid collisions. The riders shouted at the oblivious academics, their travelling cloaks billowing in the warm autumn wind. Alert shepherds ordered their dogs to protect young lambs from this noon crush while harlequin geese honked. Tammirring seers offered to read runes or bestow amulets for a price. Asilliwir merchants shouted prices of their luxury items and herbal cure-alls while Saambolin bookbinders exhibited their craft. Hatted Jinnjirri entrepreneurs sold roasted chestnuts on the street corners. Dunnsung bakers, dusted with the flour of their expertise, sang the wonders of their wares to tempted passersby—rows of custard tarts and chocolate filled pastries adding a sweet scent to the potpourri of existent smells. Piedmerri farmers watched for students attempting to pilfer their blush-apples and sweet pommins, swatting young, scholarly hands when they could catch them. Now the lace and velvet faculty of the University pressed forward. Professor Rowenaster was among their number. The seventy-year-old Saambolin edged out of the doors of the main classroom building with difficulty. He rolled his eyes, wishing he hadn't agreed to meet Barlimo for lunch at this hour. Thirty minutes earlier or later would have avoided this chaos. Pushed from behind, two Saambolin students fell against the professor. Seeing that it was Rowenaster—chair of the prestigious Myth and Religious Antiquities Department of the University and Archive Curator for the locked stacks and «permission-only» reference materials of the Great Library—the hapless students blanched. No one escaped the University of Speakinghast without taking Rowenaster's celebrated Greatkin Survey course. No one graduated without passing it either. Worse, the Professor had a well known memory for facts and faces. It was a gift of his draw. Mumbling profuse apologies, the students backed up. Rowenaster frowned at them. «Your names?» «Names, sir?» Rowenaster eyed them reprovingly over the rims of his silver bifocals. «Yes, names. Though your parents seem to have neglected instructing you in manners, I assume they were gracious enough to give you names?» «Dirkenfar and Crossi, sir.» «First term?» They nodded uncomfortably. The professor smiled. «Good. See you in six weeks.» He pointed at the ceiling. «Fifth floor. Room 99. Be prepared.» Rowenaster bowed his head slightly and walked down the steps of the main building. He was chuckling. Rowenaster turned left on Great Library Boulevard. As prearranged, he found Barlimo lounging next to a small marble fountain in one of Speakinghast's numerous parks. This particular fountain was of a young woman bending over pouring water. As the professor approached, Barlimo patted the rump of the lovely statue and said, «This has got to be my all-time favorite work of Janusin's.» Rowenaster chuckled. «Because he used your shapely behind for a model?» Barlimo grinned, her eyes twinkling. «So, professor. Where to?» She gestured in several directions. «Myself, I feel like something cheery.» «Cheery food. Well, that sounds like a request for Dunnsung cuisine to me. We're sure to be seranaded at this time of day—probably with a full complement of lotaris, drums, and flutes.» He paused. «In fact,» he said, turning east toward the Dunnsung Quarter, «isn't Timmertandi playing at that little place down on Ronpol Street? Might be fun to surprise her.» «I don't know, Rowen,» muttered Barlimo. «She sees enough of us as it is at the house. Maybe we should try somewhere else.» «You just don't like jazz and folk in one mix.» Barlimo scowled at him. «Oh, come on,» he said, taking her by the arm. «Who knows? It might be cheery. Just the thing to brighten your mood,» he added, nodding at a strand of escaped blue hair. Swearing, Barlimo tucked the telltale strand back under her lemon scarf. Today, Barlimo was dressed in several light layers of varying shades of yellow and aqua. As usual, she carried her multicolored wool shawl over her shoulder. Shrugging at a turning weathervane, she commented, «I want it to be fall.» Pulling out a monogrammed handkerchief and wiping his brow, Rowen pointed at his academic velvets and muttered, «Don't we all.» The Saambolin and the Jinnjirri walked slowly toward the large marble archway spanning the entrance to the Dunnsung Quarter of Speakinghast. As they approached it, the sound of street musicians singing a four-part harmony met their ears. Around the next corner, another Dunnsung ensemble played for coppers. Accompanied by a tin whistle and a gourd drum, two members of this six-person troupe stepped forward and began doing a lively folk dance. It involved swift hip shimmying and complicated hand movements reminiscent of the kind of «sacred signing» done at Dunnsung Remembrances. One of the dancers had bells attached to his ankles, and the other—a woman as blonde as Timmer—wore a wonderful set of green veils. They danced so wonderfully with each other that Barlimo and Rowenaster felt obliged to leave them a handful of silivrain—Saambolin silver tender worth five times a copper. As the two housemates walked away, Barlimo muttered, «I can tell this is going to be an expensive lunch.» «Nonsense,» said Rowenaster, bowing gallantly as they neared a small restaurant called The Piper's Inn. «I'm treating, Barl. And there'll be no discussion about it,» he added firmly as Barlimo started to protest. «Yes, professor,» muttered Barlimo drily. «Whatever you say, professor.» Rowenaster gave her a withering smile and propelled her toward the open door of the small eatery. A blond host met them in the open hallway. «Two?» he asked. When Barlimo nodded, the Dunnsung led them to a cozy corner table. It had a good view of the Lake Edu shoreline and of the brilliant orange foliage that graced it. «Lovely,» said Rowenaster, glancing at the teal-blue waves. «Couldn't have a nicer view,» he added to Barlimo «See? Cheery.» The host handed Rowen and Barlimo two beautifully scripted menus. Pointing to a chalkboard on a nearby pillar, he said, «That's the special of the day. We're featuring fresh laska fish sauteed in garlic, butter, and mild Piedmerri herbs. I recommend it,» he added with a smile. «I'll keep that in mind,» said Rowenaster, his stomach rumbling softly. The Dunnsung glanced toward center stage. «We'll also be offering you a musical treat shortly. One of the city's finest jazz and folk quintet ensembles will play for your listening pleasure. The group is called 'Core.' Please—feel free to sing along or dance. We Dunnsung think music and laughter help digest our food,» he added looking hard at the elegant Saambolin professor. Rowen patted Barlimo's hand. «Try not to be a stuffy Jinn today, dear.» Barlimo scowled. «Jinnjirri are never stuffy and you know it.» The host grinned. «Enjoy your lunch,» he said and left. Barlimo looked over at the professor. «One of the city's finest?» she asked, seeing Timmertandi's music in a different light. Her only encounter with Timmer's music to date had been several wee-hour rows with the Dunnsung musician over whether rent included practicing at odd hours in the studio. Barlimo—and the rest of the house—didn't think so. Timmer had accepted their verdict grudgingly. Barlimo hoped Timmer wouldn't be thrown off by seeing Rowenaster and herself here. Barlimo genuinely liked the Dunnsung; she just didn't like being kept awake by the endless repetition of Timmer's half-learned musical pieces. Furthermore, the lotari wasn't her favorite instrument in the world. It was stringed and made a reverberating drone. Still, Timmer had a strong, pure soprano. Barlimo settled into her chair, hoping for the best. After Rowenaster and Barlimo had made their food selections—Rowen choosing the special and Barlimo choosing a fresh water bouillabaisse—the two housemates began discussing the issue uppermost in Barlimo's mind: the Saambolin Housing Commission's continued harassment of the Jinnjirri residents of the city in general and of Barlimo in particular. Barlimo took a drink of water and asked, «Did you g