Cheeky nodded. And turned to Teci. "You duplicated my reasoning?"
"Yes."
"What reasoning?" said Narni. ''I'm curious."
"As am I," said Ynnd, "though not as curious as I am relieved."
"Not as relieved as I am," said Rye.
"Oh," said Teci, "I've always been good at listening to people's stories and putting things together, especially when you get three sides of a story and have to figure out what really happened. Although, I don't know how Cheeky figured it out."
"I'm not Cheeky anymore," she said. "Call me Mariel."
"All right, Mariel," said Narni. "What happened?"
"To be honest, I wasn't certain even when I arranged for the magicked chair and contrived for Arenride to sit in it. I thought I had it figured out, but I was going to go ahead with my initial plan anyway, because I wasn't sure I was right, until I saw Teci figure it out."
"Well?" said Myglynn.
"Nothing magical," said Mariel. "I had to assume there was only one, because if there were two, well, we'd never get out of there alive. So with a little figuring, which I started doing as soon as Ynnd walked in, it wasn't too hard. There were only seven of us, and I knew it wasn't me. I recognized Ynnd, and although I didn't know what she looked like, I'd heard of Teci. Myglynn identified Teci, so that eliminated her. Myglynn had also heard that Ynnd worked for Dashif, so I knew he wasn't it, as long as I could be sure it wasn't you, Myglynn."
The woman looked up and squinted. "And how did you know it wasn't me?"
"Narni recognized you, and Rye knew you worked for Dashif."
"But," said Narni, "if either of us—"
"You," Mariel told Narni, "were vouched for by Rye and Ynnd, as I recall from my listening post while I was outside. And Rye was vouched for by Ynnd."
Ynnd nodded slowly. "So Gerin was the only one no one knew."
Rye shook his head. ''I'd heard of him, and so had Narni, and, Myglynn, didn't you say you'd seen him around the palace?"
Myglynn nodded, looking puzzled.
"I knew that," said Mariel. "That was why I was worried. But you only said you'd seen him around, not that you knew him by name. So I thought, what if Gerin was captured at Drinker's Gate, and Arenride had rumors spread that he had escaped, hoping for just such a chance as this? It isn't unlikely that Arenride was seen around the palace, yet he wasn't there so much that any of us would have been likely to recognize him, especially without his beard."
Teci nodded. "Those were my thoughts, as well."
"It is good you had them."
"But," said Rye, "how could you be sure that it wasn't an agent who used to work for Dashif who was now working for Arenride, maybe in exchange for his freedom?"
Teci shrugged. "I worried about that, but—"
"No, you missed that part of the conversation. You, Rye, solved that for me yourself."
"I did?"
"Yes. You and Narni established who was after Dashif and why. The White priests don't want any of us left. Arenride wouldn't use a man and then let him be jailed; he'd insist on guarantees Geth Dys wouldn't give."
"That's it," said Teci. "It had to be an agent who didn't work for Dashif, which meant it had to be the one who called himself Gerin."
"It's a shame about Arenride," said Narni. "He was, after all, honest."
Teci said, "Don't feel bad, dear. I let him go."
"You what?"
"He was such a nice young man. I do hope he made it out in time."
"But then he'll send—"
"No, I asked him not to."
Ynnd shook his head. Rye groaned. Narni looked at Cheeky, who said, "I was hoping she would. Remember, we might want to return someday. I think having spared Arenride's life will count for something, don't you?"
"If we make it out in the first place," Narni sighed. "I wasn't made for this life. I wasn't. Really. If we get out of this, I'll …" Her voice trailed off, as if she either didn't know what she wanted to do, or wouldn't give it voice.
Silence fell, and the six of them stared ahead, uneasily.
"Procession Day/Remembrance Night: Processional/Recessional" by John M. Ford
Daylight's on the windowsill
Come you who are faithful still
Celebrate the work of will
Do not let us pass you by
Raise the stainless banners high
Take the streets and testify
Separate reasons reason how
Faith and confidence allow
Schisms shall be merry now
Practice, all you souls in clay
Toleration for one day
This anon shall pass away
Now the hour is growing late
God (to each his own) is great
Homeward now, and contemplate
Lamps glow even, candles spark
People keep the light and mark
All the uses of the dark
Now the flags are furled and stacked
Marching costumes neatly packed
Faith reflects on mortal fact
At the end 'tis all the same
Something always snuffs the flame
Everybody knows its name
Many rest so very deep
Those above this vigil keep
Some must watch while others sleep
In the darkened streets below
Laughter's heard, and lanterns throw
Stark light on a shadow-show
Children on the streets alone
Wearing masks of black and bone
In the shapes of things unknown
Overhead the raven sings
Down below walk flapping things
Decked with horns and claws and wings
Now the fleshless grin appears
Now the masquers' chorus cheers
Hail the Lord of Human Fears
Though their elders shield the eye
Trembling as He passes by
Children know they cannot die.
"A Prudent Obedience" by Kara Dalkey
There is, within the miracle that is a gossamer wattletree seed, a structure—a support so fine that it is invisible—that enables the life within To Be. There is, within the miracle that is the city of Liavek, a structure—one among the many, unacknowledged—that enables life in the city To Be. There is, within the miracle that is a work of art, a structure—even if only suggested by its negative, or its absence—that enables its beauty To Be. There is, within the miracle that is the universe … but that need not be said, for without structure, the universe Would Not Be.
•
A cool sea breeze ruffled the colorful clothing of the people lining the streets of Liavek. Festival Week in this liveliest of cities on the Sea of Luck was like no other time and place in the world. Maljun Nivelo, aging servingman to the renowned and somewhat infamous art advisor Aritoli ola Silba, regarded these festivities with both gratitude and annoyance.
From the Levar's Park, in a spiral fashion around the city, the Procession of Faiths was making its way. To one such as Maljun, whose faith was not represented in the procession, the event was a nuisance. It seemed designed to interfere with traffic in the maximum number of places on the maximum number of streets. Holidays were, in general, a nuisance to those of Maljun's profession. The necessary goods and services tended to become unavailable, or unaffordable. There was only one of the Festival Days that Maljun held dear, and this was not it.
With an already sour mood, Maljun encountered yet another crush of spectators on the Levar's Way as he attempted to walk to the launderer's. To cross the road as a temple's priests were passing might be interpreted as sacrilege, or at least disrespect. Maljun woefully looked up the street, knowing any route around the procession would be many blocks away. His old joints protested at the thought of such a long detour, and he sighed.
Maljun's attention was redirected by a heart- and ear-rending wail at his feet. A brightly dressed, dark-skinned little girl sat on the ground, her face scrunc
hed up in a mask of despair, mouth open and gasping in preparation for another volley of sound. In her hands was a crumple of sticks and string that was a dismantled shiribi puzzle.
Maljun clicked his tongue and lowered his tall, thin frame to kneel by the child. "No need for such fuss, little mistress. It can be rebuilt. It isn't broken. Look." And in a few moments, Maljun reassembled the puzzle.
The child blinked and closed her mouth. "Howdjoo dooit?'
Maljun obliged, secretly proud to show off the trick that his master Aritoli had taught him. And Maljun had been rather pleased that Master Aritoli had been surprised and not just a bit put out with the speed with which Maljun had learned it.
The girl learned the trick much more quickly. Nearby, other peals of dismay erupted from young throats, and the child jumped up and ran to them, shouting, "Don't cry! Lookit! You can put 'em back together!" Showing off the newly learnt skill, the child passed the trick along like a contagion until the whole blockful of youth was infected with the knowledge.
Maljun stood again, his knees creaking with the effort. With so many shiribi puzzles about, he thought, the White priests should be going by about now. Peering over the heads of the spectators, he saw that this was so. The Church of Truth had a large representation in the procession and the priests, male and female, were still striding past. The hems of their long, white robes stirred up dust and bits of colored paper to swirl in clouds around their feet. Maljun found himself pitying whoever was responsible for their laundry.
The priests closest to the spectators were tossing out little shiribi puzzles which the Church had adopted as a holy symbol. The puzzles were fragile and fell apart nearly as soon as the children touched them. It was a cruel trick, but in consonance with the beliefs of the Church of Truth. Several of the priests bore signs and placards with the messages: "All is Illusion," "Disbelieve your senses," and "Everything you know is Wrong." For good measure, two wizards among the priests made various buildings along the route seem to disappear and reappear as they passed. The spectators were amused and applauded, which Maljun suspected was not the reaction the priests were hoping for.
There was a gap of about half a block in the procession behind the Church of Truth contingent. Apparently the next temple's votaries had not wanted to be at the White priests' heels. Maljun was not surprised. There came sharp reports from down the street to his right—a crackety-crack-crack like fireworks. The spectators all craned their necks in that direction and Maljun saw his chance.
As fast as his aging legs would take him, he dashed across the Levar's Way into a dim, narrow alley. He immediately slowed to a walk, puffing. A figure in a white, hooded robe entered the other end of the alley. Maljun said, "If you've lost your fellows, they're already passed by. They're likely near the House of Responsible Life by now."
The individual stopped and pushed back her white hood. Maljun recognized the narrow face and deep-set, vaguely vacant dark eyes. It was Sister Vanta, whom Master Aritoli had thwarted in the affair with the Council mural and who was inadvertently the cause of his knowing the solution to shiribi puzzles. Maljun paused. Protocol demanded that An Enemy of the Master he treated with great disdain by The Servant, to be ignored or even given a Snub Class Five if the situation permitted. But she was blocking the route.
"You," Sister Vanta said in a tone of mixed wonder and irritation. Her voice was low and reminded him of the winter wind blowing through the boughs of bare trees. "I had expected—" Then she laughed and Maljun felt a chill. "I have not listened to my own teachings." She shook her head with a wan smile.
Maljun stepped forward, uncertain what to say. "I … I must—"
Sister Vanta pulled a small votive box out from her sleeve. "Alms?" she said.
Maljun drew himself up to his not-inconsiderable height and administered a Snub Class Two. "I'm sorry, madam, I cannot spare the coin." He tried to brush past her, but she caught his arm.
Her head tilted upon her neck in a way Maljun could swear was unnatural, and she fixed him with a look that was not quite pity and not quite amused surprise. "You misunderstand," she said softly, "you all do. It is I who bring alms for you."
Maljun blinked in what he hoped was a correct demonstration of nonjudgmental disbelief. "Indeed?"
"The alms of truth. The gift of our faith. I wish to give it to your master, as we give to all who veil their eyes with illusion."
Maljun decided it was time for The Polite But Firm Dismissal. "My master is well aware of your beliefs, madam. However, if you would like to make an appointment to present—"
He was interrupted by her laugh, low and throaty. "Appointments are attempts to use one illusion to capture another, as foolish as catching sea breezes in the painting of a fish net. Your master would not see me, yet he will in the Moment when all things run together. But I will give this tithe to you. You, perhaps, need it even more than he."
She handed him a crumpled piece of pure white paper. Then she continued down the alley toward the Levar's Way and faded into the afternoon sunlight.
Maljun folded the paper neatly without reading it and put it in a pocket. He continued his trek to the launderer's, reflecting for the who-knew-how-manyeth time about the vagaries of being In Service to an art critic and minor wizard who had chosen to live an Interesting Life. This had tended to make Maljun's life Interesting also, and he still felt himself lost, on occasion, in the jungles of protocol such a life led him into.
Without further impediment, Maljun reached the launderer on Lyme Way. There, he ransomed Master Aritoli's favorite black silk shirt, paying the launderer a fee that Maljun denounced as exorbitant, though it was actually only stiff. A similar scene was enacted at the fruit-seller and the baker before he finally could head home.
In the drawing room of Master ola Silba's Oyster Street townhouse, Maljun meticulously unfolded the paper Sister Vanta had given him and held it up beside a glass-chimneyed oil lamp. Nothing, as he had suspected, was written upon it. But he had lived with his master long enough to have observed a few things and he held the paper directly before the lamp. Ghostly watermark writing came into view.
All that is the world is Illusion.
All seeming order is Chaos misunderstood.
All that glorifies the Illusion is Evil,
and blocks the path to Truth.
All Life is the dream of a dream,
All Truth is nothingness,
All that Is is dust.
In the Final Days,
The Truth shall be revealed
And Illusion banished
Forever.
It was nothing the Church of Truth had not said in one tract or another that Maljun had seen. Yet he was disturbed. Could the note be a threat to Master Aritoli? A man who supported and encouraged arts that glorified "illusion" would clearly be thought evil by the Church's standards. Torn between the conflicting duties of Informing Master Of Possible Threat and Not Bothering Master With Trivialities, Maljun refolded the note and put it back in his pocket.
Master Aritoli had gone to celebrate Remembrance Night at a party where they would drink semipoisonous liqueurs out of crystal goblets in the shape of skulls. Upon being informed of this, Maljun had nearly shuddered. But Master Aritoli had assured him that the best healers would be on hand "just in case." It seemed likely Master Aritoli would not wish to be bothered with so trivial a threat as the note, considering the level of risk in his normal social life.
Remembrance Night was also not Maljun's favorite time of Festival Week, but he had rituals to perform and traditions to follow. After dusting the furniture and tidying Master Aritoli's bedroom in case he should bring home a guest, Maljun prepared for himself a light supper and retired to his quarters.
His room was spare but elegantly furnished; a long, narrow bed of oak, a wardrobe on whose door was carved a hound's head, a desk, a night table, and a small chest of drawers. From the bottom drawer, Maljun pulled out his Rod of Service and set it on the desk. It was a baton of teak, two handsp
ans long. He had received it when he came of age under the tutelage of the Society of Servitors. All those raised and trained in that house received one upon completion of their First Tier of study, and embellishments were added with each further accomplishment. On Maljun's baton was a copper band signifying his completion of bookkeeping courses, a blue tasseled cord for Protocol Class 7, a red tasseled cord for Advanced Househusbandry Class 4, as well as other symbols and marks.
The Rod of Service also contained Maljun's luck. All those taught by the Society were encouraged to invest their magic when they turned eighteen. The Society held that the master and household one served should be spared the random effects of unbound luck. However, the Society did not encourage the common use of sorcery on the job. "If you must rely on magic to do your work," they taught, "then you are not paying proper attention to detail." Apprentice Servitors were taught only five spells and advised to use them very sparingly. Learning other sorcery was strongly discouraged. The Society specialized in producing servitors who disdained wizardry for hard work and planning.
This was considered somewhat odd in Liavek. There was, after all, the Goldthorne House, whose servers (commonly known as the Wizards of the Wardrobe) were trained to use their magic extensively. But their fees were exorbitant and their turnover rate was reputed to be lively as their graduates moved on to more prestigious work. And there was the rumor that one sharp-tongued master woke up one morning as a toad. As a result, the nonmagical Society of Servitors found itself with no lack of clients.
Master ola Silba had told Maljun that he had chosen a servingman from the Society for blatantly self-centered purposes. He wanted no servant whose magic would outshine his own.
Maljun lit a honey-colored candle beside the Rod of Service and lightly rested his left hand on the baton. It was a night to remember the dead, but Maljun had few to dwell upon. He did not know his father, and his mother he only recalled as a warm, rough pair of hands that left him at a stranger's door. There were teachers he had been fond of, his first master (a kindly old woman who had loved colorful birds), and a fishmonger's daughter he had known long ago. But that was all. He went over his memories of each, honoring what their lives had given him. He wondered what his Protocol teacher would have said concerning the note from Sister Vanta. His memories gave him no answer.
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