of its gardens. Yafatah scowled. She considered taking a walk despite her mother's admonishments to the contrary. Yafatah stopped sorting her laundry. She figured she had at least a half hour before either Aunt or Fasilla returned. A half hour was plenty of time to see the city sights. Yeah, she thought, grabbing a red traveling cape. Smiling, Yafatah escaped. The fifteen-year-old had not gone more than a block when she heard someone call her name. Turning away from a particularly delectable looking pastry shop in front of her—rows of cream and fruit filled goodies teeming in the window—Yafatah stared at an old woman in patchwork rags waving to her from across the busy street. Yafatah's eyes widened in disbelief. «Jammy!» she cried in delight. As the young girl ran to meet Trickster, «Old Jamilla» turned to the man dressed in blue beside her and said, «At least somebody loves me.» Doogat rolled his black eyes. Trickster opened her arms wide to receive Yafatah, saying, «Well, well, kiddo—what a surprise to see you here. I thought Tammirring didn't like these big cities. No headaches or fear of the crowds?» Yafatah shook her head happily, throwing her arms around Jamilla and giving her a ferocious hug. «I do be so glad to see you, Jammy. I looked for you in Piedmerri, but I couldna' find you. There do be queer things—» Yafatah broke off, suddenly suspicious of the man in blue. Trickster smiled at Yafatah. «He's all right. He's with me. In fact, my sweet, this is Doogat.» Doogat, who was still thinking about Kelandris, gave Yafatah a perfunctory bow, his dark eyes distant. The young girl eyed him skeptically. Then she pursed her lips and remarked, «You ought to spend more time in your shop, Master Doogat. You do be making me ma fierce mad with them hours you keep.» «My sincere apologies,» said Doogat, his tone slightly sarcastic. Yafatah nodded briskly. Turning her attention back to Trickster, she said, «Oh, Jammy—I didna' have anyone to talk to. And me blood came early, and we went into Jinnjirri where I got sick. On account of the shift and all. And then—oh, Jammy—and then, this weird willy thing happened.» Glancing at Doogat briefly, Yafatah tossed her head. «I got tangled with another Tammi. Her name was Kel, and she was fierce crazy. But really, Jammy, she didna' scare me overmuch.» «Why not?» asked Doogat, taking an interest in Yafatah's story for the first time. «Because, Master Doogat—she were a true Tammi,» replied Yafatah, her face reverent. «She be like a starry night that goes on forever. She be vast and deep. And ever so dark. But this dark do be a good kind. Like the hidden places inside the oldest mountains. That Kel, see—she touches the heavens but walks the earthy world. She stands between, knowing both.» Yafatah nodded with enthusiasm. «And I shall never be the same again.» Trickster squeezed Yafatah's shoulder. «Mystery is a power of the Fertile Dark. And you have met it well, kiddo.» Doogat said nothing, his heart made unexpectedly heavy by Yafatah's description of her contact with Kel's mind. He turned away from Old Jamilla and Yafatah, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his blue robe. Scanning the bustling street again for a tall woman in black, he sighed painfully. Somewhere out there, a mystery walked. A mystery that he longed to love with all his heart. And soul. Holding the Kindrasul tightly in her hand as she entered the Saambolin Quarter of the city, Crazy Kel muttered wildly to no one. Turning east, she headed for the park grounds of the Great Library of Speakinghast. Kel had seen the tall hedge of the library's central garden from a distance and without knowing why, she felt a need to see it up close. Avoiding several tour groups, she crept closer to the iron gate at the entrance to the twenty-five-foot hedge. A sign in six landdraw languages hung over the gate, announcing the time of the next tour. Kelandris read the Tammirring translation. Her eyes turned thoughtful under her shredded veil. She read the translation again, this time out loud: » 'Welcome to the Great Maze of Speakinghast. The only one of its kind in the world, the Great Maze is famous for the complexity of its unique spiral design and for the twenty-foot statue of a fabled Mythrrim Beast in its very center. The Library wishes to caution you against entering the Great Maze without a guide. We take no responsibility for you if you choose to disregard this warning. It is possible to get lost here—for days. Tours are conducted at one, three, and five bell-eve. An admission price of twenty-five coppers is payable to your guide. Thank you for your cooperation. Master Curator Sirrefene.' « Kelandris, in natural contrary style, ignored the warning completely and entered the spiral labyrinth of boxwood hedges. The sweet scent of the shrubbery delighted her at first, then, after an hour of walking, it became slightly sinister and oppressive. Kelandris sat down on a marble bench to rest. The bells of the city tolled twelve noon, the ones in the Great Library thundering loudly above her. Startled, Kelandris got to her feet and took the first path that opened before her. She ran blindly yelling at unseen accusers. As Rimble's Luck would have it, Kel stumbled upon one of two tracks in the whole maze that led directly to the winged statue in its middle. The Power of Coincidence, it seemed, worked for Trickster's daughter as easily as it did for Trickster's son. Or perhaps the black glass beads in Kel's hand called to the black glass statue ahead, and the statue answered in draw. Whatever the reason, Kelandris found her way to the Mythrrim Beast in impossible record time. She slowed as she caught sight of the squatting, twenty-foot, female legend. Recognition Ceremony. Voices sounded in Kel's mind. Voices that had lived a hundred thousand years, speaking still in generational memory of the Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea. Voices and the storyteller's gestures. Whispers and the long sigh of heaven. Such was the power of the Great Ones who spoke through Mythrrim; such was the power of the Greatkin, the beloved of the Presence. And now the Eldest came to Kelandris. The woman in black struggled to hear the murmur of Greatkin Themyth, the mother of Mythrrim. Kelandris reached for the black statue in front of her, her voice strangling in strange whimpering sounds. She was an animal calling to her kin. The statue remained silent, its glistening black eyes open and lifeless. Again, Kelandris called. The statue made no response. Weeping, Kelandris pawed at it wildly. Her fingers slid off the glass. She kicked at the statue, hurting only herself. Rocking back and forth, her fists balled into her stomach, Kel's voice assumed the cry of a hunting bird in distress. She gave a series of soft, high pitched screeches. Then, exhausted, Kel crawled under the folded wing of the obsidian Mythrrim and fell into a sorrowing sleep. Rimble-Rimble. At the east entrance, Rowenaster prepared to take his survey class on an unofficial excursion into the spiral labyrinth. A few of his Jinnjirri students tittered nervously as Rowenaster counted heads. Tree, who happened to be present for this particular field trip and was wishing he weren't, decided to have some fun with his fellow Jinn. Naturally paranoid of all things Saambolin, the Jinn were uneasy to begin with in this enclosed space. Smiling wickedly, Tree announced, «Did you know this is where the city takes its dissidents? Loses them in this place, forever and ever.» At least half the students fell silent, their eyes casting about for some discreet means of escape. The professor took stock of the situation. Watching the Jinnjirri students separate hastily from the rest of the draws, Rowenaster gave Tree a withering smile. «Thanks.» Tree grinned. «You're welcome, roomie.» Rowenaster pursed his lips. «Speaking of the 'K'—I'm thinking we ought to reshuffle the house chores soon. How'd you like to be recommended for garderobes and other stinky things?» Tree rolled his eyes. «Okay, okay. I get the message: shut up.» «Such an excellent pupil,» said Rowen, continuing to count heads. «Hey, professor,» said another student presently. She had just read the warning hanging over the iron gate, and, being a lawful Saambolin, she felt uneasy about walking out of schedule into a place where one could get lost «for days.» Rowenaster had a reputation for being a careful teacher, but, on rare occasions, Professor Rowenaster had been known to do the absolutely unexpected. Such unpredictability in one of her own draw made this first-term student very uncomfortable. «Professor,» she called again. Rowenaster broke off his count for the second time and said, «What is it, Torri?» «Are you sure you know your way through this maze?» Tree came to Rowen's rescue. «Presence alive, girl—he's only been taking field trips in here for the past twenty years.» Torri swallowed. «Oh,» she said, her face scarlet. When the professor had gone back to counting heads for the final time, one of the other equally uneasy Saambolin nudged Torri. Then he winked, pulling out a large ball of brilliant orange yarn. Tying the end to a bar of the iron gate, he said, «I'm with you, Torri. Ain't nobody getting me in there with that crazy old coot. Ever noticed how many weird things happen around Professor Rowenaster? It's almost like he's got Trickster sitting in his back pocket or something. And he's so friendly with the Jinn—kind of makes you wonder,» he added, his tone of voice implying a sexual reference. «The registrar says he lives with shifts.» Torri watched the fellow double knot the yarn to the gate, her expression relieved. «Well,» she said amiably, «Trickster is the professor's graduate area of special emphasis.» «So queer for a Saam.» «Very,» she agreed, and fell in line with the rest of the students. Admonishing the members of his class not to lag behind or go off on their own inside the spiral, the professor led ninety first-term pupils into the Great Maze of Speakjnghast. This was only a fourth of the actual class roster. Tree joined Rowenaster at the head of the group. Recalling his previous conversation with the professor, Tree said, «When is the next house meeting, anyway? I mean, we are having a Hallows, aren't we?» «Janusin's picking up the invitations for the party today. So yes, we're definitely having one. Regarding the next house meeting, I thought I saw a note in the kitchen this morning asking for people's schedules. Barlimo muttered something to me over her breakfast tea about wanting us all to convene tomorrow night.» «Tomorrow!» cried Tree. «But Mab's only just returned! She's hardly in a state to handle a fucking house meeting, Rowen! She's so depressed, I'm worried she might try something serious! You know—like killing herself.» Tree stuffed his hands in his colorful fall garb. «If Barlimo hadn't insisted that I go on this field trip with you, I'd be home right now watching over her.» «No doubt, Tree,» replied the professor drily. «And to no avail. Too much caring can be as damaging as too little.» «I'm in love with Mab,» replied Tree. «That's no excuse.» «No excuse? No excuse for what, Rowen?» «To hurt Mab.» Tree crossed his arms over his chest. «Oh, what do you know? The last person you were ever in love with is probably so old by now, they've taken up permanent residence at the Great Library Museum!» Rowenaster glanced at the Jinnjirri's streaking red hair. «Temper's showing, dear.» They walked in silence until they reached the last turn of the spiral that opened into the central courtyard. Rowenaster stopped the group and motioned for them to move closer to him. Torri and the Saambolin carrying the ball of orange thread hung back. Rowenaster gestured for them to join the rest of them. Torri did so. The Saambolin hesitated; he had just come to the end of his ball of yarn and had not had time to tie it off yet. He smiled stupidly at the professor, his hands behind his back. Rowenaster peered over his bifocals at the student. «What seems to be the problem, Widdero?» «Problem? No problem here, sir.» Rowenaster rolled his eyes and pushed through the group to reach the dissembling fellow. The professor stopped in front of Widdero and snapped his fingers impatiently. «All right—let's have it.» «Have what, sir?» «The yarn, the string, the bread crumbs—whatever it is you've brought along to help you find your way back. Like Tree said, boy, I've been doing this a long time.» Widdero showed Rowenaster the end of the ball of yarn. «I just ran out of length.» «That's not all you've done,» replied the professor cooly. Widdero swallowed hard. «Sir?» «You've also hung yourself with it, Widdero.» «Sir?» «You heard me. You get no credit for this field trip. I ought to flunk you for missing the point of the whole class. Instead, I'll send you home.» The Saambolin student stared at Rowenaster. «Now!» snapped the professor, pointing in the direction from which they had all just come. Widdero backed up, then realizing that Rowenaster had no intention of giving him an explanation, he cursed the professor loudly. Turning away, Widdero followed the orange thread in his shaking hand. He disappeared around the comer. Widdero's curses woke the woman in black who lay sleeping under the obsidian wing of the Great Mythrrim Beast of Soaring-sea. Raising her head. Crazy Kel listened to the sound of an old man's voice speaking to an invisible audience in the corridor to her right. She herself also remained unseen, her black robe further obscuring her under the shadow of the black glass. Rowenaster regarded his students cooly, daring anyone to question his judgment or authority. No one did—not even Tree. The professor nodded at the eighty-nine stunned faces standing in front of him. «Sit down. I have something I want to say to all of you.» People sat, their robes rustling, their mouths closed. «You may think my conduct toward Widdero to be harsh. Well, it's not.» Rowen paused. «I can see by your dubious expressions that you don't agree. All right,» he said, cupping his hands behind his back like a sea captain beginning his morning constitutional on deck, «I'll explain my thinking to you. First off, Widdero's refusal to trust the unknown is typical of my draw. We like our mazes solved before we start. And my friends, that simply won't do in these changing times.» The professor began to pace, excited by a subject that was particularly near and dear to his heart. Rowen's long maroon robe slapped gently against his spindly seventy-year-old legs as his Saambolin teacherly passion overcame him. Stopping suddenly, Rowenaster glared at the group and said: «You take this class because it's required. I teach this class because I love it. Every morning, I bring the best of myself to this group in the wild hope of making one or two of you aware of the greater powers at work in our lives right now. Why? Because we two-leggeds are at our childhood's end. And it's time we put away our balls of yarn—and arrogance. This is Jinnaeon. Shifttime—the time of World Renewal. And hope.» Rowen paused. «We may either welcome or resist these forces, but we may not stop them. We can change—or be changed. Your friend, Widdero, has just had a mild taste of what is in store for all of us. Do you wish to be shattered or transformed? Think about it.» Tree, who was sitting in the front row, stared at Rowen in disbelief. The old professor sounded like a street corner doom and gloomer. Or Doogat, mused Tree thoughtfully, noting how much Rowen's teaching methods had changed in recent months. Where the Saambolin had once been polite and precise, he was now hard-hitting and hasty. Was the professor responding to some unseen deadline or something? Tree stiffened. Maybe the old man was dying, and no one knew it. Tree inclined his head, studying the movements of Rowenaster. The Jinnjirri shrugged in disagreement with himself. The professor looked as hale and spry as he always did. So, thought Tree, something else must be bothering Rowenaster of Speakinghast. But what? «Now the majority of you here saw a certain play several weeks ago,» continued Rowen. «It was called Rimble's Remedy. We discussed it at some length in class, and we concluded what, Torri?» The young Saambolin girl turned scarlet, trying to recall the substance of that long conversation. She had been doodling in her notebook at the time, thinking about her pitiful lovelife. Torri swallowed hard. «Uh—I know we talked about the Prophetic Vision. Of the Tammirring, I mean.» «Correct,» said Rowenaster warmly. Torri smiled, assuming she was now off the hook «And?» «And?» she faltered. Rowenaster put his hands on his hips, speaking to the group at large. «And I read a poem to you. It was one I had found et