residency. Tree winced. He hoped this was not true. If it was, he thought sadly, then he would have to reconsider his sexual attraction for the Piedmerri. He disliked wimps. «I may have to do that anyway,» he muttered as he avoided the fuschia colored front door to the house. He headed for the back porch of the kitchen, taking the stone stairs two at a time and adding, «Virgins are such a pain. Especially non-Jinnjirri ones.» Tree slipped in the back door of the Kaleidicopia and immediately wrinkled his nose. The scent of Barlimo's garlic curry still lingered in the kitchen. Tree dipped a wooden spoon into the still warm cauldron and tested the stew gingerly. He found it surprisingly tasty and so helped himself; Barlimo always cooked more than she needed, and Barlimo always offered it to those standing about in the kitchen. Tree listened to the strained voices on the other side of the swinging door. His eyes narrowed. Apparently, the house meeting hadn't started yet. «Good,» he whispered to himself. «Then, I'll eat.» Tree sat at the round kitchen table and continued with his dinner, enjoying the relative peace. It was short- lived; Po and Rowen walked in, both wanting seconds of stew. Entering the room first, Po took one look at Tree and snorted, «So I suppose you sided with Mab? Voted me out like Timmer, Cobeth, and Janusin?» «As a matter of fact, Po,» said Tree with his mouth full, «I didn't side with Mab at all.» «Why?» asked Po in surprise. «Not for love of you,» replied Tree drily. He wiped his lips with a napkin. «I just didn't like the precedent.» Po rolled his eyes. «Figures.» Tree shrugged. «I don't have to love everyone who moves in here.» «Only the Piedmerri ones,» replied Po smoothly. Tree's green hair streaked with red. This brought peals of laughter from Po. The little thief pointed rudely at Tree's hair color and turning to Rowenaster, said, «I love screwing him up like that. He's such an easy mark.»
«I'll remember you said that, Po,» replied Tree. He smiled icily. «Especially if any more money disappears from this house.» There was a dead silence. Two weeks ago Janusin had put his rent money in an envelope and hung it on Barlimo's door. It had vanished before the Jinnjirri architect returned home that evening from a meeting with the Saambolin Housing Commission. Everyone suspected Po, but no one had any proof. Just lots of motivation. It was common knowledge that the little thief was six months behind in his rent payments. He still managed to eat, so the money had to be coming from somewhere. Rowenaster had countered the circumstantial evidence by suggesting that perhaps Doogat supplemented Po's income when things went badly in the street. Barlimo had seconded this opinion, but the younger members of the «K» had remained unconvinced. Irate, they had all converged in Mab's room to discuss the possibility of evicting Podiddley. Rowenaster broke the silence. «Tree— remember yourself, please. You've no proof for such an accusation.» «I don't need proof,» retorted the crabby Jinnjirri. «The guy's a professional pickpocket. Stealing is second nature to him.» Po said nothing, his fist clenched. He threw his empty curry bowl into the sink—leaving it unwashed—and stormed out of the kitchen. «Nice,» said the Professor, meeting Tree's eyes cooly. Tree swore, putting his head in his hands. «This just isn't my day,» he mumbled through his twiggy fingers. «This just isn't my day at all.» Chapter Ten Master Janusin was beginning to think this wasn't his day, either. He pulled out two studio stools, offering one to Doogat. Then, kicking some marble rubble out of the way of the other stool's legs, he sat down, his shoulders slumped. His hair was a frosted black and blue: beaten up. Doogat noted the Jinnjirri's emotional barometer and cleared his throat. «This concerns proteges in general—» «And Cobeth in particular?» The Mayanabi Master nodded. «To begin with, Jan—Cobeth isn't worth your grief.» «Tell that to my heart,» muttered the Jinnjirri. Doogat reached over and rapped playfully on Janusin's chest. «Yoo-hoo, in there? Don't grieve for a weasel.» Janusin laughed drily. «If he's a weasel, Doogat, he's the most talented weasel I ever met.» «Skin-deep.» «What do you mean?» Doogat relit his Trickster pipe. «Talent like Cobeth's is useless.» Janusin winced. «Uh—Master Doogat—could you maybe wear gloves tonight? I'm in need of a soft touch. I've just spent five years trying to train that useless talent.» «Yes, you did,» replied Doogat mercilessly. «And now you can stop.» Janusin hung his head. «It's not that easy. I—uh—still appreciate him.» Referring to general Jinnjirri wantoness, Doogat teased, «I think you often appreciate the artist as well as his or her work, hmm?» Janusin's hair turned a brilliant pink. He smiled weakly, looking anywhere but in Doogat's direction. «Shit,» he muttered. Then, in a gallant effort to get himself out from under Doogat's ruthless scrutiny, Janusin added, «Poor Tree. He's going to hit the roof when Cobeth fires him tonight.» If Doogat was surprised by this piece of news, he gave no indication of it. Puzzled, Janusin decided to pursue the subject a little further; «Tree loathes Cobeth, you know.» Janusin laughed bitterly. «Tree keeps telling me he thinks Cobeth is an emotional charlatan.» «Too bad you don't listen to Tiree.» Janusin swore. «Do you ever have a soft touch?» «Only when it's necessary,» replied Doogat, his black eyes twinkling. «How about now?» Doogat regarded the forty-year-old Jinnjirri with amused affection. «I believe you have a question for me, Master Janusin?» The Jinnjirri stared at Doogat. «How in the world—oh, never mind!» he snorted. «I should know better than to ask you a straight question, anyway.» «Who knows,» replied Doogat puffing idly on his meerschaum pipe, «you might get a straight answer. This time.» Janusin took a deep breath. «All right, all right. Here's the question: Teacher-to-teacher, I'm wondering about Cobeth—» Doogat nodded encouragingly. «—I mean, I tried everything I could think of to bring his talent to bear. To get him to use his potential. But clearly I failed. After five years his commitment to sculpting remains—as you say—skin- deep. What should I have done differently? If anything,» he added in his own defense. Doogat blew a smoke ring between them. Then he said, «It's the way of the Mayanabi to answer such a question with a story.» «This is a straight answer?» «That depends on your readiness,» replied Doogat calmly. Janusin rolled his eyes. «My readiness. Well, I suppose there's no way to know if I'm ready or not, is there?» «Let the story be the test.» Janusin's shoulders sagged. «I don't know, Doogs—I feel so sad right now. I don't even know if I could listen to a story, much less comprehend it on more than one level. My heart is just so—» «Broken?» asked Doogat gently. Janusin nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek. «I'm sorry,» he said hoarsely. «I shouldn't have asked the question if I wasn't prepared to hear the answer.» Doogat was silent for a moment. «You're very hard on yourself, Jan.» He touched the sculptor's shoulder. «Listen to me: good teachers are good learners. And good learners are risk-takers. You with me so far?» Janusin nodded mutely. Doogat smiled. «Now sometimes risks turn into what is commonly called 'a mistake.' For the risk-taker—for the learner in the learning process—a mistake is simply a dead-end exploration. Some students turn out to be mistakes. Like your Cobeth.» «But what a waste of time!» said Janusin desperately. «Not for the good teacher. The good teachers profit from their mistakes. As do the good learners.» «And don't make the same one twice, right?» Doogat shook his head. «That's unrealistic. The truth is, you're very likely to make the same mistake twice.» Janusin gave Doogat a horrified look. Doogat held up his finger. «But,» he said sternly, «the good learner will recognize the same mistake in half the time. And so on. Until finally, the 'mistake' can be averted altogether. But that can only be done over time—and through painstaking but informed trial and error. That's the nature of exploration. Everyone alive makes mistakes. Everyone, that is, save 'The Boy with Intelligent Hands.'» «What?» asked Janusin, feeling completely confused by Doogat's swift change in subject. «What boy with intelligent hands?» Doogat puffed on his pipe, his black eyes glittering. «Once,» he said with a smile, «there was a young boy born in Jinnjirri. Now his family was Asilliwir born and so were travellers. One day, when this boy was very young, a great storm arose in the mountains where his family was camped. He got separated from them. He got lost. They searched and searched for their Jinnjirri son—but they never found him. So they left the Feyborne broken-hearted. «Little did they know, however, but their son was not dead. He was alive and living in a village across the landdraw border of Tammirring. Now the Tammirring born are gifted seers, but they're not particularly gifted artists. Not like the Jinnjirri and not like this Jinnjirri boy. This boy could turn anything into a masterpiece—a stack of toothpicks, a sack of seeds. The world was his medium. «His new Tammirring family was awed by this ability—so they praised their Jinnjirri boy loudly and often. As a result, the boy became used to being the only talent around. One day a stranger riding a large blue-black mare came to town. He was a Mayanabi —among other things—and so had seen something of the world. He listened to the villagers tout their prodigy proudly. The man asked to see the Jinnjirri boy. The boy came out to meet him. The stranger frowned. He saw something in this boy that he did not like. Without explaining why, he asked to see the boy's hands. «The boy held them out, his smile insolent. » 'You have smart hands, boy,' said the stranger. «The boy nodded matter-of-factly. «The stranger smiled. 'They're a curse. You should cut them off,' he said. «The boy's smile faltered. 'Wha-what?' he asked in disbelief. » 'You should cut them off,' repeated the stranger. 'You don't know how to use them. On you, they're a waste. In the end, they'll kill you. One way or another.' He leaned forward. 'If you wish to live, if you wish to love—cut them off.' «The boy was indignant. 'I can't do that. My hands are the smartest part of me. That's what my name means. Yonneth: smart hands.' » 'For now,' replied the stranger drily. «The boy regarded the stranger with disdain. 'I'm going to the big city when I grow up. I'm going to be famous,' he asserted. «The stranger ignored the boy's ambition, looking past him to where the boy's older sister stood. 'Do you love your brother?' he called. » 'Oh yes. He's a wonderful brother,' she said softly, her eyes full of awe and respect. 'He's a blessing for our family.' «The stranger's face sobered. 'So are you, my child,' he told her. «There was a peculiar silence. «The boy frowned. 'She doesn't have hands like mine,' he muttered. 'You should see her try to paint a picture. Her hands are stupid.
