When the weave of the world pulls away.
—Old Suxonli Saying Chapter Twenty-Eight Come Autumn in Speakinghast when mornings were clear and brisk, the copper bells of the Great Library rang the sleep from the city with plangent thunder. Soon horse-drawn carts creaked and jolted down wide avenues of brown cobblestone. Asilliwir spice wagons, fragrant with exotic miles, censed the air with mysterious perfumes that tantalized: woody cinnamon, musk, and rare green patchou bark; pungent clove, orange molly, and wild titchiba balm. Here were scents to clear the mind and pleasure the tongue. «And all for a most reeeasonable price,» cried Asilliwir hawkers, twirling their moustaches and grinning. This brought chaffing laughter from the other Speakinghast merchants who huddled around small campfires, ceramic mugs of hot, black teas clasped in their gloved hands. Well known for their «creative pricing,» Asilliwir scalping and bargain buys predominated here. This was a haggler's heaven. Called the Asilliwir Open Air Market, people of all draws flocked to the painted caravan wagons and clan-run stalls. Despite the lingering Trickster Summer, the air was chill at this early hour. Men and women wrapped themselves snugly in bright, woolen blankets. They recounted local gossip as they sipped their steaming brews. A few newly arrived traders added long distance scandal and humor to the talk. Merchants of all draws exchanged monies for Saambolin Guildtender. Called silivrain by the Saam, minted coins were referred to as «silies» by everyone else. Farmers from the outskirts of the city haggled in rough dialects with early risers, their tables covered with a rich harvest of fall fruits and vegetables. Fishwives slapped their pre-dawn catches on crushed blocks of ice, gutting them deftly with shiny knives. The wool dyers called to one another and waved. Their hands were permanently stained with vegetable dyes, their brilliant clothes likewise. Sleepy students on the way to early morning classes at the University of Speakinghast picked their way across the crowded marketplace. They eyed freshly baked Piedmerri breads and sweet rolls as they decided what to purchase for a quick breakfast. The city was alive with bustle and color. And as Speakinghast entered its first hour of business, it remained unaware that a tall figure in black had just outsmarted the city's convoluted Saambolin pass system by stowing away inside a large hay wagon. While the Piedmerri farmer driving the wagon turned left down a busy street, the stowaway jumped free. She brushed pieces of hay off her veil and robe. Straightening, she whispered a rhyme to herself and joined the slowly moving crowds at the Asilliwir Market. Yes, Kelandris was crazy again. Following Rimble's suggestion that Zendrak and not Yonneth was the true villain in the Suxonli tragedy, Kel had driven herself into a mental corner of uncertainty. What Kel remembered about Zendrak at the Hallows was sweet. What she remembered of her beloved brother, Yonneth, was strange and distorted. Kel's fear that Trickster was deliberately trying to confuse her—for his own purposes—had only made the muddle worse. The psychic scarring left from the Ritual of Akindo prevented Kelandris from trusting her own perceptions—or memories. Thus, within days of leaving the northwest border of Jinnjirri, Kelandris had imagined and reimagined the events in Suxonli so many times and in so many different forms that she no longer knew which events had actually occurred and which had not. By the morning of the fourth day, Kel remembered Zendrak as the one who had poured a toxic dose of holovespa down her throat. And Yonneth? He was still Kel's best loved brother and the man to whom she had willingly given her maidenhead. Despite Kel's waking confusion, her dreams at night remained honest. Most of them revolved around the question of incest with Zendrak—which Kel could not understand—or accept. As Kel's internal strain increased, she answered her dreams by saying that Rimble was the Patron of Deviance, and anything—even incest—was possible at his revel. Rimble was the great taboo breaker. Nothing was too sacred, too established, or too dangerous to be challenged by Trickster. Still, Kel's village indoctrination contradicted Rimble's direct bloodline in herself. So upon waking, Kel lapsed into rhyme, unable to reconcile the laws of civilization with the challenge of deviance. Trickster thought this was just fine. Like Zendrak, Kelandris was three-quarters Greatkin and one quarter mortal Mythrrim. But as Aunt had pointed out to Fasilla, unlike Zendrak, Kelandris had not received the formal training necessary to control her formidable capacity to act as mortal grounding for the Remembrance of Rimble. Fragmented as she now was into several personalities, Kelandris remained difficult but relatively harmless. Unified into one self, Kelandris wielded enough power to not only «shake the foundations down» of Speakinghast, but of civilization itself. Unified, Kel might also become aware of Yonneth's whereabouts. As a Mythrrim, she would hunt and kill him for his outright abandonment of her during the improvised «trial» preceding the Ritual of Akindo. Kel had expected familial loyalty from her favorite brother and received strange shrugs and silences. In many ways, this had cut Kelandris more deeply than the brutal community flogging that had followed the trial. The extremity of Kel's reaction to Yonneth's betrayal of her was unusual for a Tammirring and typical of a Mythrrim. As a rule, the Tammi preferred little involvement in the affairs of one another—particularly the Tammi in Suxonli. Remote as the snowy mountain peaks that surrounded the tiny village, the people of Suxonli perceived emotional intimacy as an undesirable obstacle in their quest for mystical union with the Greatkin and the Presence. Kel's Mythrrim heritage, however, disturbed the serenity and indifference of her Tammirring draw. For a Mythrrim, kinship was forever. Like soulmating, kinship required nothing less than one hundred percent commitment, involvement, and affection. Yonneth, who was Jinnjirri born and therefore as isolated by his art as the Tammi were by the divine, had no idea that Kel considered his acts against her as an emotional treason worthy of confrontation and a merciless death. Trickster thought this was not fine. To begin with, Yonneth had his uses—ones Rimble planned to exploit in the Greater Scheme of Things. Trickster needed an Emissary and a Hallows he, but he also needed a Cosmic Dupe. Currently, Yonneth was well on his way to winning this plum role. Furthermore—and perhaps more importantly—Trickster knew Kelandris was not yet ready to face Yonneth. As a child, Kel had truly loved her youngest brother. To this day, a portion of Kelandris believed Yonneth had not intended to abandon her at the trial. After all, he had been a mere fifteen years old at the time of the Ritual of Akindo. If Kelandris were confronted with the true disloyalty of Yonneth's character, Trickster feared Kelandris might lose the thin thread of fluctuating sanity she still possessed. In the hopes of preserving Kel's life, Trickster decided to throw Kelandris off Yonneth's trail entirely by sending her directly into the arms of the one man in the whole world who could understand her, love her, and—Presence willing—turn her rage. To Rimble's credit, the little Greatkin had made these plans well before Phebene had stuck her sweet nose into his business. In fact, it had been Trickster's intention from the start to buy Kelandris the time she needed to heal from the fiasco in Suxonli— specifically in Zendrak's company. Deviance would get Kelandris to Zendrak one way, and love would get her there in quite another. Although Trickster would never have admitted it to Phebene, he supposed that one way was not necessarily better than the other—so long as you got to where you needed to be. In Kel's case, this meant Doogat's house. However, without a guide to bring her there, Trickster doubted that Kelandris—in her multiple state of mind—would ever find the tiny tobacco shop. It lay at the heart of the labyrinthine Asilliwir Bazaar—a busy, permanent maze of awnings, arches, and businesses. Had Kelandris been sane, Trickster would've taken her there himself. Insane, Kelandris could neither see nor hear the little Greatkin. Thus Trickster was forced to improvise. Enter Podiddley… In a park across the street from where Kelandris now walked, Po cupped water from an artesian well to his mouth. Splashing some of it in his bleary eyes, he cursed Doogat—and then Mab. For the past three weeks, the Piedmerri girl had been living with Po at Doogat's place. To date, Mab had not slept uninterrupted by nightmares since the now infamous Jinnjirri party at Rhu's house. Every night—no exceptions—Mab would wake with a panicked cry, her young body drenched with sweat. The images of her dreams changed, but the underlying feeling remained constant: she was alone in circumstances that were out of her control. Doogat said Mab's reaction to the unhinging effects of the holovespa drug was a normal one for a Piedmerri bom. Doogat also promised that it would pass in another week. «Just in time for the Kaleidicopia's Trickster's Hallows,» Po muttered without enthusiasm. For reasons that Doogat refused to explain to him, Doogat was adamant that both he and Mab should attend this masked carnival at the house. Po's own participation seemed logical to him—with any luck he would be living again at the 'K' in a matter of days. As a house member, Po was entitled to attend house affairs. «But in Mab's case?» he said with bewilderment. «Seems idiotic so soon after Rhu's.» Po yawned. The little thief leaned idly against the stone cistern behind him. Yellow leaves drifted to the ground from the trees above, covering crimson leather of his beaten, muddy boots. This morning, Po had dressed in his favorite raggedy-man garb. A patchwork of loosely hanging materials hung sloppily over the loose fit of his red harem pants. Po wore a fiery gem in the lobe of his right ear, and a floppy, knit hat covered his receding hairline. Po had a stringy beard and moustache, both bearing the tale of his recent breakfast: sweet bun powdered with white sugar and cinnamon. The drink from the well had dislodged but not removed the crumbs. At thirty-eight years of age, Po cut a paunchy figure—soft and apparently harmless. Stepping off the mossy stairs that led up to the old well, Po sauntered into the early morning crowds. As he walked, the nonnchalance of his previous posturing faded, replaced now by a taut, alert readiness. This was Po the pickpocket—a professional beginning his «day at the office.» Drawing shamelessly on the tracking skills he had acquired through his long years of study as a Mayanabi Nomad, Po decided to take a closer look at something interesting moving down the far side of the street. Po grinned. A veiled Tammirring in black
