Zendrak's patient ministrations. Catching sight of several wasps lighting on Zendrak's shoulder, Yafatah cried, «Zendrak—watch out! You'll get stung, too!» The man in green chuckled. «One of Rimble's best known names is Old Yellow Jacket. I am his son. These angry little beasties won't harm me. At least, they better not,» he added, picking a wasp up by the waist and eyeing it carefully. The worker-wasp buzzed at him. Zendrak made an answering reply, his eyes amused. Podiddley craned his neck forward. «What did the wasp say?» Zendrak smiled. «Seems she dislikes getting caught in Yafatah's hair as much as Yafatah dislikes being stung.»
Yafatah swore. «It doon't be fair! I must have thirty stings. And I didna' do anything to them beasties.» Zendrak opened the window and let the captive wasps fly free. The rest of the swarm who still remained outside the house did not enter Yafatah's yellow bedroom. Rowenaster thought this was odd. «Why aren't they coming in?» he asked. «Because he told them not to,» said Kelandris in a monotone. Nearly equal in height to her brother, Zendrak, Kelandris cut a formidable figure at
six-feet-four. Born in the land of Tammirring, she usually wore a veil to hide
her face and feelings. Inside the Kaleidicopia, however, she tended to leave the veil in her bedroom on the third floor. Rowenaster sighed. Day after day at the university, he tried to teach people the names of the Greatkin, a process that most students vigorously resisted. To the modern mind, the Greatkin were the personages of myth and were therefore unimportant. To Rowenaster, who happened to live with Greatkin, they were a bold, disconcerting reality. The professor had long ago concluded that what scholars wrote in the history books and thought about the Greatkin was mostly romantic doggerel. Pulp at worst and speculation at best. Clearly, the academics had never had firsthand experience with a Greatkin. Scholars thought the Greatkin were gentle beings of endless compassion. Rowenaster shook his head. On more than one occasion, he had seen Zendrak box both of Po's ears. And Kelandris? Well, she was mostly like ice. As if to prove Rowen's point, Kelandris continued speaking to Yafatah, her
voice without inflection, her green eyes distant. «In Suxonli they say wasps are the messengers of Rimble.» She chuckled derisively. «His holy messengers. If they sting you, we say you've been kissed by the Power of the Fertile Dark. You'll never be the same afterward, of course.» «Thanks!» snapped Yafatah, who was beginning to feel ill with the poison of her many stings. «You do be real comforting there, Kel. Just a joy to be around. Why doon't you take your sarcasm and bad times to your room, huh? I doon't remember inviting you in.» «Suit yourself,» said Kelandris stiffly, and left. Zendrak inclined his head toward Yafatah. «I think you hurt her feelings.» «Impossible,» retorted the young girl sullenly. «That bitch hasna' got any. And doon't you lecture me on my mouth.» «I wouldn't dream of it, Ya,» said Zendrak mildly.
Rowenaster interrupted at this point. «Well, I think you should show a little respect there, Yafatah. After all, Kelandris is a Greatkin.» Yafatah pulled away from Zendrak's hands, her face slightly puffy, her expression furious. «Yeah? Then why doesna' she act like one?» Zendrak pulled Yafatah's head toward him again. «And how should a Greatkin act?» he asked. «Like this,» she replied. «Like what you're doing. You know, helpful.» Podiddley burst into peals of laughter. Po, who was a street-wise criminal by profession, was also a Mayanabi Nomad. For the past twelve years he had been a member of this heretical spiritual order, and for the same period of time, Zendrak had been his spiritual guide. In addition to being Trickster's son, Zendrak was also the ranking Mayanabi in all Mnemlith. This was understandable. Zendrak was over five hundred years old. Five centuries was ample time to perfect one's
spirit. The combination of Zendrak's Tricksterish blood and his long years of training as a Mayanabi master made him a tough, inventive teacher. It also made him unorthodox. Podiddley was laughing now because he thought Zendrak was rarely helpful in the usual sense of the word. Everyone in the room, including Zendrak, knew Po's feelings on the subject. Zendrak glanced at Po. «Go fetch some stingtrap from Barlimo's herb
pantry. Mix it into a paste with boiling water and bring it to me. Quickly.» Po, who was feeling lazy, began to argue. «Just do it.» Po scowled. Rowenaster smiled, impressed. Zendrak could turn anything into a teaching situation, he thought with admiration. Rowen watched Po stride out of the room angrily. Now Yafatah spoke. «Did you say stingtrap?» she asked Zendrak. «I did.» Yafatah groaned. «That'll turn my scalp green. I doon't want my scalp to turn green.» «Do you want to survive all these stings? Or would you prefer to die tonight?» he asked amiably. Yafatah stared at the Greatkin. «Die?» Zendrak nodded. «Thirty stings of this particular wasp can kill. It's a southern variety. Just arrived.» He winked. «Rimble-Rimble.» «Just arrived?» asked Rowenaster, feeling puzzled.
«Yes,» said Zendrak, his black eyes suddenly reflective like mirrors. «These are the heralds of the Jinnaeon. They are the new breed. Trickster calls them univer'silsila. According to dear old Dad, there's something special about these wasps—that we get to discover, of course.» «Of course,» said Yafatah without enthusiasm. «You want life too easy, Ya. You want all the answers immediately. You want adults to behave predictably. And Greatkin to be perfect.» «What's that supposed to mean?» Before Zendrak could answer, Po returned with the steaming stingtrap. Yafatah grimaced at the smell and sight of the foul herb. She shut her eyes, clearly feeling unwell. When she opened them again, Zendrak asked, «Trust me?» «Sometimes.» «So trust me now, and I'll make you all better,» said Trickster's son. Yafatah regarded him warily. «Yeah, Rimble-Rimble. Trusting you could make me an idiot in three counties.» «Maybe,» replied Zendrak, dipping his hands into the paste, his dark eyes amused. «You seem to forget one thing.» «What's that?» «Rimble's my father, yes. But Themyth's my mother. And she's the Patron of Civilization. This means that I can be constructive. As you say—helpful on occasion.» Rowenaster thought this was funny and began to laugh. He subsided when Zendrak glared at him. Yafatah eyed the green mess in Zendrak's hands. «I hope this is one of those occasions,» she grumbled. Rowenaster braced himself for the yells he knew were coming. Stingtrap was a powerful antiseptic as well as a tried-and-true remedy for wasp venom. Rowen's mother had dressed a cut with it once when he was a small child; all Rowen could remember of the episode was that the stingtrap hurt worse than the cut. He winced. Such were the ways of some types of healing. *6* Fasilla reached the Saambolin town of Window by dusk. She and her roan mare passed through the Jinnjirri landdraw border without mishap, receiving
little more than a feeling of slight disorientation. Window was aptly named, thought Fasilla, reining her mare to a walk as she approached the town limits. Window was just that—a Saambolin trading city that looked out across rolling, verdant Jinnjirri. Asilliwir caravans made regular stops in Window, landdraws from every country in Mnemlith enjoying the laxness of the border rules thanks to the nearby Jinn influence. Border towns in Mnemlith were often like this. Where two or more draws met, customs and
strict identities blurred. Anything could happen in a border town, and often
did. Still, the prevailing draw of the land directly under the town would hold the strongest influence. Window rested on glacial territory, the oldness of
the earth informing its people with a sense of history and pride in tradition. Therefore, it was not surprising to Fasilla that the keepers of spiritual tradition in Mnemlith, the Order of the Mayanabi Nomads, frequented Window. Fasilla eyed the Saambolin inn straight ahead of her with distaste. Aunt said the place was a notorious meeting place for Mayanabi. In earlier, less tolerant days, this particular inn had protected the Mayanabi, too. Fasilla dismounted from her roan. Hobbling the mare, she turned toward the Inn of the Guest. In Mayanabi theology, the Presence was often referred to as the
Guest. Fasilla hesitated, her stomach turning in fear. Fasilla didn't fear the Mayanabi as much as she feared the fact that the order was an ancient, secret society. Although she had never met a Mayanabi she hadn't eventually liked—with the two single exceptions of Podiddley and a pied-eyed crone named Old Jamilla—Fasilla wished to keep her affairs in the daylight. Dealings with people who met in underground rooms and behind closed doors could only end badly, she thought. If she had been a praying sort of person, Fasilla would have chosen one of the denizens of Eranossa as her patron Greatkin. The Mayanabi had too much of Neath
about them to make Fasilla feel safe. Fasilla walked to the front door of the Inn of the Guest and knocked tentatively.
When no one answered, Fasilla felt a mixture of relief and irritation. If the message from Aunt had been about anything other than Fasilla's beloved child, the Asilliwir herbalist would have left Window without a further attempt to make her presence known. Biting her lower lip, Fasilla knocked a second time. Still no one answered. «What kind of inn do this be?» she muttered under her breath. Fasilla stepped back from the oak door and scanned the upper dormer windows. Fasilla frowned. Every window curtain was drawn shut. Odd, she thought. Putting her hands on her hips, Fasilla decided to just make a nuisance of herself until someone came out to shut her up. Cupping her hands to her lips, Fasilla yelled, «Aunt? Aunt, where are you? It do be your friend, Fasilla!» At the mention of the word «friend,» the front door of the Inn of the Guest opened. Fasilla peered into the darkness of the
