still wore furs, gourd rattles, and black and yellow paint. «To a Distant Place.» «What're you going to do there, Rimble?» asked Phebene between sniffles. «I'm going to market my name.» Mattermat scowled. «Speak Oldspeech, will you? 'Market your name'—what in Neath does that mean?» «Wouldn't you like to know?» sniggered Trickster. «Yes, I would!» shouted Mattermat, rightly suspecting Rimble of some new mischief. «What's this Distant Place called? Is it on Mnemlith?» «Nope. It's in Milwaukee.» There was a bewildered silence. «Never heard of it,» said Sathmadd, quickly scanning every place name in her prodigious memory. «Never heard of a Milwaukee.» *10* As the residents of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, often said, this lovely city was the best kept secret in the Midwest. Made famous by the beer breweries that once heavily populated Milwaukee's precincts, in recent years Milwaukee had broadened its business base and begun attracting people interested in the computer industry. Influenced by its large German and Polish constituency, the city favored the ethic of hard work. Unlike its university sister city of Madison, Milwaukee excelled at being conservative—except in summer. In June, when native Milwaukeeans were digging themselves out of their six-month winter hibernation—and residual cabin fever—the city cut loose with fireworks. Literally. By the time the Fourth of July rolled around, the fireworks display held on the banks of Lake Michigan was almost anticlimactic. Ethnic festivals abounded in Milwaukee throughout the summer. Each weekend hosted a different country. Bastille Day enlivened the downtown area in mid-July, culminating in the Great Circus Parade that strutted down Wisconsin Avenue complete with hundred-year-old wagons brought by train from Baraboo, Wisconsin, and unloaded by horses in the train yard to the delight of scores of cheering children and equally happy grown-ups. Centuries ago, long before the Europeans set foot on the land, Milwaukee was famous for something besides beer and festivals; it was a peace center for many of the Native American tribes in the area. Many street names in the city were of Indian origin, Milwaukee itself meaning «at the gathering of the waters.» In the 1980s Milwaukee had become more conscious of its Native American roots and had invited Indians of the area to host an early fall weekend entitled Indian Summer. The festival was well attended by local Indians and members of tribes living as far west as the Dakotas. In like spirit, when the city decided to reinstate the Great Circus Parade as one of its yearly festivals, local Indians were asked to join in the fun. Trickster thought this was grand, and being partial to the Native Americans for giving him so many names—Old Man Coyote, Bluejay, Raven, Moon, Hare, Mink, Nanabozho—and remembering them even into the present day, Trickster decided to pay his respects to the Menominee in Milwaukee and make sure they made room for him in their part of the parade. The medicine woman of the Menominee was an elder in her seventies who invited Trickster into her house immediately, promptly cuffed the little rogue on the back of the neck, and offered him tobacco. Trickster grinned, then settled into her house until time for the parade in downtown Milwaukee to begin. The day was sunny, the sky nearly cloudless. As Trickster danced and pranced his stuff—goosing and rattling the people lined up on either side of the street with great enthusiasm—he kept an eye out for someone he affectionately called «the Obstinate Woman of Park and Shepard.» She was not Indian, but white—blonde and blue-eyed, as a matter of fact. Trickster had first made her acquaintance in California and had kept track of her changes of residence. You may wonder why? Well, in California Trickster had told this woman his Greatkin name, Rimble. Then he had asked her to write some books using that name. Being a contrary sort of person herself, the Obstinate Woman had refused. She said she didn't want any part of Trickster's doings. She was certain she would never be the same if she got involved with Rimble. «Right you are, girlie. So what d'ya want to be the same for, anyway?» argued Trickster, one rainy day in northern California. «Don't press me, buster—» Rimble winked at her and began humming to himself. After a few minutes, Trickster said, «I could make you famous.» «Not interested.» «Hey, hey—I'm a myth whose time has come. I'm telling you Coyote will be 'in' soon. Catch the wave, sweetheart. Catch the wave—» «Nope.» Trickster pursed his lips. Then, giving the Obstinate Woman a sidelong glance, he said, «Why not?» «I just told you why not.» «Tell me again.» The Obstinate Woman took a deep breath. «If I write for you, Rimble, my life will get turned upside down—» «And inside inside out—don't forget that part.» The Obstinate Woman smiled thinly and went back to washing the dishes in the sink at her Berkeley duplex. When she didn't hear anything more from Rimble, she turned around to see if he was still there. He wasn't. The Obstinate Woman felt relieved at first. She congratulated herself on being wise. No one in his or her right mind would write for an archetype like Trickster, she told herself. She bit her lower lip. «Then why am I standing here being disappointed that he didn't talk me into it?» she asked out loud. Rolling her eyes, the Obstinate Woman poured more soap in the sink and watched it bubble. Of course, being Rimble (and absolutely ubiquitous), Rimble heard her final remark to herself at the sink. Cackling gleefully, he made plans for the marketing of his name through the Obstinate Woman's book publisher in New York City. Now, a few years later, Rimble had come to Milwaukee to check on the progress of this venture. Six months earlier, the Obstinate Woman had left California to return to an area of the United States which still believed in wholesome things like milk, mothers, and marriage. Milwaukee had fit this description, and so the Obstinate Woman had settled there. At present, she was sitting high on a bleacher overlooking the circus parade, wearing mirrored eyeglasses and a silly straw hat. As the Native American segment of the Great Circus Parade marched by, the Obstinate Woman's jaw dropped. There in plain sight of thousands was Rimble weaving in and out of the crowd. «Shit!» she said nervously, and looked for a convenient way to escape. Unfortunately, the bleacher was packed and she sat at its highest point. In the street, Rimble waved gaily at her. «Shit!» she repeated, and started climbing over people. Scrambling between sunburnt children and beer-drinking college students, the Obstinate Woman made her way to the bottom of the bleacher. To her relief she saw that the Native American section of the parade was turning left on Water Street. Mercifully, Trickster was nowhere to be found. Deciding that she must have seen a hallucination of Rimble—no doubt brought on by the searing summer sun and ninety-four-degree heat—the Obstinate Woman decided to go in search of a soda. When she walked up to a nearby concession stand on the corner of Wisconsin and Jackson streets, the soda man had his back to her. The Obstinate Woman cleared her throat. «May I have a Coke, please? Not diet. I like my caffeine and sugar straight up,» she added with a grin. The soda man turned around, his swarthy face reflecting in her dark glasses. It was Trickster, of course, his Indian costume gone. In its place he wore a red bandana, a candy-striped shirt, rainbow suspenders, and baggy white pants. Trickster guffawed rudely and said, «Rimble-Rimble, girlie.» The Obstinate Woman rolled her eyes and grabbed the unopened soda out of Trickster's proffered hand. «This better be on the house,» she snapped at him as she peeled off the aluminum sticker on the Coca-Cola can. «But of course,» said Rimble, adopting a French accent for the moment. «Bastille Days,» he added. «Zey bring out ze French in moi.» «What do you want?» «Just checking up on the books. Where are they? Don't see a single one down at Webster's or Schwartz's—» «They're not out yet, Rimble. Takes time to make a book in New York.» «Well, well. We'll just have to remedy that, won't we?» «I should never have agreed to write for you. Never, never, never—» «No whining. Makes you unattractive, you know. Ask Barlimo. She'd tell you that in a minute.» The Obstinate Woman took a sip of Coke and swallowed it. «Now I suppose you'll tell me my own characters get to boss me around?» Trickster yawned. «She thinks I'm not real,» he said to a passerby. The passerby, who turned out to be a weird mix of Brady Street aging hippie and Downer Avenue skateboard punk, smiled disagreeably at the Obstinate Woman. Clad in studs, leather, peace symbols, and embroidered patches, the passerby said, «Life's a bitch and then you die. So fuck the world, let's all get high.» The fellow skateboarded away, his studs glinting in the two o'clock sun. «I'm going home,» muttered the Obstinate Woman. And she did. A bus ride later, the Obstinate Woman soon rounded the corner of Park and Shepard. As she did so, Trickster jumped out at her from behind a maple tree. He was dressed just like the skateboarder from downtown, his black hair sticking straight up, garish earrings swinging from his right ear. Grinning, Trickster said, «This more real to you, girlie?» «Go away,» said the Obstinate Woman. «And phew, what is that smell—» «Week-old sweat. Like it?» «Get out of my way!» Trickster looped his arm in hers. «Come on, girlie. We're going for some coffee at the Downer Cafe.» «Not dressed like that, you're not—» «Relax, will you? There. Smell's gone. Happy?» «I would hardly call it that,» she grumbled, slinging her purse over her shoulder and turning back the way she had just come. Miserable and certain that this meeting with Trickster would end in disaster, the Obstinate Woman walked toward Downer Avenue, Trickster jabbering merrily in her ear. Greatkin Rimble and the Obstinate Woman took a window table for two at the restaurant. Airy fans rotated above their heads while the espresso machine bubbled and frothed behind the hardwood bar. Trickster ordered iced coffee. The Obstinate Woman ordered a tall iced tea. She dumped cream into it. Trickster watched her and grimaced. Seeing his expression of disapproval, the Obstinate Woman began to laugh. «Don't say a word about my table manners, Rimble. I know all about yours at the Panthe'kinarok.» Trickster dabbed his lips primly with his paper napkin and said nothing. «So what's this about? Why do you want to see me?» Rimble took a deep sigh, his expression unexpectedly tired. «I want you to put my name on the cover of your books. Doesn't have to be in the title. See, the more my name is known, the more the myth will change reality. And the more I will matter.» Rimble snorted haughtily. «Nobody knows it here. And nobody remembers it there.» «You exaggerate,» replied the Obstinate Woman, clearly unimpressed. «Of course, I exaggerate!» said Rimble. «Nobody pays any attention unless I exaggerate. Watch, I'll show you.» Before the Obstinate Woman could stop Rimble, he flagged down the wait-person for their table. Scanning the menu, Rimble ordered a certain breakfast item that was only served between seven and eleven. It was now three o'clock in the afternoon. As expected, the wait-person told Trickster he couldn't have Benedict Oscar at this hour. Trickster nodded and let her go on to the next table. «So?» said the Obstinate Woman. «So watch this,» said Trickster. Flagging down a different wait-person, he repeated his request all over again. The wait-person started to tell Trickster that he couldn't have Benedict Oscar. Before she had gotten the sentence out of her mouth, Trickster's lower lip began to tremble. His eyes went mournful. Great crocodile tears dripped from his nose. He bawled loudly. Heads turned in the restaurant. «They won't give me my Benedict Oscar. They won't serve me because I'm a punk. Boo-hooooo,» he added in perfect mimicry of Greatkin Phebene. Both the wait-person and the Obstinate Woman were mortified and scandalized by Trickster's performance. The wait-person tried to assure Rimble that she liked him just fine as a skateboarding punk and was happy to serve him. «No, you're not. I know you don't like me one bit. Boo-hoooo.» «Rimble—good God. Shut up!» hissed the Obstinate Woman. «Prove you like punks,» cried Trickster, his voice growing louder by the moment. «Make me a Benedict Oscar. Please?» he asked, now smiling in his most friendly manner. Licking her lips nervously, the girl went to the kitchen. Within minutes the cooks prepared the most scrumptious Benedict Oscar imaginable, the eggs fluffy, the crab meat delectable. As the wait-person set the steaming plate on the table, Rimble leaned toward the Obstinate Woman and said, «See? Just asking for what you want doesn't carry any punch. Now I've made a splendid scene. I've exaggerated the wait-person's fears as well as the problem. And look what happened. I got Benedict Oscar at the wrong time of day.» «You also got the Downer Cafe manager,» said the Obstinate Woman, as a thin, officious-looking man approached their table, his expression far from pleased. Rimble-Rimble. *11* Although it was a searing summer's day in Milwaukee, it was a brutally cold night in Speakinghast, the wind chill bringing the temperature to well below zero. Cold of such caliber was expected this time of year. At least the physical cold was. However, no one in the city, including Zendrak, expected the emotional freeze that accompanied the gusting winds. Enter Elder Hennin's wasp-keeper, the perversion of Suxonli's draw—gray-robed, shuffling Akindo. Horses shied and bolted when Akindo passed them. Children woke crying fitfully in their beds. Lovers broke off lovemaking. Politicians had nightmares. In short, the whole city of Speakinghast was affected by the monster. Wherever Akindo walked, he brought despair of the worst kind. Hope shattered in his presence, love fled. No one was immune to Akindo except one person: young Yafatah. The univer'silsila wasps had done their job well. They had immunized the Tammirring child from Akindo and the deadly holovespa hive he carried on his back. She alone would remain unharmed through the next few days. Rimble had followed the mythmaking orders of the Mythrrim; he had created an antidote to despair—the univer'silsila. As much part of nature as Akindo was part of the cursed draw of Suxonli, the univer'silsila preyed on the feelings that Akindo inspired. Where Akindo brought pain, the univer' silsila brought pardon and healing. Unfortunately for the city of Speakinghast, however, the wasps under Akindo's control had a wasp queen, Elder Hennin. The univer'silsila were as yet without a queen, and were therefore unorganized, the good they did random and occasional. Akindo's holovespa were directed—powerfully. Akindo made his way to the Jinnjirri Quarter. He did not head in the direction of the Kaleidicopia at this time. Instead, Akindo passed the playhouse belonging to the all-Jinnjirri acting troupe called the Merry Pricksters. He shuffled and drooled down Renegade Road toward Rhu's house. Until his death the previous fall, Cobeth had lived at this residence with Rhu. Cobeth and Rhu had been lovers. Rhu was Jinnjirri-born and was employed as the stage manager for the Merry Pricksters when Cobeth directed and acted for them. After Cobeth's death, the troupe seemingly lost a lot of its political momentum. This had made Guildmaster Gadorian happy, as he had perceived the Pricksters as a potential hotbed of radicals and dissidents. Like the rest of the Pricksters, Rhu kept a low profile during the scant three months following Cobeth's drug overdose at the Kaleidicopia; no one wanted the Guild to investigate the Pricksters. If the Saambolin Guild had done so, it would have discovered that the Pricksters were a front for some of the most notorious dope dealers in all Speakinghast, the props and powders used by the special-effects personnel in the troupe cut with holovespa and royal sabbanac from the north. Tree was blissfully unaware of this side of the Pricksters while he worked for them, the pushers always opening the shipments before he did. Cobeth had been a master of trickery and stealth. As long as Cobeth lived, he had never been caught. Rhu, his second-in-command, wanted to keep it that way, so she had cleared every drug out of the playhouse. Now the guild could search all it wished; it would find nothing. Akindo stood outside Rhu's house, the bitter cold not affecting his skin. He made sure the holovespa swarm on his back stayed covered. He could hear the wasps buzzing angrily inside. These wasps acted this way all