Contrarywise

did you reconsider about the party?» To Timmer's surprise, Mab smiled at her. Out of Barlimo's hearing, Mab said, «I've decided I'd like to come.» The musician laughed, looking about herself at the Jinnjirri. «Oh believe me, Mab —we'd all like to do that!» Chapter Twenty-One Up in the box seats of the playhouse. Master Curator Sirrefene turned to Professor Rowenaster and asked, «So how's your survey course going? Have you flunked half the class?» «Not yet,» replied Rowenaster, his gray eyes twinkling. «But he will,» retorted Guildmaster Gadorian, pulling out a handful of theater nuts and offering some to Sirrefene and Rowenaster. Unlike his wife, Guildmaster Gadorian was a corpulent fellow of short stature and many chins. By contrast, Sirrefene was lithe and physically animated. Both of them wore white velvet tonight, the brightness of the color startling against their dark brown Saambolin skin. Both officials were in their mid-forties. Sirrefene shook her head at the peanuts. «I don't want to spoil my appetite, Gad. Remember, we've still got the opening night party to attend.» Gadorian shrugged, popping more nuts in his mouth. «Theater groups are notoriously impoverished. What food they'll have will be on loan.» He glanced over at the professor. «Are you going?» «I wasn't invited,» said Rowenaster, munching nuts. Sirrefene pulled her gold-rimmed glasses off her nose. «You weren't invited? After all you did for the Pricksters? Why you practically wrote the play!» Rowenaster pursed his lips. «Rumor has it that the original script suffered severe alterations in the past two weeks.» He patted the playbill in his old hand. «Nonetheless, I see I have been generously provided with a quarter page of acknowledgments.» He sounded skeptical. «They're probably meant to placate you,» muttered Sirrefene. «Then Cobeth's a bigger fool than I think he is, Sirrey. He lived with me for five years at the Kaleidicopia—he ought to know better.» «Thinks you're senile,» said Gadorian. «Most draws do when we Saams reach your age, Rowen.» «Too bad Cobeth never took my class,» said the professor cooly. Gadorian poured Rowen another handful of peanuts. «Speaking of the Kaleidicopia—I don't know why you do it, my friend. Surely with your salary you could afford to live alone.» Rowenaster met Gadorian's eyes evenly. «We've been through this many times, Gad. And as always, I say the following to you: I don't want to live alone; I like the diversity of draws at the 'K'; and I continually learn there—day and night.» Remembering his promise to Barlimo to get the Saambolin Housing Commission off her back, he said, «You should drop by sometime—and not in an official capacity. You might find that we aren't the rogue's gallery that you so fondly imagine us to be while you sit far above us in your ivied, administrative towers.» Sirrefene grinned. «Watch out, Gad—Rowen's up to something.» «I am indeed,» replied the professor. «And so are you, Gadorian. The answer to your unspoken question is: yes, I intend to keep living at 'that house' on Wise Whatsit Avenue. So you better rethink any Housing Commission coups that involve the 'K.' It could look very bad for you on the Hill, Gad.» He paused. «This being an election year and all.» «I see,» said the Guildmaster, his expression far from pleased. Rowenaster ignored Gadorian's bad humor, and turning to Sirrefene, he said, «Master Janusin's almost finished with his statue of Greatkin Rimble. You know,» he added, glancing in Gadorian's direction, «the one the Library Museum commissioned? Sirrey's new project, isn't it?» Gadorian scowled. «What're you getting at, professor?» «Me? I'm just making polite conversation,» he said, giving the Guildmaster a broad smile. Continuing to speak to Sirrefene now, he said, «For a while there, none of us at the house were sure if Jan would make the museum deadline. He's had some bad luck in love recently.» He winked at Gadorian. «And we all know what jolts of that nature can do to an artist at work. Of course, being evicted from one's own home would be even more traumatic than a lovers' quarrel. Might stop the creative process altogether. What do you think, Gad?» Gadorian said nothing for a few moments, his expression disgruntled. Finally, he muttered, «The Guild paid a hefty sum for that statue. Indeed, for the whole 'Panthe'kinarok Series.' « «Yes, it did,» agreed the professor. «And the studio in back of the 'K' is such a nice place to work.» There was a short, thoughtful silence between the three Saambolin. «Oh look, Gad,» said Sirrefene unexpectedly. «There go the house lights.» Outside in the street, bells rang the quarter hour; the show was fifteen minutes late starting. Gadorian rolled his eyes. «Jinnjirri,» he muttered. Below the box seats, the red velvet curtain of the stage moved sideways. A shrouded figure in a zigzag black and yellow cape and cowl stepped out, his yellow boots noiseless on the stage floor. The figure raised his arms. As the room quieted and oil lamps were extinguished, Cobeth addressed the audience, his voice calm and authoritative: «For all you good folk who're regular supporters of our playhouse, we have a surprise for you. This theater season, The Merry Pricksters are going to be doing something a little different. A little daring.» He paused dramatically. «We live in a time of alienation and spiritual decay. How many of you know all the names of the Greatkin? Until I started working on this play, I didn't.» Cobeth glanced in the direction of the box seats. «Not all of us are lucky enough to endure'—he mimed the buffoon—'I mean, take the good professor's survey course.» The room clapped its appreciation for Rowenaster. Cobeth chuckled. «After all—we shifty types can't always get into the celebrated University of this fair city.» The audience hissed and booed at the box seats above them. Master Curator Sirrefene turned to her husband, her voice terse and unamused, «You know who that was meant for, don't you?» «You and me, dearie. You and me.» Rowenaster said nothing, his expression strained. Cobeth continued his monologue. «Well, good friends—The Merry Pricksters are coming to your untutored rescue. As you know, this troupe has been famous in the past for its bawdy humor and gentle political satire—hence our name. We propose something a little more radical now. We propose an out-and-out confrontation with the soul ache of our age. We call on the power of Greatkin Rimble to 'remedy' our situation.» The gels on the oil lamps in the theater changed from yellow to an eerie blue. Cobeth removed his cowl and cape, handing it to someone standing in the wings. Cobeth walked to center stage. He was wearing a full face mask of hand-woven, dyed materials. One side of the face was striped with diagonals of yellow and black. The other side was a caricature of a young female fool's face. It was studded with shining bits of black mirror. The rest of Cobeth's costume was a mismatched mix of yellow coattails, striped harlequin pants, and a leather dildo hanging over his own genitals. The dildo was a foot and a half in length and resembled a gorged wineskin more than a functional penis. Cobeth raised his arms, again—the gesture one of summoning and supplication. Then Cobeth spoke the following, his voice filling the playhouse with the power of the priest speaking directly to Goddess, God, and Trickster: Hail, O Thief, of the black-eyed night. Aid me now with slippery tongue To tell the tale sweetly and beguile them all, And hide the meaning in the rushes. Sting now, sting the despair! Bring the world's soul ache to air, And while away my mortal hours With the salt-humored hiss of your Art. Hero-heroine quicken once more, For civilization falters And markets her lifeblood on altars Of dead-ending devotions. Holy Heretic return now To speak your truth with a clean whistle And a wise-rhythmed breath. Come inspire me and say of sacred joy! Trickster true, many taled, and sane. Come love this telling to life. Greatkin Rimble of the Thousand Names: I will speak for you again. The reactions of the people who knew Cobeth well were predictably mixed. Down in the third row of the main house, Timmer reached over Mab to tug Barlimo's magenta sleeve again. «Rowen wasn't kidding when he said this play was about religion. And where did Cobeth ever learn to write like that?» Timmer sounded impressed. Mab smiled triumphantly to herself—one for you. Cobeth, she thought. Barlimo stroked her chin. «It's not his,» said Barlimo. «What?» asked Timmer and Mab together. The architect shrugged. «I've no proof. But I'll wager you both a lot of silivrain that that poem was written by someone else.» Mab rolled her eyes. Up in the box seats, Sirrefene regarded Rowenaster with surprise. «What do you mean, you don't think The Merry Pricksters wrote that invocation? If they didn't write it. and you didn't write it—who did?» Rowenaster steepled his fingers. «Don't know, Sirrey. But I'd like to meet him. Or her.» Chapter Twenty-Two Kelandris can't possibly be my sister,» said Zendrak cautiously, his black eyes never leaving the face of the Greatkin sitting in front of him. He met Phebene's smile with suspicion, still certain that the Greatkin replenishing his empty glass of black currant wine was not the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts, but was actually Trickster himself beautifully disguised as rainbow-robed Phebene. «To begin with, Rimble—the arithmetic is wrong Need I remind you? I'm five hundred and twenty-seven years old. Kelandris of Suxonli is a mere thirty-three.» Greatkin Phebene laughed merrily. «You're not using your imagination, Zendrak. Themyth and Rimble made love in the Everywhen. Thus, it was a simple 'matter' for them to deposit you and Kelandris in different times and draws. Perhaps the drink has gone to your head, my friend.» Zendrak frowned, looking at the crystal glass he held in his hand. Come to think of it—he was feeling rather intoxicated. Unduly so for a Mayanabi Nomad, too. Zendrak held the glass up to the candlelight, trying to see the color of the wine. The sun had long since gone down, and although Zendrak had the nagging sense that he was supposed to be somewhere other than where he now was, he made no move to leave. Zendrak sniffed the contents of his glass. «What have you done to me, Rimble?» Phebene smiled, ignoring his question. She offered Trickster's Emissary a slice of chocolate cake from the picnic hamper. The piece was large and covered with a thick fudge-like frosting. It was a chocolate lover's delight. Zendrak shook his head, pushing the cake away. «I don't like sweets,» he mumbled, trying to get to his feet. Too drunk to stand, Zendrak quickly sat down again, holding his head in his hands. He felt giddy and disoriented. He peered at the night. What time was it? Zendrak blinked. Meeting Phebene's sympathetic gaze, he muttered, «What were we just talking about?» «Your dislike of sweets,» replied Phebene. «Which must change.» «It must?» «Trickster's orders,» she lied. «We think your disposition needs a little impr oooving, shall we say?» Phebene winked at Zendrak and offered him the cake