Contrarywise

hands. He stared at the interlocking Asilliwir design on the rug beneath him, ignoring everybody. «All right, then,» said Barlimo happily, «I move this meeting be closed. We'll have another one just before the Trickster's Hallows. For guest lists and food particulars. Uh—let's say, in three weeks? Okay?» Heads nodded dutifully. Then people scrambled to their feet carrying mugs into the kitchen. In the street, the Great Library bells tolled one bell-morn. The entire group groaned, and everyone save Po and Doogat shuffled off to bed. Doogat waited for Po to get what he needed from his room—clothes, toilet articles, and Mayanabi texts—and ushered the little Asilliwir out of the Kaleidicopia. As they walked down the front steps, Po asked, «How long do I have to stay with you, Master Doogat?» «Until the House catches the real thief of Janusin's money.» Po stopped dead. «You knew? You knew I didn't do it?» «Of course, I knew,» muttered Doogat. «You're a Mayanabi first, Po. And a thief second.» The little Asilliwir smiled broadly. «Thanks, Doogs. Thanks for the confidence.» Doogat grunted and hailed a happincabby. As a pair of bay horses pulling a small covered carriage trotted toward them, Po asked, «So—how long do you think it'll be? Me staying at your place.» «That,» said Doogat calmly, opening the carriage door for Po, «will depend on a great many things.» Part II: Shifttime Mythmaker, Mythmaker—the Revel's begun, Come speak the spell of Once Upon! Let all things familiar be struck away. The world's invited to a Prickster Play! Chapter Twelve In Piedmerri, on the morning following the Kaleidicopia's house meeting, Fasilla and Yafatah pulled away from the Asilliwir caravan camp, heading due east toward the land of Jinnjirri. Fasilla clucked to the pair of roan mares drawing their brightly painted wagon. Seeing a signpost just ahead, she said, «Read me the miles, child. Your eyes do be better than mine in this foggy dawn.» The fifteen-year-old girl did as she was bid. «One mile to the Jinnjirri landdraw border, Ma.» Yafatah's glance fell to the wooden pointer hanging neatly below the crooked Jinnjirri one. She shook her head dazedly. Fasilla caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. «Something wrong?» «No,» said Yafatah, pulling an orange blanket over her shoulders, «The sign for Speakinghast. It do remind me of something. That be all.» «A dream from last night?» Yafatah, who was angry with her mother for taking her to Jinnjirri, refused to discuss it. Her mind, however, would not leave her alone. Finally, Yafatah looked back over her shoulder, unable to read the mileage for Speakinghast from this direction. Even so, the number remained in her memory: two hundred ninety- seven. «How long would it take to get to Speakinghast?» asked Yafatah, hoping the question sounded idle. «Depends,» replied her mother, giving her a hard look. «Would you be travelling by horse—or by foot?» Yafatah glared at her mother. «I doon't be planning to run away!» «Who be saying you did?» There was an awkward silence between them. Fasilla reined the pair of roans to a stop. Yafatah huddled under the blanket farther, hating the fog, hating the early hour, and hating herself for having dreams that made people think she might be crazy. «Ma,» she said more loudly than she had intended, «I doon't want to talk about it. I asked about Speakinghast because I do be curious. Because I havena' ever been there. All right?» «No,» replied her mother, trying to keep her temper. «It be not all right, Ya. You do be rude to me since breakfast, and I willna' have it. I realize, you do be sick. But you must try to be better to me, Ya.» Fasilla's voice choked unexpectedly. «I love you, child. And—and you worry me.» Yafatah rolled her eyes under the blanket. «Then just leave me be, Ma. Doon't talk to me. Just drive.» Fasilla started to retort, then stopped herself. Her expression strained, she clucked again to the horses, heading for the worst Jinnjirri border of them all: the famous northwest shift—Mab's nightmare. Yafatah shut her eyes under the blanket, her body rocking to the slow motion of the horses' gait. The wagon creaked as it rolled across muddy ruts and small potholes. The early morning fog swirled around them, and Yafatah shivered from the dampness. Shadowy forms from last night's sleep taunted her, their images remaining just out of reach. Except one. Trickster. Yafatah swore softly under her breath. Of course, she thought bitterly. Of course, you would be clear. You, stupid Greatkin Rimble. Yafatah bit her lower lip. It scared her that she was dreaming of Trickster. He was no good. No good at all. And it angered her that Rimble had appeared as old Jamilla in her dream. She loved Jammy. She would do almost anything for Jammy. Jammy was her friend. Not like Trickster. «I would even go to Speakinghast for Jammy,» she muttered. Yafatah shrugged under her blanket. The thought of running away to a big city like Speakinghast appealed greatly to her right now. She could be anyone in such a place. No one in Speakinghast would know about her bad dreams, either. No one in Speakinghast would think she was sick. Or crazy. Yafatah sighed, her eyes downcast. Maybe if she had been born in a country like Saambolin, her mother might understand her better. Maybe. And maybe not. This last was a singularly depressing thought, and Yafatah wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye. «Why doon't you ever talk to me about me Pa?» she asked suddenly. Fasilla stiffened. Without looking at her daughter, she said tersely, «Because there be nothing to talk about, Ya. You were carnival-begat. He was wearing a mask. It was dark.» «So, I was a mistake,» Yafatah grumbled. «Now, Ya—we do go over this many times. You were noo mistake. You do be an accident, but that doesna' mean I love you less. In Tammirring, they have a name for what you be: a Crossroads Child.» Yafatah raised her head. Her mother had never told her this. Genuinely curious, Yafatah asked her mother to explain further. Fasilla shrugged. «I doon't speak Tammirring so well, but near as I can translate, it means you do be a gift from the Presence. Because you be carnival-begat. Protected, too, by the Greatkin.» «They doon't exist,» scoffed Yafatah. «They do. And mind your mouth lest one of them hears you.» «Oh, Ma,» she muttered, her voice disappointed. «You do be so superstitious. Just like Cass. She thinks old Jamilla can give me the evil eye.» Yafatah sighed. «Just because she be Mayanabi. And half-blind.» As this subject was a sore point between mother and daughter, Fasilla decided not to answer Yafatah. They would be at the door of the Jinnjirri healer in less than an hour. Let her handle Yafatah's strange allegiance to that old Mayanabi woman. Fasilla was certain Jamilla was at the root of Yafatah's illness. The Mayanabi were a crazy people, and some said their craziness was catching. The horses suddenly stopped, their hindquarters quivering. They refused to walk farther. Fasilla gave the reins to her daughter and jumped off the caravan wagon. Going around to the back, the Asilliwir woman unhooked a leather feedbag. It was filled with oats and a potent mixture of wild baneberry. Baneberry was a tranquilizer; the horses would need it to get across the Jinnjirri landdraw border. She patted the roans' necks as she fed them. Fasilla, who was a skillful herbalist, watched their pupils. When she was satisfied that the drug had taken full effect, she returned the feedbag to the hook on the back of the red and blue wagon. She took her seat next to Yafatah once more and picked up the damp reins. «This fog do add to the shift, doon't you think?» asked Fasilla conversationally. «We doon't have to go to Jinnjirri, Ma,» snapped Yafatah. «We could turn 'round, you know. Head to the Asilliwir desert for winter.» Fasilla slapped the reins on the rumps of the roans and urged them forward. She refused to argue with Yafatah about this one more time. They were going to Jinnjirri. And that was final. As the horses crossed a narrow stretch of road, Yafatah's stomach lurched. She could feel the comforting draw of Piedmerri recede. Piedmerri was the home of Mnemlith's natural parents and caretakers. Famous for their skill at fostering—children, animals, or even plants—the Piedmerri were a race of ample laps and big families. The land itself was fertile and provided Mnemlith with most of its farm produce. The land of Jinnjirri was fertile, too, but in a way wholly unlike gentle Piedmerri. In Jinnjirri, the fertility was of a raw, unbounded variety; in Jinnjirri, anything went. Status in Jinnjirri was not measured by a person's ability to provide an atmosphere that granted one the right to grow in an enclosed environment of emotional safety. In Jinnjirri, people were expected to reach their psychological edge and go beyond it. In Jinnjirri, status was based on originality verging on the eccentric. The more bizarre the relationship, project, or concept was, the greater acclaim the Jinnjirri accorded it. This was why only the dullest Jinnjirri—said the most eccentric Jinnjirri—would ever live in Speakinghast. Such persons were a disgrace to the draw, they added. Who but a bore could prosper in the confinement and structure of Saambolin? Yafatah regarded the lavender mist swirling ahead of the wagon with distaste. She forcibly relaxed her mind. The weirdness of the shift would be temporary, she told herself. Just a matter of a few disagreeable moments. Unfortunately for Yafatah, things didn't quite turn out this way. Rimble-Rimble. Chapter Thirteen An eighth of a mile from where Yafatah and Fasilla prepared to cross the northwest Jinnjirri border, Kelandris of Suxonli forded a shallow forest river. Picking up her black skirts, she stepped lightly on the surface of protruding, moss-covered rocks. Halfway across she hesitated. The billowing mist of the Jinnjirri landdraw rose like a shimmering lavender wall not twenty feet ahead of her. Kelandris shivered. She remembered crossing into Jinnjirri before, and she remembered disliking it. The shift had made her feel nauseous, and she had heard voices. She had also seen things—Tammirring fashion. The landrace of Tammirring were Mnemlith's natural mystics. It was they who nurtured the spiritual psyche of the world. Psychics, seers, and prophets of all kinds abounded in this northern land. Being a people of extreme psychological sensitivity, the Tammirring rarely left the protection of their draw. The bustle and psychic smorgasbord of cities overwhelmed their acute inner senses, leaving a Tammirring feeling nervous and internally soiled. Even in their own country, the men and women of Tammirring wore veils to shield themselves from unwanted intrusions on their inner privacy. In this way, the Tammirring were similar to the hatted Jinnjirri. However, unlike the Jinnjirri, the Tammirring rarely involved themselves in politics or social reform. The Tammirring preferred the solitude of their own thoughts and inner promptings. Many claimed direct communication with the Presence. A few claimed to have actually seen a Greatkin. Kelandris was one of these latter. She claimed to have