Contrarywise

muttered. She stormed into room three and slammed the door. Mab swallowed, feeling very much on the spot. «Uh— «Oh, forget it!» said Tree and disappeared down the stairs to the first floor of the Kaleidicopia. Mab stared at the floor. Janusin muttered four-letter words under his breath and retreated to his room. This left the professor and Mab standing in the hall in silence. Rowenaster cleared his throat. «Charming place, don't you think? Probably makes you want to live here forever.» Mab shrugged. «Rent's cheap.» Rowenaster nodded. «Did you sleep well? Short as it was,» he added with a patient smile. Mab shrugged. «Sort of. Until the shift in Jinnjirri woke me.» «What shift?» Mab sighed deeply. «Curse of the draw. Mine, I mean. We Pieds are real close to the land. Sometimes we know things at a distance. It's like a twitching of the skin. I can't explain it.» She paused. «Just something I learned. Mostly, I just wish it would go away. I don't live in Jinnjirri anymore. And I'd rather forget I ever did.» «You don't miss your folks?» Mab shrugged. «Only a Saambolin would think to ask that. Miss them? They're too busy with their artistic lives for me to miss them. I was always underfoot. Oh, and very dull. I didn't know how to party, they said. I was too serious. Too intense. Dull.» Rowenaster chuckled. «One just can't win, can one? Over at the University, I'm perceived as something of a libertine because I choose to live in this house. The registrar is convinced I have orgies every weekend.» Mab didn't smile. «Well, they did—at my house.» There was an awkward silence between them. Mab shrugged, then ducked inside her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. Professor Rowenaster stood in the empty hallway in silence, his expression troubled. On the far side of town, deep in the heart of the labyrinthine Asilliwir Quarter of Speakinghast, the wooden sign for Doogat's Pipe and Tobacco Bazaar creaked in the warm breeze. At the back of the shop, Po «slaved» over a sink of dirty dishes while Doogat entertained him by reading Po a tediously dry Mayanabi text on the «Art of Personality and Gradual Self- Effacement.» «Nearly done?» asked Doogat cheerily, knowing full well that Po wasn't. «I was about to ask you the same thing,» muttered the little thief. Doogat put the text down, his expression disapproving. Po caught it out of the corner of his eye and whirled around. «Now don't start on me, Doogs. I've been minding my mouth and manners ever since I got to this dump—place—last night. And I'm worn out with the effort.» Doogat raised an eyebrow. He looked singularly unsympathetic. «Keep washing,» he said and picked up the Mayanabi text. Po swore under his breath. He scrubbed a particularly greasy pan in silence. Then he asked, «So when do I get to test for Eighth Rank?» Doogat grunted, refusing to answer him. There were nine ranks in total in the Order of the Mayanabi Nomad, and thirty-three degrees in each rank. Zero Degree, Ninth Rank was the starting point for any new initiate. Conversely, First Rank, Thirty-third Degree was the greatest mastery a Mayanabi Nomad could achieve. As far as everyone knew—Aunt included—there had never been a First Rank Master; the normal lifespan of two-legged mortals simply didn't allow for the time needed to learn that much. «Oh, come on, Doogat,» insisted Po. «Nobody's a Ninth Rank forever. Have a heart.» «And indulge your vanity?» retorted Doogat. «I don't think so.» Po rolled his eyes, banging the pot around in the sink. There was a sudden tinkle of breaking glass. Po froze, staring into the soapy water. He was certain there were no breakables in the rinse sink. He heard Doogat get to his feet behind him. Starting to sweat, Po reached gingerly into the water. «Shit,» he muttered, his hand still hidden by suds. «Well, pull it out and let's see the damage,» said Doogat disgustedly. Po hesitated. «Now Doogat—I swear there was nothing in this sink. Nothing that could break-I checked. Really, I did—» «Greatkin alive, Po—just pull it out.» So Po did. He blanched. He held the delicate hand-blown stem of Doogat's favorite and only red crystal glass. Po swallowed. «Uh—Doogs—I didn't put this in here. You've got to believe me.» «I do,» muttered the Mayanabi Master. Doogat reached into the rinse water and retrieved the red bowl of the glass. It was etched in magnificent goldleaf. Doogat pursed his lips. He shook his head, saying: «You miserable little—» Po stepped backward, flinging his wet hands to both sides of his face in an effort to protect his ears from Doogat's hefty punch. Doogat regarded him with surprise and said, «I wasn't referring to you, Po. I was referring to Greatkin Rimble.» Po frowned, completely befuddled. «Oh. Good. I think.» Doogat continued to stare at the broken crystal, his expression slowly changing from thoughtfulness to horror. Thinking Doogat was exaggerating his reaction for his benefit, Po rolled his eyes, saying, «Doogs—it's only a glass.» Doogat raised his head sharply, his black eyes boring into Po's. «Remember when I boxed your ear last night at the house meeting?» Po took another step backward. «Do you?» shouted the Mayanabi. «Yes, Doogat. Yes, I remember. Very well.» «Well, consider your ear boxed. Then for now.» «Now? Why now? What did I miss?» Doogat threw his dark blue riding cape over his shoulders. «A glass is never just a glass. Nothing is ever as it seems. You got that?» He met Po's eyes evenly. «Uh—sure, Doogs. Uh—where are you going?» «Out,» replied Doogat. Then, without a word of farewell or explanation, Doogat left the little tobacco shop, slamming the door after him. Po followed his trail into the front of the shop, the scent of rich tobacco leaves tickling his nose. Meerschaum pipes of every description hung on the far wall under glass. Jars of dried herbs and potpourri rested in neat rows on a long table. Mosaic tiles decorated the slanting archways of the small store. Po shrugged. It was almost time to open the shop for business. Catching a glimpse of Doogat disappearing down a crowded street, Po shook his head and muttered, «There's no predicting a Mayanabi Master. Especially one who smokes a meerschaum Trickster pipe.» Chapter Seventeen Doogat's transformation into Zendrak took place in a matter of moments. It occurred under the cloaking dark of Doogat's blue cape and cowl. As «Doogat» reached a small, private promontory overlooking the vast horizon of Lake Edu, something shimmered there and faded. And again. Finally, called from Neath by Trickster's Emissary, Further materialized in three-dimensional form. The mare stood at a proud eighteen hands, her blue-black coat exactly matching the sheen of Zendrak's raven hair. The last of Doogat's friendly wrinkles and crowsfeet vanished. The wisdom of sixty-two years was replaced with the lean intelligence of Zendrak's apparent forty-five. The eyes, however, remained the same: cold, reflective, and black like obsidian. This man's eyes—as well as his shape-changing ability—were both the result of his landdraw. Born on the «big island» in the Soaringsea archipelago, Zendrak had inherited the volcanic characteristics of this northern draw. The «big island,» also called Feralisle, not only turned the inside inside-out on a regular basis with lava and ash but it also wandered freely—popping up at unexpected locations, occasionally at odd intervals or «inbetween» times. Feralisle was just that: wild. Zendrak's body imitated Feralisle's structural mobility with precision, throwing off «skins» like the ash of its volcanic counterpart. Zendrak's body had the peculiar ability to completely renew itself with matter. What was molten on Feralisle became a process of molting on Zendrak's person. As a consequence, Zendrak's concept of self included a natural multiplicity of identity. And soul ache. As far as Zendrak knew, he was the two-legged landrace of Feralisle. This knowledge produced a gnawing loneliness of soul that threatened to overwhelm him on bad days. For like Kelandris, he was a kind of involuntary akindo. Made kinless by draw, Zendrak was a biological freak. He was a sport of nature. He was also the result of one of Trickster's improvements; Zendrak was the progeny of Rimble's recent love affair with Themyth. However, Zendrak was only three-quarters Greatkin. The final quarter was that of a Mythrrim Beast—and therefore quite mortal. Zendrak mounted Further easily, stowing his blue cape in his saddlebag and retrieving his dark green one. He sighed. Today was definitely turning out to be one of his bad days. First that hasty message from Aunt about the Tammirring child this morning at dawn. And now this: some kind of cryptic request from Rimble to meet with him immediately. The subject matter was apparently Kelandris; after all, Crazy Kel was slightly cracked. And so was the glass. Sounded like a fairly equivalent description of Kelandris to him. Zendrak swore softly as he whispered his destination to Further: southeastern Saambolin in the foothills of the Bago-Bago Mountains at an old standing-stone site. What made this particular site interesting, thought Zendrak grabbing a handful of Further's black mane, was that it had once been dedicated to Greatkin Phebene. «Hardly Rimble's usual fare,» he muttered to himself, squeezing the sides of the mare's body with his long legs. Further began to run in place. Gritting his teeth against the cold shock to come as Further and he entered the Everywhen, Zendrak urged the mare into a dead run. She complied. When Further reached the extreme of her speed, both horse and rider shimmered. And were gone. For Further, time was not fixed. Time could be «jumped» by travelling through a series of Trickster's loopholes: literal constellations of coincidence. To a Power of the Fertile Dark, cause and effect—like distance—were not facts; they were working illusions. As far as the mare was concerned, the past, present, and future were concepts and therefore as interchangeable or discardable as cards in a cut deck. For a denizen of Neath—a portion of the Everwhen of the Presence—time occurred simultaneously. Further nickered softly, signalling Zendrak to prepare for her «jump.» Freeing his left hand from the entanglement of her mane, Zendrak caught a line of time and tugged. A gate of coincidence opened. There was a wild whooshing sound, and they entered the Everywhen. A moment later, horse and rider galloped into the open plains of southeastern Saambolin. A muted, rolling mountain range loomed in the near distance: the Bago-Bago. This range, like the snowy Feyborne, marked a natural dividing line between landdraws—that of lawful Saambolin and musical Dunnsung. One of the best loved rites involving Phebene was a contest between musicians to see if they could make the mountains sing. They almost always succeeded. But then, thought Zendrak wearily, this is a much milder draw. Not like remote Tammirring. Zendrak's thoughts turned to Kelandris. He recalled Rimble saying he intended to nudge Yafatah to Speakinghast—but the sly bastard had not