hand in front of his face, testing the air experimentally with his long fingers. He stroked the darkness deftly like a master weaver sorting threads. Then, finding the one he wanted, Trickster's Emissary smiled. In his hands, coincidence was a subtle power. And he enjoyed making use of it. Zendrak tugged the night gently. The direction of the wind changed to east. In a matter of moments, the starving cur on the uppermost end of the forest trail picked up a familiar scent: sweaty, fearful horse. Giving voice immediately, the dog signalled the rest of the pack that dinner was imminent. They replied with excited baying. Zendrak grabbed a handful of black mane as he felt Further prepare to bolt. Glancing over his shoulder at the snuffling lead dog, Trickster's Emissary laughed. The trap was laid. He and the mare were its camouflage; Yafatah was the bait. But Rimble's quarry? Zendrak's eyes glittered cooly. Rimble's real quarry was the last unclaimed member of his small Contrarywise Circle: Kelandris of Suxonli. Zendrak pulled his green cowl away from his face. He had waited sixteen years for this night. Crazy Kel began humming to herself as she climbed down the steep trail that ran above the waterfall of the Springs. So the young girl was from Tammirring, she thought, testing the razor-sharpness of her knife as she walked. And she had bloodcycle dreams. Tricksterish ones. Kel's mind slipped into a drowning pool of mad logic, distorted and inaccurate. Tricksterish dreams could mean only one thing, decided Kelandris, the child was a Revel Wasp Queen—like she herself had been sixteen years ago. Crazy Kel stiffened, a new thought occurring to her. So, she thought nervously, the child was from Suxonli. Come to fetch Kel, no doubt. Bring her back and make her stay. For Kel must pay and pay and— «Springs about! Pain stay out!» whispered Kelandris in sudden panic. Pain, she thought. Calm, now. Think. The knife. The girl. Yes. Do it. Crazy Kel picked a fork in the trail that would intercept Yafatah before the young girl was in shouting distance of her caravan. As the woman in black slipped between the shadows, she suddenly slowed, her veiled head cocked to the side. She listened to the frantic, unexpected baying of the wild dogs. Crazy Kel swore. She had killed this pack's lead mastiff last week hoping the rest would panic and disperse. Apparently, they had not. Unknown to Kelandris, Zendrak controlled tonight's attack. Rimble's orders. And pleasure. Crazy Kel shrugged. So she would kill again. Yes. A thrust to the young girl's heart should do it. Yafatah, for her part, had been casting nervous glances over her shoulder for the past five minutes. What had incited the wild dogs to such a frenzy? she wondered. They sounded as if they were very close to their quarry. She swallowed, hoping fervently that she was not it. Sweating with fear, Yafatah tried to increase her speed in the woods. But unlike Kelandris, Yafatah did not know all the twists and turns of this particular glen trail, and she missed a curve. She slipped off the gently sloping embankment, falling to her knees and dropping the water sack. Yafatah cursed her unfamiliarity with the Piedmerri terrain. She left the sack where it lay, and got to her feet. Still holding her akatikki firmly, Yafatah groped through the dark like a blind person and climbed back on the path. She hesitated. Was it her imagination, or did the baying of those wild dogs sound quite a bit nearer? Truly panicking now, Yafatah sprinted in the direction of her clan-kin. As she rounded the corner, she slowed in confusion. What little night perception she possessed had suddenly been blanked out. She shook her head, peering intently into a large blackness not fifteen feet ahead of her. Hearing the rustle of clothing, Yafatah nearly cried with relief. Surely, here was help—a member of her clan, perhaps? Then Yafatah noticed the height of the figure and stiffened. Heart pounding, she realized Old Jamilla had not lied: the Madwoman of the Springs was real. Yafatah bit her lip; the hungry baying of the wild dogs seemed minor in the face of this new, immediate danger. Should she shoot the woman with her akatikki? What if she wasn't truly mad? Yafatah's breathing became shallow. If she knocked out the woman with a sleep dart, then the woman would surely be dinner for the wild dogs. That would be murder. Killing four-leggeds for food was one thing. Killing a two-legged out of fear was quite another. Yafatah fingered her akatikki uneasily, And loaded it. «So you dream of the King of Deviance, too,» whispered Crazy Kel. «And do you know, my sweet, what he'll ask of you?» «What?» asked Yafatah hoarsely. She stared into the pitch black, seeing absolutely nothing but darkness upon darkness. «What?» she repeated. Crazy Kel chuckled. «He'll fuck you, and prick you, and mark you with 'C.' Then he'll put you in his oven and have you for T.'» Kelandris laughed uproariously. «That's T' for Trickster. He's the Greatkin Prickster.» «I beg your pardon?» asked Yafatah. She had been raised not to use any of «those words» with adult company. «I mean—» «Oh no,» interrupted Crazy Kel. «It's I who must beg your pardon. After all, I'm the one who killed you. Rue on rue.» «But—but I be not dead,» said Yafatah checking the position of the sleep dart. «Neither am I,» giggled the woman in black. «But I should be. That's the law. According to shit-hole Suxonli.» Yafatah raised the akatikki to her lips, her conscience screaming at her. «I be sorry, Kelandris,» she whispered, the name of the woman in black suddenly occurring to her. «I do be sorry to have to do this.» Crazy Kel sniggered. «I think you should know that Trickster's an old fart. And what's more, I've a knife pointed at your heart.» Yafatah blanched. Her lips inches away from the mouth of the akatikki, she hesitated. Did the woman in black know she was holding a loaded blow-tube? If so, that meant that Kelandris of Suxonli could see in the dark. Yafatah shivered imperceptibly. Yafatah was good with an akatikki—very good, in fact. And at this close range, she was certain to hit the Madwoman of the Springs. However, thought the young girl, it's also possible that Kelandris of Suxonli has a way with knives. And if she throws the knife true? Yafatah took a ragged breath. Then I will be quite dead. Yafatah lowered the akatikki slowly. «Dying,» said Kelandris thoughtfully. «Dying is easy. It's living that's queasy.» She positioned her knife for throwing. «I don't understand, Kelandris—» The woman in black chortled with new laughter. «Nobody did. So of me they got rid. I am the nameless and the formless. The spaceless and the faceless. Kelandris? Who is she? She is the Trickster's infernal he.» As Crazy Kel finished speaking, the hunting call of the wild dogs exploded around them. Simultaneously, Zendrak and Further broke through the forest underbrush. The power of the Fertile Dark surged over horse and rider, causing a blue-black charge from Neath to spark along Zendrak's green cloak. Yafatah took one look at the mare's enormous size and the absolute dark of Zendrak's eyes as they reflected in the queer blue light of Neath and screamed. Before she could bolt, Trickster's Emissary reached down and grabbed her by the waist. This was the cusp of the season when change gusted with the wind— Not knowing what else to do, Yafatah called to the woman in black for help. «Kelandris,» she screamed, «do something— But Kelandris of Suxonli remained rooted to the spot, her expression unreadable under her flowing black veil. «Please!» wept the child, struggling frantically against Zendrak's strong grip. «Kelandris—» Trickster's Emissary smiled, then, pulling Yafatah toward him roughly, he said, «Change or be changed.» Looking into the face of the man who held her, Yafatah shrieked. His eyes had no pupils. They were as dark and reflective as obsidian. Another charge of electric blue-black light snapped and crackled over Zendrak's cloak then shot down his arms. His fingers discharged the current into Yafatah, who yelped as much from fear as from the intensity of the electrical shock. Just when she had given up hope that she would ever escape this terror, the horseman dropped her to the ground. He sped away. As Yafatah fell sideways, she heard the growling lunge of one of the wild dogs. She also heard the sound of a deft intervention. The dog howled in agony, its throat cut. As the cur rapidly drowned in its own blood, the rest of the pack broke cover, baying and snuffling. Yafatah heard the muffled plunge of Crazy Kel's knife once more. Another dog screamed as Crazy Kel continued to notch the night with her terrible skill. Yafatah scrambled to her feet, her akatikki in hand. There were too many dogs—even for the black-robed giant standing beside her. Yafatah squared her shoulders, and entered the snarling fray. Waiting until one of the dogs attacked her singly again, Yafatah fit her blow-tube with two sleep darts—wishing anew that they had been marked with poison. True, the Asilliwir herbal sleep potion was potent, its effect long lasting. It was not, however, immediate. So two darts were better than one. Yafatah smiled grimly. She would use the same dose on the madwoman beside her, she decided. When this was over. And without warning. Yafatah had seen Crazy Kel's level of expertise with the knife now. She must not permit the woman to take her by surprise. If she did, Yafatah knew she would never survive the night. Hearing a growl to her left, the young girl whirled, sending her darts airborne as she did so. There was a surprised whimper and the satisfying crash of a large dog seconds later. Feeling pleased with the trueness of her aim, Yafatah reloaded her akatikki. The woman in black swore unexpectedly. Breaking free from the queer, monotone rhyming she had used before, Kelandris said clearly, «I've been stung in the face by something.» Then, feeling the unseasonable heat of a certain desert wind, Kelandris added in a more horrified voice, «Greatkin-have-mercy—don't do this to me again! Don't bring me your thaw. Don't bring me your thaw in autumn.» Yafatah stared at the woman in black. Kelandris had her hands stretched out in front of her—as if she were reaching for something she could not see. «He's gone,» said the fifteen-year-old girl, taking aim against another attacking dog. «Who's gone?» asked Kelandris, her voice puzzled. Yafatah stiffened as the truth dawned on her; Kelandris of Suxonli had not seen the man on the blue-black mare. The wind changed. Yafatah wrinkled her nose. What was that peculiar smell? she wondered. Horse sweat and something else. Then her eyes widened. Sniffing the sleeve of her red tunic, she realized she had the smell all over her. Chapter Four Yafatah was never certain what happened next. Everything at once, it seemed. The wild dogs of the Feyborne continued their attack, snarling and snapping at the young girl's legs. She fought them off valiantly with well aimed kicks and the sleepy sting of her darts. Crazy Kel did likewise, her knife slick with the blood of the ravenous curs. At odd moments, however, Crazy Kel also complained viciously of a growing numbness in her body—so much so that young Yafatah finally had to wonder if maybe she'd inadvertently hit the madwoman with one of her akatikki darts. Yafatah shrugged. Kelandris had mentioned being stung by something very shortly after she'd let the first darts fly. And there had been two in the blow-tube. Yafatah pressed her lips together. Somehow, that man on the big horse was involved in this. Somehow, she thought, sniffing the fingers of her left hand and wrinkling her nose once more. The scent wasn't bad, she decided. Just strong. However, before she could consider the' matter further, chaos erupted around her. It seemed the calvary had arrived—in the form of ten members of her Asilliwir clan, all of them on foot, all of them carrying torches and darts. Dogs fell right and left. Sometime during the melee, Crazy Kel fled to the woods, her black clothing rendering her all but invisible in the forest shadows. Yafatah watched her leave but was distracted by her mother's glad hug. She crushed the girl to her bosom, her voice choked with the happiness at finding her only child still alive. Her mother's name was Fasilla. She was an herbalist-healer. Unlike her daughter, Fasilla was Asilliwir born; it was from Fasilla that Yafatah had received her southern brogue. «Child, child—doon't ever frighten me like that again!» «Well, I didna' mean to,» replied Yafatah indignantly. She scowled. Her mother made it sound like she'd gone looking for the wild dogs. «They came all of a sudden, Ma—from noowhere.» Fasilla grunted with agreement. «Blast these Feyborne. It be just like them to let something fierce bad happen. They be a tricksterish range; they doon't be called Rimble's for nothing!» Fasilla spat on the ground at the thought of Greatkin Rimble and all his mischief. «But the Springs do be good, Ma—» «For the Piedmerri born, perhaps. But clearly not for the Asilliwir.» «But I can feel their good, Ma,» protested Yafatah, all of her native Tammirring-born psychic senses on the defensive. «I can almost hear them talking to me, Ma. If we could stay a little while longer—» Fasilla regarded her daughter wildly, her irritation with Yafatah's thinking evident on her tanned face. «Ya,» she said fondling her daughter's dark hair roughly, «you do be almost killed out here. Have you noo thought for your own safety?» Yafatah stared at the ground. «I just wanted to listen to the Yellow Springs, Ma. I thought they might talk to me about me dreams. That be all.» Fasilla turned Yafatah toward the caravan park and smiled. «Never you mind. We'll see to what ails you come the morning.» «We will?» asked Yafatah, her expression dubious. Fasilla nodded. «We do be leaving at dawn for Jinnjirri country. For that dream doctor I do be telling you about.» Yafatah said nothing, her green eyes angry and trapped. Dinner with a southern Asilliwir clan was traditionally a rowdy affair, the meal ending with dancing and musical accompaniment. As Yafatah picked at the remains of sweet beans and jerky on her plate, a few of her adoptive landkin scrambled to their feet and beckoned to her to join them in a fast moving circle dance of all women. Yafatah declined their invitation with a shake of her head. Drums and flutes soon trilled the night with a lively melody. Feeling miserable, Yafatah put her plate aside. She was about to get up and head off to bed when one of the younger clan children grabbed her sleeve and offered the older girl a piece of fresh fruit for dessert. «Pommins?» asked Yafatah in wonder. «Where did we be getting these? I thought they be long out of season.» «While you were being dog meat,» replied the child, «we had visitors. One was a caravan out of Speakinghast. Seems you can get anything in a city as large as that,» added the twelve-year-old. «Here—take it.» She grinned, exposing a hole in her front teeth—one she'd recently acquired in a fist fight with an older Brother. «I've had three. One more pommin, and I'll puke.» Her name was Cass, and she was from northern Asilliwir, a region known for blunt speech. Yafatah accepted the proffered fruit greedily. Pommins were her favorite food. Colored like a peach but having the tough skin of an orange, the pommin was an eastern delicacy. Yafatah peeled the skin slowly, exposing the sweet, golden meat of the fruit. She bit into it, wincing in preparation for the tangy burst to come. Scarlet, jewel-like seeds exploded in her mouth, their juice slipping over her lips. Yafatah's eyes danced. «It do be ripe!» she cried with delight. Cass put her hands on her hips, her blue eyes annoyed. «What? Give you a green pommin? What kind of friend do you think I am?» «Mmmm,» said Yafatah, nodding her head and taking another large bite. At her passion (and the pommin) got smaller, it suddenly occurred to Yafatah that Cass had not told her who the other visitor to camp had been. She inquired between mouthfuls, wiping her lips with her tunic sleeve. Cass looked uneasy. «I won't tell.» Yafatah shrugged. «Why?» she asked, her expression puzzled. «It'll only make you pissy, Ya. And you've been pissy a lot lately.» Yafatah's cheeks flushed. «Thanks. That do be a fine thing to say.» Cass swore. «Your Ma said for me to keep my lip closed. I'm just doing what she asked me to do, so don't get sore with me, Ya. It's not my fault.» Yafatah nibbled at the empty peel of the pommin, her expression thoughtful. «It was old Jamilla, wasna' it?» Cass's jaw dropped. «How in Neath did you figure that out?» «Easy,» said Yafatah in disgust. «Ma forbade me to talk to the old woman this morning.