Liavek 8

by Will Shetterly

  He realized that memories were not what he needed. With an unavoidable twinge of guilt, Maljun pulled out of a desk drawer a small cloth bag containing rue, sage and other herbs, and a dash of certain powdered fungi. He opened the bag and sprinkled a little of the contents in a pattern on the desktop. He laid the Rod of Service on top of this and murmured the few words for one of the five spells he was allowed—the foresight spell.

  There came no vision—there never did. Its effects were small and subtle. The wise servant would find confirmation of what he already knew. The bewildered servant would find only more bewilderment. True, clear foresight was impossible, as the pattern of Events To Come was continually being reshaped by other people's actions. Maljun did not know when the spell would reveal its workings, but it would probably be at the time and in the manner that caused the most nuisance.

  He put away the baton and the herb bag, then blew out the candle. He changed into his nightshirt and crawled into bed, still unable to pinpoint why Sister Vanta's message bothered him. For all I know, he thought, it was her infernal references to dust.

  •

  Maljun dreamed he was in an enormous palace with corridors and doorways that stretched into infinity. He had been here before, in his dreams. Far down some of the corridors, members of the Society of Servitors walked and nodded to him. This particular wing of the palace was his bailiwick; he was in charge of its maintenance, and he was quite comfortable with the fact that it was part of a much greater, improbable structure. As he strode down one vault-ceilinged hallway, he felt something disturbing and made a turn to the right. Before him was a corridor he had not seen before, yet he knew it was still part of his charge. Several doors down was an enormous gap where the wall and ceiling had fallen in. The floor was littered with broken stone, and dust motes danced in the diffuse light spilling through the hole.

  Just his side of the gap was a woman of indeterminate age, wearing a long skirt and apron, and a kerchief around her head. She regarded the damage pensively. Maljun saw to his fascination and horror that the corridor beyond the hole was disintegrating slowly into the cloud of dust motes. It reminded him of a sidewalk painting whose colors were running in the rain. "What is it?" he breathed.

  "It is Not, yet," said the woman. Maljun thought of at least three interpretations of her words. but he felt shy of her and did not ask what she meant. "Take heart," she went on. "You've seen to prevention of this sort of damage before."

  "Ah, yes," said Maljun, "it's all well and good to fill up a crack here and remortar a brick there. I can't prevent total collapse."

  "You'd be amazed," said the woman, gently, "what a little mortar in the right place can do."

  "What brought this all on?" said Maljun with an awkward sweep of his arm.

  "It must have been the reference to dust," said the woman, strolling back down the corridor, passing him without another glance.

  Maljun blinked, and the light of dawn sneaked in under his eyelids and poked him. He sat up in bed and yawned—then paused as he saw the dust motes dancing in the rays of the rising sun.

  The third day of Festival Week was Bazaar Day, and it was not Maljun' s favorite holiday either. Master Aritoli threw himself into the thick of the marketplace, voicing his views on the quality of the crafts for sale. Maljun preferred to stay at home and balance the household ledgers. The dream remained clear in his memory, so he concluded that it was the result of the Foresight spell. The dream seemed to mean there was a calamity that was occurring or soon to occur. It also implied there was some small thing he could do to prevent it. But what could it be?

  He tossed down his quill in disgust and started as he saw blots of ink spreading on the ledger. He mopped futilely at the spots, recalling a maxim of the Society: "Despair is the most loathsome of emotions. It gives one apparent justification to ignore all practical solutions to one's problem, and ruins one for useful work."

  There came a knock at the front door. Maljun answered and saw a messenger boy in the red, gold, and white livery of the Levar herself. The boy bowed and held out an envelope. "For Master ola Silba," he said.

  Maljun took the envelope, but as he reached in his pocket for a coin the boy turned and trotted off. Maljun shrugged and closed the door. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, pulling something out with it. He was clutching the message from Sister Vanta. He looked at the envelope. It was the same kind of paper. He felt his stomach jump, and he immediately went to the lamp and held up the envelope to its light.

  Nothing could be seen through its double thicknesses. Maljun put the envelope on the desk. It may be a coincidence, he thought. Perhaps they both buy from the same papermakers. To open one's master's mail without permission was a Class 9 Offense and cause for firing. Maljun doubted Master Aritoli would go so far, and Maljun could claim he was Seeing to The Master's Well-Being and Continued Safety. But he had no wish to abuse Master Aritoli's trust, and so he left the envelope alone.

  Master Aritoli came home that evening, his arms laden with gifts and purchases, including a cream-colored bed sheet, a straw broom, and a bright purple cummerbund for Maljun. Sighing inaudibly, Maljun put the bed sheet and the broom in a closet, and hid the cummerbund in the bottom of his wardrobe, resolving to wear it when no one but the master was present.

  "What is this?" Aritoli called from the drawing room.

  "Sir?"

  "The envelope on the desk. Was there post delivery today?"

  "Oh." Maljun rushed back into the drawing room. "No, Master. It was delivered by a messenger from the Levar's Palace."

  "Why didn't you mention it sooner, Maljun? Such an oversight is unlike you." Aritoli took a letter opener off of the desk and slid it inside the envelope.

  Maljun held his breath, wondering if the envelope itself was a trap. But Aritoli opened it with no mishaps and snorted as he read the note inside. "It's yet another invitation."

  "From the Levar, sir?"

  "Not quite so lofty. It's from the Countess ola Klera. D'you remember her, Maljun?"

  "Yes, Master."

  "She's a Regent to the Levar now. Says she would be honored if I were to be present at the grand fireworks display tomorrow night. Well, I did have other plans, but I suppose I must attend, mustn't I?"

  Maljun sighed with relief. "As you wish, Master."

  "Are you all right, Maljun? You look a hit out of sorts."

  "No, Master, all is well. Shall I draw your bath now?"

  "Yes, Maljun, that will be fine."

  These fears are foolish, thought Maljun as he made the bath and prepared a light meal. Master Aritoli partook of them both and then dashed off to another party, dressed to the eyeteeth in color-coordinated tatters.

  That night was Beggar's Night, and that, too, was not Maljun's favorite Festival Week celebration. It encouraged folk to dress untidily and behave uncouthly. Maljun preferred to remain home and discourage the children who would show up begging at the door.

  He began a cursory tidying-up of the drawing room and noticed the white envelope still sitting on the desktop. With a snort at his own imagined fears, Maljun snatched up the open envelope and held it up to the lamp, just to prove—

  There was watermark writing on the paper. The upper flap bore the message: A Grand Illusion shall cast all other illusions away. —Geth Dys.

  Geth Dys was another of the Levar's Regents, as well as one of the highest priests in the Church of Truth. Maljun put down the envelope, put on his tall hat and gray cloak, and stepped out into the night.

  Striding down the laughter-filled streets, he mused that it was certainly a night the Church of Truth would appreciate. Reality overturned and Chaos everywhere, for what was revelry but an unraveling of social order? And on this night that had begun as a token of justice to the very poor, nobles and their children thought it fun to dress in a manner they would never otherwise tolerate and behave like those whose daily existence they'd rather ignore.

  Non-revelers going about their business were having some
difficulty passing through the streets. Maljun found that coins paved his way when flung far enough aside to send the ragged imps scrabbling with greed into the gutters.

  He began to regret his use of the foresight spell. By a small deed I might prevent a calamity. I do not even know if I am on the trail of the right calamity. It is a very large world and I am but one ant struggling to keep the nest tidy.

  As he plodded onward, he recalled what he knew of Sister Vanta. She had bought the Shatter-Eye School of Fine Arts and taught the painters to add magic to their wild, disturbing abstracts. She had also arranged for one of her artists to be given the commission of a mural in the chambers of the City Council. What the magic in the mural would have done, Maljun could not recall, but Master Aritoli had managed to interfere before it could do its damage. Revenge might well be on Sister Vanta's disordered mind. Maljun shook his head. Master Aritoli's flamboyant life made him often a target for vengeance. It certainly added variety to Maljun's duties.

  He stopped, seeing suddenly he had reached his destination. He was in the great square of the Fountain of the Three Temples. Directly ahead of him was the huge, round fountain, in its center the statues of playful Kil spouting water. Behind that rose the spired bulk of the Levar's Palace, gaily lit for the Festival Days. On the edges of the square, he noted the partially completed wooden risers and scaffolding, seats and reviewing stands for dignitaries and guests for the Grand Fireworks on Restoration Eve. The Levar's court always sits here, Maljun thought, where the view of the Palace is best. Members of the Council will be placed in front of the Red Temple. And the other guests—Maljun paused. Aritoli would be such a guest, and their reviewing stand was directly in front of the Church of Truth.

  Maljun sat on the half-built riser and sighed. It might be here, at the celebration … but what will it be? What will they do? He saw at his feet another of the little broken shiribi puzzles, perhaps left over from the Procession of Faiths. He picked it up and absentmindedly put it back together.

  "What are you doing here?" said a man beside him. Maljun started and looked up to see a white-robed priest staring down at him.

  "You should not be here now," the priest continued, "these constructions are … unsafe, until they are completed. Besides, aren't you a little old to go a-begging?"

  Maljun stood. "You misunderstand, Brother," he said, and held out his hand with the rebuilt shiribi in it. "It is I who give alms to thee." He dropped the puzzle into the White priest's palm, then turned and hailed a footcab for home.

  The chores that remained that night were to lay out Aritoli's morning dressing robe, to turn the bed and scatter fresh-cut herbs on the sheets, to prepare equipment for serving breakfast (for two, possibly), and to estimate the cost of purchases by the master during Bazaar Day to note in the ledger book. As he did these, Maljun wondered if he should inform the master of his worries. I do not know enough about the threat, if there is one. I doubt the Master would turn down an important invitation on my whim.

  •

  The following morning Maljun fixed breakfast for one, a rumpled and morose Master Aritoli who looked all of his forty years, his long black hair disheveled and his mustache awry.

  "Had you a pleasant night, Master?" said Maljun, serving the spiced fish and dawnfruit juice. Aritoli made a strangulated noise that indicated he surely had not. He offered nothing further, and Maljun did not pry.

  "Are you going to the launderer today, Maljun?"

  "I had not intended it, Master. But if you require it, I will gladly do so."

  "I'm afraid I do. Drop this off for me, won't you? Least I can do for the lady." Aritoli took from a chair arm a rose-tinted silk wrap-dress that had been artfully cut into tatters, and placed it in Maljun's hands.

  Maljun observed the large purple wine stain (a costly dry red, he noted by the scent and color) down one side and the fish-egg salad stain on what might have been the front. The remnants of various other condiments spotted the hem, and at the neckline was the unmistakable debris of a cinnamon cream pudding. He could not help but wonder what might have been left on the table after … whatever had led to this mess.

  "I don't understand it. Not even my Mid-year day."

  Maljun paused. "Is there something I should be aware of, Master?"

  "Hmm? No. You wouldn't believe it either. I'm going back to bed. Wake me before the fireworks start, eh?"

  "Er, Master?"

  Aritoli sighed. "Yes, Maljun?"

  "Are you certain you must attend the fireworks this evening?"

  Aritoli frowned. "If you are asking whether I am ill enough to decline an invitation from the new Regent of the Levar and an old friend, the answer is, of course not. I have a reputation of wild living to uphold, remember? Although, I confess, I am beginning to feel too old for this."

  "In that case, Master—"

  "What is it, Maljun?"

  "May I accompany you?"

  Aritoli's dark brows slowly rose, and he appeared to be stifling a laugh. "I did not know you were interested in celebrating Festival Night, Maljun. After all these years, have you at last come to appreciate the jollier things in life?"

  Maljun felt himself almost blushing. He truly did not care for the frivolities of Festival Week. He had no interest in overindulgence in food, drink, and improper behavior. "For your well-being, Master, I would like to attend with you."

  "Ah. Pity. I was hoping you wanted to unbend a little. Yes, you may come along. Now, if you will excuse me, the mattress calls."

  "Thank you, Master. Sleep well."

  Maljun quickly cleaned up the breakfast dishes, bundled up the stained ruin of a dress that Master Aritoli had entrusted to him, and stepped out into the street. His daily forays against the subtle, indefatigable forces of decay seemed to have more grim significance now. He realized he had to do what he once swore to himself that he never again would—ask advice.

  It would not do to arrive at his destination by any conveyance except his own feet. He walked the eight blocks to the part of Liavek known as Old Town, to the street known simply as Stone Way, to the large, brooding house that looked like it might be a comfortable home, to those who had never lived there.

  The gray brick walls were immaculately clean, the black paint fresh on the iron fence. The window boxes contained just the right number of inoffensive white flowers—"widow bonnets" they were called. Standing on the doorstep, he felt half-remembered fears fluttering in his stomach—memories of holding a warm, rough pair of hands, of hearing beloved footsteps departing, of feeling abandoned and lost. The Society of Servitors liked to tell foundling children that one of their parents was noble and the other was a whore to encourage pride tempered with humility.

  Maljun rapped on the perfectly varnished door. In just the correct number of moments he heard footsteps and the door smartly opened. It was a Third Tier student wearing the black trousers with white hems and black jacket with white cuffs and collar.

  "Good afternoon, sir," said the student, "won't you please come in?"

  "Thank you," said Maljun, always a little embarrassed to receive the courtesies he was used to giving. He stepped into a wood-paneled hallway that led to an achingly familiar vestibule. There was the long, curving stairway down whose banister he and—whatwashisname? Kraquillo! that was it!—little Kraqui and he would slide down in the middle of the night until they were caught. And there, behind the stairs, was a closet with a secret panel that led to the laundry chute and into the courtyard where he and Lilam, the fishmonger's daughter, shared a first kiss. From somewhere to his right there came the laughter of children and the rapping of a wooden stick on a table. First Tier, Protocol 1 class, I'll wager.

  "Sir?"

  "Tell me, young man, is old Watslatl still teaching Protocol these days?"

  The student snorted. "That old Titch mummy—begging your pardon, sir. Yes. They say he'll teach it forever. You've, er, been here before?"

  "I'm Twelfth Tier, young man. And you should be careful in your fam
iliarities to strangers. I might have been a relative of the old Titch mummy."

  The student blushed. "I am most sorry, Servitor. Er, who was it you came to see?"

  "I've no appointment, I'm afraid. But my errand is of some small urgency. I was wondering if Servitor Jussive might be willing to see me."

  The student visibly gulped. "Who might I tell him is waiting?"

  "I am Maljun Nivelo."

  "Yes, Servitor Nivelo. Please make yourself comfortable." Unsuccessfully attempting a measured step, the student not-quite scampered up the stairs.

  Maljun sat in a solid wooden chair, unable to make himself comfortable, but trying to dwell on the pleasant memories. Before long, the student returned, more dignified this time. Doubtless Jussive had words with him. "You may go up now, Servitor."

  "Thank you."

  The oak door at the top of the stairs was opened by Jussive himself. He was an old man, in his eighties, but scarcely bent with age. He carried his dignity like a well-worn cloak, and his walnut skin sagged only a little around the eyes and the corners of his jaw. "Maljun," he said with a smile of genuine warmth that surprised Maljun, "won't you please come in?"

  Maljun found himself bowing his head as if he were a schoolboy again. There must be something about our vocation that preserves. Few Servitors have died young.

  "It has been a long time since you've visited. It is always a pleasure to see my best pupils. Would you like tea or kaf?"

  It would be an insult to refuse, so Maljun said, "Tea, please, Servitor." He remembered the Servitor's office as a place of dread, although he had received praise here as well as punishment. It astonished him to realize that his own room in Master Aritoli's house looked much the same as Jussive's.

  Maljun sat in the familiar hard wooden chair—it seemed smaller than it used to—beside Jussive's plain oak desk. Jussive sat gracefully on the opposite side, and Maljun knew that he had just pulled a cord to set a bell ringing down in the kitchens and some poor First Tier would be frantically loading the tea tray, making sure everything was perfect. Maljun knew because he often had been that First Tier student answering that bell.