Contrarywise

was an uncommon sight in Speakinghast. Only widows wore black and only then in the villages. If this woman were village bred, she was probably ignorant of city street smarts. Po twirled the tip of his limp mustache, his blue eyes twinkling. He congratulated himself on the easiness of the mark in front of him and wondered where the Tammi pigeon wore her purse. Humming softly, Po decided to find out. Jumping cracks and potholes in the street, Podiddley of Brindlsi merrily ran to mug one of Rimble's Contrarywise Nine—and Trickster's own daughter. Using the crush of the marketplace crowd to his advantage, Po bumped into Kelandris. In the midst of regaining his balance, Po «fanned» Kel—felt her pockets—proffering heartfelt apologies. His exploration had been successful; Kelandris carried something that felt like a purse in the left pocket of her black robe. Kelandris, who had permitted no one to touch her—sexually or otherwise—since the beating in Suxonli, swore at Po and ordered him out of her way. As had been her habit for the past sixteen years, Kelandris spoke in verse. Podiddley listened to her uneasily. Perhaps this black pigeon was mad. He calculated Kel's height, guessing accurately that she stood at a formidable six-feet-four. Better make this quick, he decided. Po continued to offer Kel his apologies. He did it so infuriatingly well that Kelandris never felt Podiddley slip his right hand into her robe pocket. He filched the contents and turned to walk away. Then he froze. Had he heard what he thought he had heard? Kelandris repeated herself softly, laughing all the while: «Little man, I'm your bane. Little man, I bring you pain. How cheap is life when quartered by a knife?» Podiddley swallowed. Turning around slowly, all of his Mayanabi and streetwise senses alert, Po smiled cooly at Crazy Kel. Po carried an Asilliwir akatikki in his belt, but judging by the deft way Kelandris played with the knife in her hand, he doubted he'd get it to his mouth in time. Still, he decided to try. Feigning alarm at something unseen approaching Kelandris from behind, Po pulled his akatikki free. Kelandris bought Po's distraction briefly. She started to look over her shoulder. Changing her mind, however, she whirled on Po, her knife already sailing toward her intended target. Kelandris, like Po, was capable of split-second action; her survival on more than one occasion had depended on it. Po yelped with surprise, his right hand now bloody. The loaded akatikki fell to his feet. Taking instant advantage of Po's disbelief, Kelandris moved on the little thief. She crushed the akatikki with the heel of her black boot, retrieved her knife from Po's torn flesh and punched him soundly in the solar plexus. As Po gasped for air and doubled over in pain, Kelandris calmly slipped her right hand inside Po's left pocket and plucked his purse— unaware that Po carried something of hers in his right pocket. Podiddley, for his part, never felt the theft. His entire attention was focused on the powerful left-handed grip that Crazy Kel had on his raggedy-man tunic. Kelandris yanked Po toward her dark veils. Standing nearly a foot and a half taller than the little Asilliwir, Kelandris literally lifted Po into the air. Laughing again, Kel said, «The blood's clean, but the knife is not. Let flesh turn green with stinky rot!» Without further ceremony, Kelandris threw Podiddley against the wall of a nearby house. She whirled away from him, her black veil fluttering wildly in the sudden autumn breeze. Podiddley sank to his knees, his heart pounding. He cradled his right hand painfully, trying to gauge the extent of the damage. Bone showed through the bloody pulp. Swearing, Podiddley decided the damage was beyond his ability to dress. Especially if the knife had been dipped in poison or anything equally as bad. Po staggered to his feet, his solar plexus in almost as much distress as his bloody hand. Turning west on Khutub Street, Po took his hurts to the best healer he knew: the Irreverent Old Doogat of Suf. Two blocks away, Crazy Kel let out a cry of surprised rage. She had just discovered the loss of her purse. Wheeling around, Kelandris doubled back the way she had just come. She arrived at the wall where she had left Podiddley to find him gone. Swearing, Kelandris lifted her veil partially and smelled the ground where Podiddley had squatted in pain. Using the keen senses of her Mythrrim heritage, Kelandris picked up the scent of not only Po's freshly spilled blood but also of his unmistakably bad personal hygiene. Moving swiftly, Crazy Kel caught sight of Po just as he opened the front door to Doogat's Pipe and Tobacco Bazaar. Po let himself in with difficulty. Kelandris hesitated, then ducked into a nearby alley to wait for Po to reemerge from the little Asilliwir shop. Sudden movement caught her eye; a bright autumn leaf drifted lazily down the street toward her. The leaf pirouetted nine times, then without warning, it lifted high into the air and blew across an adjacent cobblestone avenue. Kelandris watched the leaf as it disappeared around the corner. The woman in black shivered unconsciously. Chapter Twenty-Nine Doogat hung a «Temporarily Closed» sign in the window of his pipe and tobacco shop. While he went to get his green medicine bag, Po fidgeted. Doogat could be a ruthless physician, his cures equal in severity to the occasional harshness he employed as a Mayanabi Master. Po swallowed. There was this certain jar full of the nastiest antiseptic— Po's eyes widened as Doogat returned to the back of the shop; Doogat was carrying a clear jar filled with liquid that looked black. Po got to his feet, his face paling. «Is that what I think it is?» Doogat started laughing. «You big coward— «Now, Doogs—now put that down!» cried Po, starting to edge around the small table in Doogat's kitchen. Doogat uncorked the bottle, his amused eyes as dark as the antiseptic he held. Po squealed and made a beeline for the back door. Doogat neatly intercepted him, and, grabbing his arm, doused the knife wound generously. Po howled with pain, tears streaming from his eyes. Pulling away from Doogat—who let him go—Po cursed Doogat, Doogat's family (whoever they were), the Mayanabi, and every Greatkin he could think of. Doogat recorked the bottle. «Feel better?» «NO!» bellowed the little thief. Doogat rolled his eyes and put on a pot for tea. «Sit down,» he said, pointing to an empty chair. «I'll make you something comforting now.» «You wouldn't know how,» Po retorted. Doogat decided to change the subject. Self-pity never helped anyone heal. Glancing again at the gaping hole in Po's hand, Doogat nodded imperceptibly. Po would need stitches. The Mayanabi reached for a blue jar over his wood-burning stove. He unscrewed the lid and smelled the medicinal mixture of herbs inside. They were fresh enough to use. Grabbing a small handful, Doogat put some in the strainer he'd need for Po's mug. Closing the blue jar, Doogat set it back on the shelf. «What're you doing?» asked the little Asilliwir, his expression suspicious. He had been watching Doogat's movements out of the corner of his eye. «Making you some baneberry tea.» «That's a tranquilizer, Doogat. Why do I need a tranquilizer?» Po sounded extremely nervous. «I have to clean up your hand, Po.» Po scowled and said nothing. There was no point in contradicting Doogat. Po was certain that if he fought Doogat, Doogat would win. He always did, it seemed. Po reached for a piece of fruit on a platter in the middle of the kitchen table. Doogat slapped his good hand gently, shaking his head. «You want to feel the stitches? No? Then, drink baneberry on an empty stomach.» Po swore and slumped in his chair. Suddenly remembering that he had a stolen purse in his pocket, he pulled it out and set it in front of him. He hoped there were a lot of silies in it—or the Tammirring equivalent. This morning's «easy mark» had probably taken him off the streets for at least a week. Po opened Kel's black drawstring pouch. Reaching inside, he froze. Feeling the contents again, he let out a small cry of frustration. He pulled his hand out, holding a string of black glass beads. «Shit,» he said. The sudden clatter of breaking ceramic startled the little thief. Doogat was never clumsy. Po turned to look at his Mayanabi Master in surprise. Doogat was staring at the black beads in Po's hand. «Where did you get those?» asked Doogat, his voice a whisper. Po put the beads on the table. «My day's take. Why?» Doogat walked slowly over to where Po sat. He picked up the beads, his hand trembling. «I lost a set like these once. A long time ago. I thought they were gone forever.» «You sure these are yours?» asked Po, fascinated by Doogat's reaction. He had never seen Doogat lose emotional control over hing. «Could they be yours?» Doogat peered at one of the beads. Po got up to see what the Mayanabi was doing. Doogat showed him the tiny markings on of the glass pieces. Pointing to the entire string of beads, Doogat said, «In the commonlang of your people, Po —these would be called runes. My people have a different name for them—we call them Kindrasul.» Po said nothing, hoping Doogat would continue. This was the first time Po had ever heard Doogat mention his draw. Po, who Asilliwir and clannish by nature, had a strong interest in all things genealogical. Proud of his own family lineage, the little thief had often wished that Doogat would let him trace his. It was Po's opinion that Doogat spent too much time alone. He also felt that Doogat's strictness as a Mayanabi teacher was the result of Doogat's lack of experience with a large, close family. Po was certain that Doogat was an only child—not spoiled, mind you, but certainly isolated. Doogat fingered the single bead in his hand, reading the markings by touch. He smiled. Turning to Po, he said quietly, «These are mine. They have my door on them.» «Door?» Doogat frowned, thinking of a suitable translation for the concept of a Mythrric «door of remembrance.» He set the beads down on the table and went to fetch Po's medicinal tea, still turning the problem over in his mind. As he poured boiling water into the strainer over Po's mug, Doogat said, «A door is a place of entry—and exit. It's a threshold of exchange. A place of meeting. Every mind has such a place in it. Every mind can open and shut. When my people work with the Kindrasul they open themselves to certain kinds of information—messages. But they can only do this by using their own personal—uh— access code. Their own door.» Doogat handed Po the mug full of baneberry. «The glass in a string of Kindrasul is alive. Psychically sensitive. It can be impressed with the—uh—feeling tone of the person whose beads they are. This particular string will only open for me.» Doogat paused. «Drink up, Po. I can't keep the shop closed all day.» Po drank the bitter tea reluctantly. Doogat poured himself a regular cup of black tea then joined the little thief at the table. Picking up the beads once more, Doogat shook his head. «Rimble-Rimble. I've no idea where I even lost these. What did the person look like—the one you stole from?» Po shrugged. «Never saw her face.» Doogat sniffed