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 etched into a wall in an old cave outside Suxonli Village. Anybody remember it? No? All right, then, I'll repeat it to you.» Rowenaster paused, removing his bifocals from the bridge of his large nose. Regarding the group sternly, he said: By the venomous sting of his Chaos Thumb, Trickster pricks nine, one by one, His circle of genius for the turn ta come; Back Pocket People for that rainy day When the weave of the world pulls away. On the other side of the hedge, Kelandris leaned forward, her torn veil fluttering with the sharp intake of her breath. Rowenaster eyed his students with a mixture of impatience and nation. «Okay—so why am I reminding you of this poem? And what does a poem from a little known village in southern Tammirring have to do with me chastising one of my 'best students'?» He paused. «Plenty.» Tree cleared his throat. «Professor,» he whispered, «are you—are you okay? I mean—» Rowenaster snorted at the Jinnjirri. «As I was saying—there is a connection between the two. That connection,» he continued forcefully, «is Mystery. And Mystery cannot be approached by the mind's cleverness. Try it, and Mystery will smite you with outrage.» Kelandris fingered her shredded veil thoughtfully, her talons hidden. «We pride ourselves on our modernity—cool, capable. In control. But for how long? Every day we're confronted by the inexplicable.» Rowen paused. «I'm referring in part, of course, to the impossible statue standing on the other side of this hedge. No one knows how it got here. Yet it exists.» Kelandris crawled between the front paws of the obsidian statue and began grooming herself with teeth and tongue. «Now,» said the professor suddenly squatting in front of the group and studying each of their uneasy faces in turn, «the Suxonli poem is a mystery, too. It's very old. Its author remains unknown. Nevertheless, we do know this: the poem is a prophecy. A prophecy for our time,» he said in a low, emphatic voice. «Do you know what this means, children? Do you understand what we—your generation and mine—collectively face? Can you imagine what it will be like if the weave of the world pulls away without the help of Trickster? Without the control of the Nine?» No one said a word. During the intervening silence, something clicked in Kel's mind. The Nine. The Nine were important. The signal. Trickster would send out a signal to gather in one place. Nine would leave the hive; nine would fly to Speakinghast. But who were these nine? And, then she knew. Kel remained motionless staring at Rowenaster's face. «Goosebumps?» continued the professor. «Then you begin to know the potency of Mystery.» «It's just a poem,» retorted Torri. «Written by Tammi for Tammi. That makes the prophecy their problem—not ours, professor.» Rowenaster said nothing, cleaning the lenses of his bifocals with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. «That's exactly my point, Torri.» He set his silver glasses back on the bridge of his dark nose. «You—all of you—should've known about this prophecy before now. It was your birthright,» he added giving the three Tammirring in the group a look of consternation. «Nor should I have been the one to bring it to your attention.» Rowenaster shrugged. «Each draw has a responsibility to uphold in the greater scheme of things. As a Saambolin, mine is to teach what I know. The Dunnsung are here to remind us of the harmonies in the universal language of music and dance. The Piedmerri provide nurturance—be they farmers or parents. The Asilliwir keep cultures alive by the exchange of news and goods from one border of the continent to the next. The Jinnjirri must create—pursuing self-expression regardless of exterior conditions. And the Tammirring? Theirs is perhaps the most awesome responsibility of all. The Tammi are the caretakers of our collective soul. It is they who listen to the winds of the universe and translate the sigh into direction for all of us.» Rowenaster paused. «Now this is the point: if one landdraw sickens, we all sicken. And that play— Rimble's Remedy—is a shocking indication of a growing spiritual malaise—one that started in Tammirring at least sixty years ago. It has now spread to the Jinnjirri. I put it to you that the Saambolin will be the next to be so infected. Our problem, you see.» Tree stared at Rowenaster anxiously, listening to the angry comments of the Saambolin students sitting near him. He considered moving into the company of his own draw. If Rowenaster was going to foment a minor civil riot on the grounds of the Great Library of Speakinghast, he wanted to be among his own kind when tempers flared. Then, deciding not to call attention to himself by standing up, Tree put his head in his hands, muttering, «I don't believe this. I just don't believe this.» Rowenaster continued to speak from his unchallenged soapbox. Why do you think there's so much unrest in this city? Why do you Jinnjirri think Guildmaster Gadorian is cracking down on your quarter? Because he's afraid. There are far more Jinn in Speakinghast than Tammi. Let's face it—the Tammi are loners. But you, Jinn—you organize, you take sides, you reveal yourselves through your art. Although he doesn't know it, Gadorian senses a growing Tammi and Jinn despair. This can produce instability. Civil unrest in a city.» Rowen glanced at Tree. Tree bit his lower lip, thinking about the atmosphere of Decadence at the playhouse where the Merry Pricksters performed. He wondered if he had inadvertently contributed to it in way. He had always been somewhat of an artistic dilettante. Commitment, he mused grimly, had never been one of his strong points. Neither in artistic mediums nor in personal relationships. Tree winced, thinking about Mab. She needed stability right now. Did he have any to give her? He hoped so. «So Guildmaster Gadorian reacts,» continued the professor, «albeit blindly for the most part. Still, the Guildmaster wields a great deal of power in Speakinghast, so, blind or not, the effects of his reaction are strongly felt. Particularly by the Jinnjirri—who are our society's scapegoats at present. It's all quite unnecessary. But nothing can be done, you see, until we recognize what we're dealing with—namely change on a massive scale. And explosive spiritual turnabout. Meanwhile, the Jinnjirri suffer.» «And that's our fault?» asked Torri indignantly, referring to the Saambolin students who were present in the group. The majority of them were younger than twenty years of age. «I mean we did not create this world—or its prejudices, professor. If anyone's responsible for the problems of the Jinnjirri, I'd say it was your generation of landdraw.» The Saambolin sitting near Tree passed whispers back and forth. «Torri—you're not listening. I'm not blaming any one draw for our present predicament. I'm not even pointing the finger at the Tammirring. You're thinking only in terms of yourself. This is not a question of draw against draw—at least, I hope not. We're talking about a collective whole here. We're talking about a situation that affects all Mnemlith at once.» Torri gave him a superior look and said, «What has that to do with me? I mean, I get up in the morning, I go to school, I come home. In short, professor, I live my life as responsibly as I can manage. And I don't appreciate being told that I'm not only responsible for myself—but for the attitudes of my whole fucking draw! Much less the entire world!» Rowenaster shrugged cooly. «So?» Torri's eyes blazed. «So I take this class because I have to—not because I want to. And you shouldn't abuse your privilege as a teach at our great university by trapping students in this boxwood maze, forcing them to listen to your anarchistic opinions because they can't leave without running the risk of getting lost 'for days'!» Tree stroked his chin. Torri had a point. He regarded the professor steadily, curious to see what the old man would do with it. Rowenaster surprised Tree; he chuckled. «Torri, change is already upon us. It's no longer something we can avoid—it simply is. The Presence is not a static thing. It needs to grow as you and I do. And when the Presence grows, we're affected. These are great times when the Powers of Neath are loosed—like the wasp's poison in the poem.» «And that's another thing,» snapped Torri hotly. «You're obsessed with Greatkin Rimble. Just because Old Yellow Jacket was your area of emphasis