think I like him best of all the ruffians at this house. He do be so regular, you know. Him and his «afternoon cookie» at teatime every day. And he do
be so cheery. I'd like to be that cheery when I get that old. But being just sixteen, I guess I have some time yet before that happens. And about me? I do be mostly fine. I miss the dog, Pi, like I said. Also miss you and Aunt. Everybody was sorry to see Aunt go. Especially Barlimo. Them both being Jinn, they were acting almost like sisters by the time Aunt said she had to get back to her student, Burni. And her hollyhocks. For Presence sake, we canna' forget the hollyhocks even in winter! Right now, I do be reading some books of the professor's. Easy stuff about the Greatkin. It do be nice to learn about them. They must have been a wonderful race. Wish I could've met them. Well, I guess I shouldna' say that. I mean, I do be living with two of that race—Kelandris and Zendrak. But in truth, Ma, them two doon't act like the GK in the professor's history books. The GK in the books do be sweet and loving and almost perfect. Kelandris and Zendrak? They do be always bickering about something or running off and never saying when they'll be coming home. No, they doon't act like Greatkin at all. Besides, Kel's socks smell. Hope you find all the goodies everybody asked for from Jinnjirri. If you do be still with Aunt, give her me love. See you in a few weeks. Love and merry meet! Ya……..
Fasilla folded the letter from her daughter again and slipped it back into her tunic pocket. She bit her lower lip anxiously. Nothing in Yafatah's letter seemed amiss. Then why had Aunt sent her such a desperate message? Protect Yafatah and the others? From what? Surely Barlimo was capable of handling any adolescent crisis that might develop. And as the child said, she was living with two Greatkin. That ought to count for something. Still,
if Zendrak said the Greatkin were fighting at Eranossa, it was possible that neither Zendrak nor Kelandris would be able to keep the peace in Speakinghast. Fasilla ran her fingers through her short brown hair. She had barely begun to do the shopping she needed to do in Jinnjirri. Should she return to Speakinghast? Maybe a visit with Aunt was in order. Fasilla
squinted at the early afternoon sun. If she rode a fast horse, she might still catch Aunt at the Saambolin inn by nightfall. Maybe that would be best, she decided. Go and see Aunt. Find out why she had sent such a message. Asilliwir-born, Fasilla did not possess the Mayanabi ability to check on a
person's welfare long-distance. Still, Fasilla had sound mothering instincts. At this particular moment, she felt no fear in her heart for her daughter's
safety. And Fasilla was a natural worrier. Frowning, Fasilla unhooked one of her roans from the harness. She would ride to the Saambolin border in haste. Something wasn't right. Indeed it wasn't. *5* Today was the second month in the winter school term in Speakinghast. Professor Rowenaster wore the academic finery to suit the icy weather outside. Clad in yellow velvet, white fur, and gold trim, he cut a regal figure. The seventy-one-year-old educator walked in a stately manner toward the podium of his lecture hall. As always, he was teaching the first-year students. His Greatkin Survey course was a requirement at Speakinghast University; it was also so celebrated that many of Rowen's students came back to visit it, adding their comments to classroom discussion. The professor encouraged this. Teaching this course was the love of his life, and if students felt they had missed something the first time around—entirely possible, as Rowenaster covered vast amounts of difficult material in each short term—they were welcome to return and refresh their memories! There was one danger in this, though. If no one in his current enrollment knew the answer to a question, Rowenaster would call on the old-timers. Guildmaster Gadorian had been Rowen's student some twenty years ago; he now entered the lecture hall. Rowenaster turned to the Saambolin guildmaster, who had just taken a back-row seat. The guildmaster was a personal friend of Rowen's and had it in mind to ask «Rowenaster out to lunch when class was over. Unfortunately for Guildmaster Gadorian, no one knew the answer to the next question. Gadorian saw Rowen look in his direction and froze.
«Perhaps you'd like to tell the class your recollection of what a Greatkin is?» Gadorian's face went scarlet. «Presence alive, Rowen!» he protested. «You can't be serious. I took this class years ago. I don't remember what a Greatkin is.» He shrugged. «The stuff of folktales.» The class tittered with amusement. Guildmaster Gadorian was a large man of three hundred pounds and a formidable politician. He wielded power easily, as did most Saambolin. It was hard to imagine him as forgetful. Gadorian scowled at the eighteen-year-old faces in the room. He drew himself up in his chair, his blue robe rustling as he did so. «Well?» asked Rowen. «I'm waiting.» Gadorian stared at Rowenaster. Then he burst into laughter. «That's exactly what you used to say to me in class. And I never knew the answer.» Rowenaster grinned. «He was a terrible student,» he said to the students surrounding him. «Never studied. Personally, I think he was eyeing the girls.» Rowen chuckled. «Maybe he still is,» added the professor raising a single gray eyebrow. The Saambolin girls in the room looked aghast; Gadorian was very married, and everyone in Speakinghast knew it. Seeing the mischievous smile on Rowenaster's old face, Gadorian settled back in his chair, certain that Rowenaster would leave him alone now. But this was not to be. Rowenaster's special area of emphasis was Greatkin
Rimble. After years of studying Trickster, a year of living with Rimble's own children—Kelandris and Zendrak—and having participated in a turning ceremony last year during a party his housemates threw for Trickster's Hallows, Rowenaster had become a little tricky himself. «Give it your best shot,» said Rowen, coming over to stand next to Gadorian's chair. The Guildmaster blinked. «Now, don't take this too far,» he muttered in a low voice to the professor. «I don't know what a Greatkin is, and furthermore I don't care what a Greatkin is.» «Well, you should,» said Rowen coolly. «My business is with this city. It's alive. The Greatkin are part of a dead religion. They're finished. And they've nothing to do with me.» «Ah, the modern mind,» said Rowenaster, his voice slightly sarcastic. Turning to the class, he asked, «Let's see a show of hands. How many of you think the Greatkin ever existed?» Everyone's hand shot into the air, including Rowen's and Gadorian's. «Okay,» continued the professor. «How many of you think there are Greatkin alive now?» Only Rowenaster raised his hand. «Worse than last year,» said Rowen. «But hardly surprising. This is the Jinnaeon: the shifttime of the world when no one can tell the difference between what is seemingly urgent—election results and grades—and what is unquestionably most important. The Greatkin being the latter,» he added with a sigh. «Professor?» asked a Saambolin girl in the front row. «May I ask you a question now? Actually, a bunch of us were discussing this before class began. We're all dying to know, see?» Rowenaster smiled, regarding the girl steadily over the top of his silver bifocals. The professor was still a handsome man, his hair gray, his skin dark brown, his posture absolutely perfect. His beard was neat, as were his fingernails. Like most Saambolin, Rowenaster was a fastidious dresser. He crossed his arms over his chest, stroking his beard with his right hand. «Ask,» he said.