"We are very proud of you, you know, Maljun. Your master yearly sends us letters telling us how pleased he is with your service."
"He does?" Maljun blinked in surprise.
"Yes, accompanied by a sizable contribution of funds, for which we are quite grateful."
A bell chimed and a dumbwaiter slid open in the wall. Jussive pulled out the pewter tea tray with pewter pot and mugs and poured the tea with only a slight tremor in his hands.
"So," said Jussive, "have you chosen to spend your day off with us?"
Maljun shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Actually, Servitor, I am here on my master's business—in a way. I am here to ask advice."
Jussive clicked his tongue. "A man of your skill— What is the problem?"
Maljun explained.
"Ah," said Jussive. "You see why the use of the foresight spell is discouraged. One should focus on one's work rather than those greater events that the spell may reveal. It is distracting and leads to inattention and sloppiness."
"But, Servitor, this may concern my master's life and health. The dream implied it was my business."
Jussive sighed and tapped his thumbs together. "If we all do our duty as we should, we need fear nothing from the Church of Truth and their like. Our very beings are devoted to the concept of Order. Against that, no empty-headed fool can prevail. Remember from your Protocol 1 course—He who gives a prudent obedience wields a small power of his own. If you must, tell your master about the messages. If you must do other magic, keep to the Blessings and the Restorative. Otherwise, do nothing that would not be your normal duty."
Maljun nodded and allowed the conversation to drift into trivialities. But he was not satisfied. Jussive may have read this in his face, for as they parted, the ancient Servitor clasped Maljun's hand and said, "Remember. A prudent obedience. Do your duty. Naught else."
"I shall," said Maljun. But he felt his duty was more than Servitor Jussive would allow, and obedience far from prudent.
Outside, he hailed a footcab, selecting one with an old though hale runner. With enough coinage, he helped the old one remember what launderer might be willing to work this day.
"Dykhe on Merchant's Way," said the wizened runner. "He was complaining the other night at the Jackal's Den as to how he'd be scrubbing his arms off today."
"Take me there, if you please."
"Surely. It's your nose, young man."
Maljun discovered the meaning of the runner's remark as he stepped off at the doorway of Dykhe the Launderer. Vapors of lye and other caustics assailed his nostrils as he went inside. In the dim light, he saw enormous wooden vats at the far end of the room, several people bent over them, pumping away against the washboards. Maljun coughed and covered his mouth with a handkerchief.
One of the workers glanced up.
"Master Dykhe?"
The fellow put down his task and walked up to Maljun, wiping his hands on a towel. His wiry hair was sticking out at all angles and his skin was swarthy except for his forearms, which were bleached ghostly pale. "I'm Dykhe. Whatever you want, you'd better want white. My vats are all being used for this one job. but I might be able to toss yours in with."
Maljun held up the rose-pink gown that Master Aritoli had entrusted to him. "I think not, sir."
Dykhe laughed. "No, you'd not want that delicacy in with this lot. You'd be lucky if anything was left of it, and the white robes would doubtless be offended, besides."
"White robes?"
"You know, the Truthies. This stuff is theirs," Dykhe said, jerking a thumb back toward the vats.
Maljun caught his breath. He remembered a saying from his Philosophy courses: "In an ordered universe, all events have their place, cause, and purpose. There is no such thing as coincidence." Was it the foresight spell that led me here?
"I am surprised, said Maljun, "that they do not employ a wizard for such a purpose."
Dykhe spat toward the comer. "I asked them that myself. They didn't want their clothes 'contaminated with extraneous magic,' they said. Apparently they plan something special tonight. I tell you, I wouldn't want to attend their Festival party. Those folk give me the shivers."
"I understand."
"I suggest you wash that in a bathing tub with some gentle soap. I'll sell you some, if you like."
"Thank you." Maljun paid the launderer a little extra for the soap.
As he left the launderer's, he glanced up the alley beside the shop. There, hanging on poles, a row of drying white robes rustled in the breeze like a parade of ghosts. A fat woman emerged from behind the end of the row, carrying an empty basket nearly as large as she. She stepped into a side door and, to Maljun's relief, did not appear to see him.
Looking both ways, he ducked into the alley and snatched one of the robes from the closest pole. Fortunately, it was only slightly damp. He rolled up the robe and wrapped the pink dress around it. He tiptoed back to Merchant's Way where a bleary-eyed passerby gave him a strange look but said nothing.
He stopped again at the Fountain of the Three Temples on his way home. The risers and review stands were finished, and from the decorations adorning them, Maljun saw his guess as to who would sit where was correct. The great marble and tile basin of the fountain had been drained, and men in bright red jackets were setting up frameworks in the fountain for firework displays. Children flocked around the men like sparrows to bread crumbs, and Maljun moved closer to listen to their conversations.
"Can I help?" called one little girl.
"No," laughed the workman. "Come to our guild when you are of age. You're too young to join the Lightning and Thunder Show."
"Aw, it looks easy. I can do it."
"See this finger?" said the red-jacket. "It's been blown off and healed back on four times. I was lucky somebody found it each time—once a dog nearly ran off with it. And I tell you, it hurt a bit more than a stubbed toe. So don't be so eager to come jumping into our job."
"You had more than this last year," said an older boy. "Is this all?"
"No," said a red-jacket. "The rest of it's up there." He twisted to point up at a flat-roofed tower of the Levar's Palace. On top of the tower was a spherical structure of metal struts.
"All the big stuff will be coming off that."
"It looks like a shiribi puzzle," Maljun said.
The red-jacket barked a laugh. "Very astute observation, sir. So it is. At midnight it's going to rise into the air—"
"Hey," said the other red-jacket, "don't give the finale away. Let it be a surprise."
"Do you think that will be safe?" asked Maljun.
"Sir," said the red-jacket, standing straight and slapping his chest, "we are professionals!"
"Of course, " said Maljun, reassuringly. "And whom might we congratulate for this brilliant idea?"
The red-jacket cocked his head and frowned. “I'm not sure. Regent Geth Dys commissioned it. You know, the White priest. Said it would please Her Eminence. 'Scuse me, I have to get back to work."
"Of course." Maljun inclined his head and stepped away. I am a fool. What little act can I do to stop the disaster that will happen when this puzzle falls apart? I am in no position to do anything. But perhaps—
•
Maljun knocked at the only portal of the Levar's Palace he was likely to be admitted at. The hearty young woman who answered the Servant's Door showed him into an antechamber furnished only with one straight-backed chair. The corners of the chamber were piled with Festival decorations—fern fronds and rare, sweet-scented flowers. Paper streamers and racks of colorful, wide silk ribbons lined one wall. Maljun sat in the hard chair, enjoying the holiday atmosphere in the room. If this is illusion, why would anyone want it to end?
Before long, a short, plump woman bustled in. Maljun stood and held out his hands to her. "Vilei," he said warmly.
"Uncle!" The plump woman rushed to press her cheek against his. As she stepped back, holding Maljun's hands, she said, "Uncle, it is so good to see you! But why do you pic
k the worst of times for a visit?"
Although, given his background, it was possible they were related, Maljun was not actually her uncle. He had helped tutor her when he was Seventh Tier and she was only Third. They had become good friends and Maljun was very proud of her when she was hired to serve in the palace.
He smiled sadly. "Sometimes the worst times seem the best, Vilei."
There came a crash and squabbling voices from a nearby hallway. Vilei looked over her shoulder, then back to Maljun with a little frown. "Couldn't you come back tomorrow? We have so much to do, and two of us have taken sick, and the cleanslippers keep changing what they want for tonight's decorations, and—"
Maljun drew from beneath his cloak the Rod of Service. He took Vilei's hand in his and placed the baton in it, folding her fingers over the dark wood. "It is important, Vilei."
"Oh." With a sigh, she said, "I suppose you'd better tell me, then." She released the baton and sat heavily on the chair, spreading out her aprons.
Keeping his voice low, Maljun told her about his fears.
Vilei's frown deepened. "Geth Dys has been very concerned about that construction. I'm quite certain he'd want no one tampering with it."
"I am sure," said Maljun, "that the structure will perform just as he wishes."
"He wouldn't want to harm anyone!"
"Shh. These people do not see the world as we do. Pain and suffering, to them, is just another illusion. Now, do you know when the fireworks begin?"
"Shortly before midnight, I think. Yes, it must be—that's when several of us end our shifts and Piri was looking forward to catching the Lightning and Thunder Show."
"Then the large display goes off after midnight?"
"Just at midnight, I should think."
"Excellent," said Maljun. "Perhaps there is a little something we can do."
"Uncle, before I hear this idea of yours, tell me—is this something the Society would approve of?"
"Sometimes, Vilei, one must be obedient to the teachings of one's heart as well as the teachings of one's elders."
"They wouldn't, eh? Very well. Say on."
•
His next stop was to a S'rian weaver on Loom Lane, to whom he'd often given his master's mending. In addition to being an expert weaver and seamstress, the woman was adept at weaving low-level magic into her work. It was rumored she had studied under Granny Karith herself.
"You come empty-handed, Maljun. I believe I already finished those trousers of your master's."
"So you did, Okari. I've come to buy something off-the-shelf, if you've any such items remaining."
"I've a few little things. Most customers seem to want amulets to ward off drunkenness, as gifts for their spouses. If that's what your master wants, I'm fresh out."
"No, Okari. The purchases today are my own. I would like a woven pectoral with a protection spell."
"I may have one left. I sold quite a few before Remembrance Night. Ah, here it is. It's just a warding of sorcerous harm from another person, not a general 'all accident' protection or warding of physical blows or infestation by trolls. It will last until the end of Restoration Day. Will it do?"
"Yes, Okari, it should do admirably. And now a mask. A simple one that makes the wearer's identity invisible to magical seeking. This spell need only last for one day also."
The weaver crossed her arms on her chest and tilted her head coyly. "Maljun, if I did not know you, I would deny your request. Sounds like a pickpocket's gear."
"Nothing like that, I assure you."
"Well, I don't have a mask with such a spell already made."
"Could you make it by sundown?"
"For five levars and a promise that I'm not participating in an illegal endeavor."
"I do not believe it to be illegal. But it is in a good cause, I do assure you. Will seven levars ease your misgivings?"
Okari crossed her arms and breathed a heavy sigh. Under her breath she murmured, "May These Events Not Involve Thy Servant." Shaking her head, she said louder, "Well, I shall have to get to it then."
•
That evening, in the footcab beside his master, Maljun sat stiffly, trying to ignore his growing fear.
"Maljun?"
He nearly jumped. "Yes, Master?"
"Forgive me if I seem to pry, but why are you bringing a broom to the festivities?"
"It is a … tradition of my family. For Restoration Day. Something I must do at midnight."
"I see." Aritoli paused. "Did I mention that that's quite a fetching mask you are wearing this evening?"
"No, Master. Thank you. I thought it would suit the, uh, festiveness of the occasion."
"Hmm? Did Okari make that?"
"Yes, Master."
"Thought it looked like her work. And what is in that cloth bundle you are carrying?"
"A cloak, sir, in case it should become cooler later."
"A white cloak?"
"White is considered very stylish this season, sir."
"I see."
The clatter of the footcab's wheels on the paving stones was the only sound between them for some moments. Aritoli pulled out of a pocket the invitation he'd received and fingered it thoughtfully. "It would seem that we are in for a most … diverting evening."
"Indeed, Master. Indeed."
•
And so it was that, shortly before midnight, Maljun stood behind the risers on which Aritoli and many other minor nobles sat. He slipped on the white robe he had borrowed from the launderer's and pulled the hood far down over his face. Holding tightly the baton that held his luck, he tried to draw upon that magical power, so dearly bought with the hours of his mother's labor at his birth. Looking up at the imposing. bare white facade of the Church of Truth, he wondered if it would be enough.
As the cheering of the crowd and the noise of the fireworks became louder, he walked up the marble steps of the church. Before the silverwood doors with their silver-chased handles, he began to slowly sweep in a pattern as old as Liavek itself. It was a simple spell, dedicated to healing and rebuilding. It assumed and reinforced the concept of Order, and a universe where everything has its proper place.
He felt a quiet joy along with his apprehension. For Restoration Day was his favorite holiday, and this spell his favorite of all magic. All his life had been dedicated to the maintenance of order and harmony in other people's lives, thereby finding order and harmony in his own.
One of the silverwood doors banged open and a white-robed figure came out.
Maljun kept sweeping, watching the straw bristles of his broom. A white-slippered foot stepped in the broom's path.
"What are you doing?" said Sister Vanta.
"A celebration," Maljun answered, and swept the broom over her foot, continuing the pattern.
She jerked her foot away as if it had been burned. "This is quite unlike your style."
"Is it?" said Maljun, not stopping. "I hardly think you know what my style is."
"Is it not this?" Sister Vanta did something colorful with light in her hands. An image formed, perhaps of a person's face. Maljun paid little attention and continued his sweeping.
Louder cries of admiration came from the crowd, shouts of "Look up there! Look at that!" Maljun prayed that Vilei had managed to get near the tower with the construction. If so, she and several other palace servants should be sweeping in the same patterns as Maljun, doing their Restoration Day spells a few hours early.
"Who are you?" said Sister Vanta.
Maljun did not respond. He felt his hood yanked back and the mask torn from his face. Sister Vanta gaped in astonishment.
"Not the one I feared, not the one I laid my traps for," she said, "but his servant."
He could not resist a small smile of triumph and a bow. Bright light exploded over the reviewing stand and Maljun, starkly reminded of his purpose, began to sweep and mutter again.
Sister Vanta grabbed his broom handle. "Stop."
"Anger, madam, is an inappropriate response to
an illusion." Letting go of the broom, he began to sing the restoration spell and walk in the pattern he had swept.
Sister Vanta gestured in the air. Maljun felt a warming on his chest and was thankful for Okari's pectoral. Something caught at his ankle and he lost his balance. Scrabbling at the air, he fell, landing hard on his forearms. Sister Vanta had tripped him. His arms hurt very badly. He wondered if they were broken.
"Why?" whispered Sister Vanta.
"To serve," gasped Maljun, "is to set in order. The simple broom against the dust. It is my duty."
Sister Vanta shook her head. "Do you know to what suffering you would doom the world?"
"And joy," said Maljun, "and contentment, and the satisfaction of achievement in one's labors against ruin and chaos."
"So wrong," said Sister Vanta, sadly. "So very wrong. You will not know the value of the gift I will give you. Such pity I have for you. Your love for the illusion has blinded you to truth. I will spare you the tormented dream you would experience in your aging body. I will spare you that to which you condemn others. Rejoice, gentle servant, for you shall receive oblivion."
She pulled on his shoulder, turning him on his back. Her hand slipped into his robe, and she pulled out his Rod of Service.
"No!" Maljun realized he had concerned himself so much with physical harm that he had given no thought to his luck vessel. Sister Vanta, a much more accomplished wizard, had easily been able to locate it.
He tried to hold her wrists, but his arms blazed with pain and she slipped from his grasp. As he watched in horror, the symbol of his learning, his trade, his life, turned to powder between her hands. He reached out to it, screaming, feeling as though something was torn from his being.
As Sister Vanta raised her arms for the spell that would finish him, Maljun wanted to weep. He feared for his master, he wished he could see one more day in Liavek, he wished he could say goodbye to Vilei, he wished he could see the fishmonger's daughter one last time. He felt a great weakness overtake him—and darkness followed.
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