Contrarywise

—okay—but I still think I deserve some credit for all the work I've done.» Tree threw the playbill to the ground. «My name is conspicuously missing, Rhu. I hope this wasn't your idea.» Rhu's Jinnjirri hair turned pink with embarrassment. «Good Greatkin, Tree—you know I wouldn't do something like that to you! We're friends. Once lovers. Come on. You know me better than that.» Tree pursed his lips. «I thought I did. But to tell you the truth, Rhu, I'm not sure of anyone's true feelings toward me here. Cobeth's pretty fucking charismatic. And I've noticed you two spending a lot of time together.» Rhu's hair turned flaming red. «So that makes me part of some kind of conspiracy? You got fired! Why can't you accept it with good grace?» Tree stood up. «I would, Rhu—if I'd been given the reasons for my firing. After two years, you'd think the Pricksters would have that much loyalty.» He threw some cast iron pots in the leather bag beside him. «You know—without my effects this show would be little more than top-heavy, preachy doggerel. And don't you deny it!» he snapped as Rhu started to do just that. The two Jinnjirri glared at each other. Tree shook his head, adding, «Why was I fired, Rhu? Or don't you know?» «Cobeth doesn't discuss all his decisions with me.» «Translation: you don't know.» Rhu ran her fingers through her hair and switched gender. Tree put his hands on his hips. «Oh—we're getting tough now?» «What?» asked Rhu. «Your apple's showing, sir,» said Tree touching Rhu's throat. Rhu's face and hair both turned pink this time. Wagging a finger, Rhu switched back to being a woman. «You make me so angry, Tree, that I can't even remember what I'm doing!» «Or who you are?» asked Tree idly. «What in Neath does that mean?» Tree slung his leather bag over his shoulder. «A word of advice, dearie. Cobeth's a cruel lover. We have one very drawn and quartered sculptor back at the house—» «Yeah,» retorted Rhu. «I know all about him. He's a slow sop.» Tree met her eyes evenly. «Janusin's a very gentle man, Rhu. You'd bloom in his company. Cobeth did.» «Not the way I heard it.» Tree snorted. «I'm the oldest member of the house—besides Barl—so I have a little perspective on Janusin and Cobeth. I was there the whole time. Believe me—Janusin catalyzed Cobeth's talent.» Rhu's eyes narrowed. «Cobeth has plenty of talent of his own, Tree! What's the matter with you? Jealous of him?» Tree's expression turned unexpectedly sad. «Not at all, Rhu. I wouldn't want Cobeth's kind of talent. I'm quite satisfied with my own—such as it is.» «You are jealous.» Tree shook his head. «Of a bloodsucker? Don't make me laugh, Rhu.» «A bloodsucker!» Tree walked toward the door of the laboratory and opened it. Looking back over his shoulder, Tree added, «Yeah. Cobeth of Shift Shallows can't do anything with his own talent, so he takes talent from everyone else, hoping their dedication and love of art will direct his own. When it doesn't, Cobeth leaves his victim drained of ideas. And nerve. Then he goes off in search of his next patsy. Better watch out, Rhu. I think you're next.» «I'm a stage manager, Tree. Not an actor like Cobeth. That's hardly the same catagory.» «Just the same, Rhu—Cobeth will take you and leave you. It's called envy, dear girl. And envy has many faces.» Rhu tried one last time to convince Tree that he was wrong about Cobeth. «Tree—you are jealous. Not that I blame you. Cobeth's good at anything he touches. But I think this—uh— attitude is beneath you. I'm sure that if you work hard enough, you'll be as famous as Cobeth's going to be with this play. And when that day happens, Tree, I'll be there cheering you on.» Tree grunted. «If Cobeth leaves you your vocal cords.» Rhu's hair blackened with fury. «Get out! You and your bad feelings!» Tree smiled thinly. «Gladly, m'lady. Gladly.» Tree walked out of the laboratory, up the stairs into the main foyer of the playhouse, and through the large front doors of the two storey building. He shielded his eyes from the golden sunshine of late afternoon. In the Saambolin Quarter, bells told the time: five bell-eve. Tree scowled. Three hours until showtime at the playhouse. He couldn't decide if he wanted to attend the opening night of Rimble's Remedy or not. He knew Mab was planning to go—along with Barl, Timmer, and Rowen. The professor would sit with his academic cronies, of course, up in the box seats. Tree sighed. Must be nice to have that kind of silivrain, he thought tiredly. Then a gloomier thought occurred to him. He wondered how Rowenaster was going to take this play of Cobeth's. Tree bit his lower lip. Cobeth may have left Tree's name off the playbill, but he hadn't treated Rowenaster in this fashion. In fact, Cobeth had given the professor so many acknowledgments that it was almost embarrassing. Tree took a deep breath. «I don't know, Rowen. By this evening's end, you may wish we could exchange places. I wouldn't want to be known as the 'guiding inspiration' for Rimble's Remedy. I wouldn't want that at all.» Professor Rowenaster and Barlimo stopped by the Great Library on their way home from eating at The Piper's Inn and an afternoon of shopping for the house. Rowenaster had picked up a fresh supply of tapers and flax oil, and Barlimo had replenished the supply of spices and dried fruits for the «K's» well stocked pantry. «This'll only take a moment,» said the professor as they approached the front desk of the closed stacks in the basement of the Great Library. Smiling at the Saambolin Guildguard sitting at the desk, Rowenaster reached inside the drawstring purse he kept hidden in his velvet pocket. He pulled out a collection of Saambolin passes, searching for his «permission only» card that would permit him to pick up several texts in the locked archives. He frowned. The card appeared to be missing. «That's odd,» he muttered to Barlimo. «1 haven't used it in a week. I've been so busy with exams that I haven't had time to get down here.» «Maybe it's back at the house. Or in your office at the University,» said Barlimo. «Maybe so,» said Rowen going through the cards a third time. «Well, no matter.» He smiled at the Guildguard. «Noolie, could you let me in? I've just got a quick pickup to do. Barlimo will wait out here.» Noolie, who had known Rowenaster for the past thirty-four years, shook his head. «Sorry, professor. You know the rules. No card. No admittance.» Rowenaster stared at the old man. «For Presence sake, Noolie—can't you make an exception to the rule? I am the curator.» Noolie shook his head. «Nope. You'll have to get a pass from Sirrefene.» Rowenaster put his hands on the desk. «The Master Curator is gone for the day, Noolie.» The white-haired Guildguard shrugged. «I can't help that, Professor Rowenaster. Come back tomorrow. We're almost closing anyway.» Rowenaster swore. Then, reining his temper, he said, «You could go back there and pick up the texts for me—and I could stay out here at the desk. There's nothing in the rules that says the Archive Curator is forbidden to guard the desk.» «You sure?» asked Noolie. Rowen peered over his bifocals at the guard. «I wrote the rules, Noolie!» Barlimo rolled her eyes. «You Saambolin! If we Jinjirri were running this place, Rowen and I'd be halfway home by now!» The Saambolin Guildguard eyed her distastefully. «With all due respect—if you Jinnjirri were running this place, we wouldn't have a book left in the entire six storey building. Your people don't train the intellect the way we do. Probably can't. It's not your fault you're such an emotional draw.» Noolie smiled, his posture proud and patronizing. Barlimo's hair turned a steaming red-orange under her scarf. Rowenaster cleared his throat. «So, how about it, Noolie? Will you pick up these books from the Trickster Archives?» He handed the guard a slip of paper with three titles on it. All of them had to do with Suxonli. When Barlimo commented on this, the professor added, «Thought I'd brush up on a few things before the play tonight.» Noolie regarded Rowenaster warily. «I suppose I could go back there. Just this once.» He looked at Barlimo. «We Saambolin aren't in the habit of making exceptions to our rules.» The Jinnjirri architect said nothing. The Guildguard got to his feet slowly, removing a large key ring from the inside of his desk. He stumped over to the enormous wrought iron gates in front of them all and opened them. Giving Rowenaster a putout grunt, he locked them and disappeared into the rows and rows of bookcases that lined the room beyond. Of all the goods exchanged in Speakinghast, none equalled the value of the books in this closed storage area. Stealing from the Archives was tantamount to raiding the treasure trove of a monarch—these books being the crown jewels. In general, no self-respecting thief could resist the challenge of breaching Archive security; book theft from here accorded status and privilege to this underclass of the city. Black market prices for rare manuscripts and texts from the Archives fetched hefty fortunes in ransoms—ransoms that the academics on the Hill were more than willing to pay. Rowenaster had doubled security in the past year as there had been at least two successful breakins in the last six months. Before this time, there had been six thousand three hundred and forty-nine attempts during the thirty-seven years that Rowen had acted as Archive Curator. Attempts were fine with Rowenaster; they could be thrown out of court. Successful thefts on the other hand, could not. Furthermore, a successful theft these days would make a thief miserably intimate with a harsh system of justice known on the street as «Gadorian's Revenge.» A series of graduated punishments, «Gadorian's Revenge» was the result of a humiliating library internship that the Guildmaster had endured during adolescence. There had been no less than twelve successful breakins during the one summer he worked in this capacity. Furious that the existent laws for book theft were so lenient, Gadorian concocted the following—never dreaming that one day he would be able to implement his «program for redress»: First offenders were to be publicly humiliated by flogging. Then fed and housed by the Saambolin Guild for a period «not to exceed ten years,» thieves would work off their moral debt to society through indentured service to the City of Speakinghast. Translated, this group got stuck doing general street sewage collection and public privy cleanup. Second offenders were not so fortunate. Branded on the forehead with the searing imprint of the Seal of the Great Library—a wild Mythrrim Beast rising from flames grasping six scrolls in its taloned feet—second offenders were banished from Speakinghast. Family and friends could visit outside the city limits. The converse, however, was not true. Guards posted at the city's five gates enforced this with inspections and a complicated system of passes. Third offenders or persons disregarding banishment lost both hands to the fall of the bloody ax. So far, no one had gone the whole route. This pleased Rowenaster. In the professor's opinion,