'My employers. So, I have got the job?'
The Trickster inclined his head in assent. ‘Why not? Time is short and I am tired of looking any further. Here is a ticket to Makendha. You will have to find your own way from there to the House of the Sisters, but you can hire a mule from anyone and go up the hill trail. But before you go?’ and here he gripped the tracker's hand just as it was reaching for the ticket, enjoying the sight of the slight swallow in the man's throat as he dealt with the experience of being manhandled by a giant spider, ‘...?hat other reasons would you have for thinking I was looking for you?'
'Why do you ask?’ The tracker's face was less cheerful now, more anxious.
'You do not discuss wages, or deadlines, or reasons for the assignment. You do not flinch at any of the strangeness in my words nor even my appearance, and I know this for a fact because I have long since lifted my pacifying influence from you, the mental sedative I use to keep humans from curiosity and wonder and fear. Who are you? What is your name? Who sent you?'
'I am a tracker,’ the man replied in a quiet voice. ‘My name is Kwame, and??nd I was sent by a dream.'
There was a small silence.
'A dream?’ said the Trickster, releasing his hand and letting him take the ticket. ‘Well, I wouldn't doubt it, with all the nonsense that's been happening lately. A dream. Why not. Anything to make my job easier, thank you, Sisters. Once I was the strangest thing around here, the Sultan of Weird, but now the humans are outpacing the weird ones. Such is life.'
'You must not let yourself become cynical,’ chided Kwame. ‘We only do what we can, and sometimes we are permitted to do even more than that, human or??therwise.'
The Trickster gave him a measuring look. ‘You are a philosopher, I see. And yet young. What has made you so wise before your time?'
Kwame shrugged. ‘I try to pay attention to life's lessons.'
The spider-man laughed. ‘So modest? Let me tell you, I have seen men who are trying to find themselves, and I have seen men who are trying to lose themselves, but rare indeed is the man who knows exactly who he is and where he is at. Kwame, I sense that you are that fortunate and rare man.'
'I thank you for the compliment, but in truth I am trying to find a part of myself, something that I lost on the way from childhood. My dream tells me that at the end of this quest is where I will find it.’ A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. ‘Finding out that someone like you is at the start of it is oddly encouraging.'
He drained his glass of water and stood up. ‘As you said, time is short. I will go to the House of the Sisters and do as they command me.'
The Trickster watched him go, relief spreading like a narcotic to his extremities, removing that unconscious tension that had burdened him since reading the Sisters’ note. He had done his duty, his conscience was clear.
He dropped some coins on the table, snapped himself briskly out of the bar with a click of his pincers, and went to visit a friend.
'I thought you might still be here. Not off chasing with the rest of the grand hunt?'
His friend, who wore the shadow of a woman, had made herself remarkable by the glowing silver of her hair. Otherwise, she appeared to be simply a woman. I can admit to you now that this is the senior djombi who sent the Stick to Paama. Her reply to his offhand salutation was calm, and cryptic.
'I find that sometimes if you just sit still, things have a way of finding you before you can find them.'
The Trickster tried to process this, shook his head, and returned to the issue of his inner struggle. ‘You have ruined my reputation, do you realise that?'
She looked at him affectionately. ‘You were ready for ruin, do you realise that?'
He shrugged, which can be a lovely thing to see when six out of eight shoulders are going at once. ‘Ruin has even less of a future for my kind than it does for yours. People are quick to believe in a fall, but how often do they acknowledge redemption?'
'My poor friend. Are you really worried about what all your former comrades will say? Or do you think they will believe you are carrying out the ultimate Trick, to infiltrate the enemy?'
'Lies are impossible between us. They will believe it, and they will not be kind.’ He sighed and twiddled his pincers sadly. ‘Sometimes I wish I could simply disappear, and let only the legend remain.'
'What an excellent suggestion. Why don't you do just that?'
He gave her a baleful look. ‘If you have a bright idea, please do share it with me.'
She smiled, and did so. When she finished telling him, he was smiling too.
19
paama meets one of the masters of ridicule
It was early morning. there was a chilly precipitation somewhere between a very light rain and a heavy mist that muted the rich greens of the valley with a veil of grey. The djombi looked pensive as he led Paama through long, wet grass. As usual, he was completely dry.
'It must be nice, not to have to eat, or sleep, or get cold and wet,’ Paama complained, shaking the drizzle off her grey wrap.
'It must be nice,’ the djombi parroted in reply, ‘to taste, to dream, to feel the wind and the rain in your face.'
Paama gaped at him. It was the most complimentary thing she had ever heard him say about being human. ‘Do you really think so?’ she said in a small voice when she was finally able to speak.
'I am only pointing out that everything has its advantages and disadvantages,’ he said.
'And yet you can taste food??hen you choose,’ she pointed out.
'When I choose,’ he admitted.
'What are your disadvantages?'
He continued to walk smoothly through the grass, leaving a silvery trail for her to step into.
'Duty,’ he said at last, a single, glum word.
'We have duty, too,’ Paama countered.
'Not like ours. You're weak, and allowances are made for your weakness. There's forgiveness for you. Mercy. I don't see why, personally.'
'I know. You think we deserve to be left to perish in our own self-made misery,’ she accused.
He did not answer at first, but then he said, ‘I thought you wanted this time to be lighthearted. You're not making a very good start of it.'
She kept silent, kept her head down, and looked at the rain-silvered grass instead of at his back. In this way, the sight of the mansion came on her all at once, looming out of the grassy plain like a small citadel of pale stone. There was a tidy skirting of lawn around it, hemmed in by stone walls topped with wrought iron.
'Where and what is this place?’ she asked.
'We are near the capital of your own country. This is the country house of a wealthy statesman who retired to spend more time with his wife and young son. However, his wife often grows bored—it's very isolated here—so he takes her to more exciting places. They are visiting the capital right now.'
'And the boy?'
'Here, of course. There are servants enough to take care of him, but of course a servant is not a parent. He has too much of his own way.'
'He sounds like Ansige,’ muttered Paama.
The djombi turned to her, his eyebrows raised in query.
'My husband,’ she said, and was ashamed to have to say it. ‘Now we live apart, but when I was in his house??h??e had grown up spoilt and he wanted to continue spoilt. He almost drove me mad. I was ready to kill
