names of the Greatkin? Until I started working on this play, I didn't.» Cobeth glanced in the direction of the box seats. «Not all of us are lucky enough to endure"—he mimed the buffoon—"I mean, take the good professor's survey course.» The room clapped its appreciation for Rowenaster. Cobeth chuckled. «After all—we shifty types can't always get into the celebrated University of this fair city.» The audience hissed and booed at the box seats above them. Master Curator Sirrefene turned to her husband, her voice terse and unamused, «You know who that was meant for, don't you?» «You and me, dearie. You and me.» Rowenaster said nothing, his expression strained. Cobeth continued his monologue. «Well, good friends—The Merry Pricksters are coming to your untutored rescue. As you know, this troupe has been famous in the past for its bawdy humor and gentle political satire—hence our name. We propose something a little more radical now. We propose an out-and-out confrontation with the soul ache of our age. We call on the power of Greatkin Rimble to 'remedy' our situation.» The gels on the oil lamps in the theater changed from yellow to an eerie blue. Cobeth removed his cowl and cape, handing it to someone standing in the wings. Cobeth walked to center stage. He was wearing a full face mask of hand-woven, dyed materials. One side of the face was striped with diagonals of yellow and black. The other side was a caricature of a young female fool's face. It was studded with shining bits of black mirror. The rest of Cobeth's costume was a mismatched mix of yellow coattails, striped harlequin pants, and a leather dildo hanging over his own genitals. The dildo was a foot and a half in length and resembled a gorged wineskin more than a functional penis. Cobeth raised his arms, again—the gesture one of summoning and supplication. Then Cobeth spoke the following, his voice filling the playhouse with the power of the priest speaking directly to Goddess, God, and Trickster: Hail, O Thief, of the black-eyed night. Aid me now with slippery tongue To tell the tale sweetly and beguile them all, And hide the meaning in the rushes. Sting now, sting the despair! Bring the world's soul ache to air, And while away my mortal hours With the salt-humored hiss of your Art. Hero-heroine quicken once more, For civilization falters And markets her lifeblood on altars Of dead-ending devotions. Holy Heretic return now To speak your truth with a clean whistle And a wise-rhythmed breath. Come inspire me and say of sacred joy! Trickster true, many taled, and sane. Come love this telling to life. Greatkin Rimble of the Thousand Names: I will speak for you again. The reactions of the people who knew Cobeth well were predictably mixed. Down in the third row of the main house, Timmer reached over Mab to tug Barlimo's magenta sleeve again. «Rowen wasn't kidding when he said this play was about religion. And where did Cobeth ever learn to write like that?» Timmer sounded impressed. Mab smiled triumphantly to herself—one for you. Cobeth, she thought. Barlimo stroked her chin. «It's not his,» said Barlimo. «What?» asked Timmer and Mab together. The architect shrugged. «I've no proof. But I'll wager you both a lot of silivrain that that poem was written by someone else.» Mab rolled her eyes. Up in the box seats, Sirrefene regarded Rowenaster with surprise. «What do you mean, you don't think The Merry Pricksters wrote that invocation? If they didn't write it. and you didn't write it—who did?» Rowenaster steepled his fingers. «Don't know, Sirrey. But I'd like to meet him. Or her.» Chapter Twenty-Two Kelandris can't possibly be my sister,» said Zendrak cautiously, his black eyes never leaving the face of the Greatkin sitting in front of him. He met Phebene's smile with suspicion, still certain that the Greatkin replenishing his empty glass of black currant wine was not the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts, but was actually Trickster himself beautifully disguised as rainbow-robed Phebene. «To begin with, Rimble—the arithmetic is wrong Need I remind you? I'm five hundred and twenty-seven years old. Kelandris of Suxonli is a mere thirty-three.» Greatkin Phebene laughed merrily. «You're not using your imagination, Zendrak. Themyth and Rimble made love in the Everywhen. Thus, it was a simple 'matter' for them to deposit you and Kelandris in different times and draws. Perhaps the drink has gone to your head, my friend.» Zendrak frowned, looking at the crystal glass he held in his hand. Come to think of it—he was feeling rather intoxicated. Unduly so for a Mayanabi Nomad, too. Zendrak held the glass up to the candlelight, trying to see the color of the wine. The sun had long since gone down, and although Zendrak had the nagging sense that he was supposed to be somewhere other than where he now was, he made no move to leave. Zendrak sniffed the contents of his glass. «What have you done to me, Rimble?» Phebene smiled, ignoring his question. She offered Trickster's Emissary a slice of chocolate cake from the picnic hamper. The piece was large and covered with a thick fudge-like frosting. It was a chocolate lover's delight. Zendrak shook his head, pushing the cake away. «I don't like sweets,» he mumbled, trying to get to his feet. Too drunk to stand, Zendrak quickly sat down again, holding his head in his hands. He felt giddy and disoriented. He peered at the night. What time was it? Zendrak blinked. Meeting Phebene's sympathetic gaze, he muttered, «What were we just talking about?» «Your dislike of sweets,» replied Phebene. «Which must change.» «It must?» «Trickster's orders,» she lied. «We think your disposition needs a little impr oooving, shall we say?» Phebene winked at Zendrak and offered him the cake again. Zendrak took the plate from her hand gingerly. He assumed that when Rimble said «we» he was referring to his Multiple Primordial Face. It never occurred to him that Greatkin Phebene might be the genuine article, or that she might be one of a conspiracy of three—herself, Jinndaven, and Themyth. Had Zendrak known, he would've refused to participate. As much as he complained about Rimble, Zendrak still honored the foppish little Greatkin—and, in fact, loved him. «Take this cake, for example,» continued Phebene. «It was just an ordinary chocolate confection until your good buddy, Rimble, spit cherries into the batter. Complete with saliva. Right in front of Jinndaven, too.» Zendrak winced. «And I thought Podiddley was disgusting.» Phebene nibbled on the piece of cake on her plate. «On the contrary. I think it was an improvement.» She sighed. «Jinndaven, poor dear, has yet to be convinced of this. You see the cake was his dessert contribution to the Panthe'kinarok feast. He's calling it 'Utter Chocolate Decadence.'» She motioned for Zendrak to try a bite himself. Thinking that Rimble was ordering him to do so, he complied. To Zendrak's surprise, the cake was delicious. Particularly the frosting. He took another bite, smiling at Phebene. Phebene nodded. «It's a certain ecstasy, you see,» she said softly. «A certain ecstasy?» Phebene reached over and touched his forehead. Zendrak yawned sleepily. Phebene blew on his face, saying, «Love always is.» Zendrak blinked. «What did you say?» Phebene cleared a place for Zendrak to lie down. Pulling a comforter out of her seemingly bottomless picnic basket, she draped it over Zendrak's broad shoulders. It was made of gossamer rainbows. As Zendrak closed his eyes, Phebene whiskered, «A friendly piece of advice. Beware the boy who expects his just desserts. He's ravenous, Zendrak.» Zendrak nodded, drifting into a sweet sleep. Meanwhile, Cobeth's play in Speakinghast ended with a triumphant curtain call. Rimble's play, however, had barely begun. And one of his leading Nine had just missed his cue… Chapter Twenty-Three The entire theater was empty now save for one seat up in the balcony. Professor Rowenaster sat in silence, his fingers steepled, his gaze distant. Only moments before, he had sent Gadorian and Sirrefne off to find a late night snack without him. Cobeth's play had so enraged both Saambolin officials that neither Sirrefene nor Gadorian had felt like attending the opening night cast party of Rimble's Remedy. Cobeth had continued to make indirect slurs against the Saambolin Guild throughout the play, and the predominantly Jinnjirri audience had cheered him on. Rowenaster grunted; he hoped Cobeth's political attacks would not jeopardize the Kaleidicopia. It would be just like the scrawny sculptor-turned-actor to try to make trouble for the Kaleidicopia by irritating Gadorian. A kind of parting shot at Janusin. Cobeth was fully cognizant of the artistic deadline Janusin faced with the Great Library Museum; Janusin had used Cobeth's face as his model for the sculpture of Greatkin Rimble. «And a very great pity that is,» remarked the professor, preparing in his mind what he intended to say to Cobeth about the play and about the tiny postscript on the playbill's last page. Rowenaster reread the words: « Rimble's Remedy is the first in a new collection of plays written by Cobeth of Shift Shallows entitled The Panthe'kinarok Series.» Rowenaster shook his head, his contempt for Cobeth bristling anew. It was hard to believe that even Cobeth could sink so low as to steal the name of Janusin's commissioned work for Master Curator Sirrefene. Rowenaster got slowly to his feet, muttering, «What are you playing at, Cobeth?» Staring at the empty stage below him, the professor decided to go find out. As Rowenaster descended the stairs to the main seating area of the playhouse, he swore at Cobeth softly for acknowledging him as the «guiding inspiration» for the play. Four of Rowenaster's academic colleagues—all of them Jinnjirri and none of them particularly prejudiced against the Saambolin—had confronted Rowen during the play's intermission, each of them complaining about the poor scholarship evident in the writing of the script and questioning his involvement in the project. At the time, Rowenaster had made excuses for Cobeth's sloppiness. But now, he thought coldly as he strode purposefully toward the backstage door of the playhouse, it's time to have a little discussion with my ex-housemate. Ducking through the door, Rowenaster removed his maroon travelling cloak. He folded it over his right arm. A small clump of mud from the hem fell to the dirty floor. Despite the Saambolin's great age, Rowenaster had ridden by horse to the theater district of Speakinghast. The professor was seventy but spry. Rowenaster knocked loudly on Cobeth's well marked dressing room door. A few Jinnjirri stagehands moved props and costumes off the stage behind him. Fearing that Cobeth might have already ieft for the opening night party, Rowenaster knocked again. The door flew open. «I said come in!» cried Cobeth with exasperation, his Trickster costume half-on and his makeup half-off. When the actor saw who it was, he added with hypocritical gallantry, «Do, do, do, come in, professor.» He bowed. «Thank you,» said Rowenaster cooly. He was used to Cobeth's fluctuations of mood and his caustic humor; he had spent the last five years living in the same house with the fellow. Cobeth returned to his makeup table and continued swabbing his neck and arms with a Piedmerri cold cream. «What can I do for you?» «I have a request.» «Which is?» «Next time you decide to bastardize a religious rite,» said the professor calmly, «leave my name out of it.» Cobeth raised his eyes to meet Rowen's in the mirror. «Bastardize? Don't you think that's a little strong, old man?» The professor chuckled quietly. «I'm a deeply religious man. Did you know that, Cobeth? No? Well, I am. I began teaching my Greatkin survey course forty-five years ago because I loved the Presence—not because I needed to make a good living as a Saambolin academic. You see, I really believe there is a Presence, Corbeth. And, therefore, a Greatkin Rimble. Furthermore, when I was but a youngster of ten, my Saambolin parents took me to see Rimble's Remembrance in Suxonli. My parents were scholars themselves. Suxonli was a field trip, one I was privileged to join. And while there, Cobeth, I understood something.» Cobeth turned around to face the professor, his smile skeptical. «And what was that, professor? Even if I don't ask,» he added silkily, «you're bound to tell me anyway. You're so fond of lecturing.» Rowenaster pursed his lips, wishing very hard that he were Master Doogat. In Rowen's opinion, Cobeth was sorely in need of the Mayanabi's famous «Podiddley Punch.» The professor took a deep breath and decided to keep to the point. «I learned this, Cobeth: the Trickster's Hallows of Suxonli Village is not a dead religious ritual, its origins lost in antiquity. Rimble's Remedy, as you call it, is nothing less than a literal passion play—Greatkin for mortal and mortal for Greatkin. Done right, the ritual can produce a certain ecstasy of spirit. Done right,» he repeated for emphasis. Cobeth folded his hands on his knee. «Oh—I see. You're implying I didn't do the rite 'right.' « He smiled at Rowenaster icily. «And you're Speakinghast's resident expert on Rimble. So I'm told.» He leaned forward. «Do you know what an expert is, professor? An expert is someone who knows more and more about less and less. You're an academic, Rowen.