"Engine and fuel and the two of us make a lot of weight. You could jump."
"Ah, no, thanks." He pictured the platform and its load, then thought of feathers. The city of Liavek dwindled more quickly beneath them.
She opened her mouth, closed it, and said, "You did something?"
He nodded. "What else would speed us?"
Surprise and delight came to her face. "An engine of the finest steel, twice as large as this one. A propeller to match. A larger gas bag, long and sleek like a rigid eel. And twice the fuel!"
He nodded again, then grabbed the low wall of netting to keep from falling as the transformed airship surged forward. Its nose lifted until the captain did something with the dangling cords around her seat; the platform became level again. The engine seemed smoother and louder, a beat for tireless dancers, and the wind whipped at Trav's borrowed clothes. He realized he was cold and glanced at the captain. She'd turned up her leather hood. He made himself a jacket to match hers.
She grinned at him. "I've dreamed of a ship like this. But why do you want an airship when you could magic up something that didn't care how the natural world wanted things to behave?"
"Because my power will be gone in four or five minutes. And I need to concentrate on something besides staying in the air."
"Ah. Let my ship's true weight return slowly, then, not all at once. Even then, I'll be playing tricky games with the controls to keep us aloft when the Luck reverts."
He nodded, noting that and ignoring it. He probed the skies around him, casting intangible nets for humans in the air. He found gulls and owls and nighthawks, and then, a mile away, two people high above Liavek. He smiled grimly, thinking he had found Sessi's Zhir invaders a few moments before they would act. His smile changed when he realized two magicians were celebrating Festival Night in their own way, then changed again when he realized who they were.
"Be happy, Gogo," he whispered.
"What?" the captain called.
"Nothing. Be quiet." Catching her scowl, he added, "Please. There's no—"
And then his nets found the Zhir, perhaps thirty miles away. Not a fleet of small airships, but three leviathans of the air, each carrying ninety soldiers. He thought of fireworks, and knew how easy it would be to imagine skyrockets inside the explosive water-gas bags of the Zhir's huge ships.
Would the explosions he visible from Liavek? Three balls of fire would hang in the sky like exploded stars. Would the flames consume the Zhir soldiers? A passing sailing ship might find flotsam that hinted at alien vessels and unknowable calamities. Would the Zhir soldiers die screaming as they fell onto the hard, green waves of the Sea of Luck? Would the fall to the sea kill the burning airmen or save them? The passing sailing ship might find charred swimmers who dared not speak of their mission or their fate.
Trav touched one Zhir's mind, and discovered impatience after twelve hours in the air and a fear of leaping from the airship at night to circle down on a fragile glider onto a strange city; the hope of landing safely in the bright, confused streets, of being one of those who made it to the palace to seize the Levar and close the palace gates before any semblance of resistance came against them; the hope that his parents would be proud of him … .
A minute or two of Trav's birth luck remained at most. He remembered the captain's warning and commanded the Luck of Liavek to begin its return to its original weight and form. He thought he could see three dark dots on the southern horizon, though they may have been imagination.
He pictured a tiny, turbulent fist of air over the Sea of Luck that beat itself into a spiral of wind. Something resisted his will; weather had its own desire and its own momentum that he must master or coerce, if he could. He imagined the spiral whipping faster, driving itself against the night breezes, becoming a storm between Liavek and the three Zhir airships. He wrestled with the raw stuff of the sky, shaping a hurricane to protect the city he loved.
His birth-moment magic ended without warning. He sagged against the netting, weary and cold, then made himself stand.
If he'd succeeded, the effects of the storm would continue, and the winds would drive the airships southward, away from Liavek. One or all might crash, but he could think of nothing better that he could have done for the Zhir or for his conscience. If he'd failed, a battle would be fought in Liavek's streets. Whether Liavek endured or fell, he would share in each death on either side.
"Didn't expect that," the captain said, throwing a bag of sand over the netting and pointing. A small dark turbulence built in the distance like a wall between them and the southern stars. "Thought it was going to be a nice night."
Trav glanced at her, then laughed to himself. "It's going to be a great one."
She shrugged. "If you say so. Mind if we head back? I don't want to be caught if that comes our way."
"No, not at all." His teeth chattered, but he did not care.
"Take one of my blankets." She moved around her seat to open the locker. "Sounds like you could use it."
"Thank you." He looked away. The black clouds hid the southern stars. Though the storm grew larger, it did not seem to be approaching them. Moonlight rolled over the waves of the Sea of Luck below them. To the north beyond the harbor islands, Liavek beckoned, a city etched in light.
"Fortunately." the captain said, passing him the blanket and reaching again into the locker, "I keep a few refreshments on board for special occasions. Happy Festival Night." She lifted out a bottle and two glasses, then smiled, and Trav laughed for no other reason than joy.
Restoration Day
Rangzha Fon returned to his embassy with his evening clothes stained and rumpled. He wore a mask of a blue chipmunk around his neck and sang a Liavekan love song that he had learned from a desert tribesman who did not understand the words. Between them, the lyrics had become "Dippa didi wokka wie," which seemed to express all that Rangzha Fon wished to say. He carried a large teak box in both hands.
"You are drunk," Djanhiz ola Vikili told him as he entered his office.
"Excellent." Rangzha Fon placed the teak box in the center of his desk, hung the new mask among the others on the wall, then fell into his chair. "Would've been a shame to waste all that wine."
"A Gold Harbor ship came into Liavek this morning with many shipwrecked Zhir marines aboard."
"Poor shipwrecked Zhir. Missed Festival Night."
"The ship that was wrecked was an airship."
"Oh," said Rangzha Fon, and when Djanhiz ola Vikili seemed insufficiently pleased, he repeated it. "Oh."
"The Prince's ships were caught in a storm."
"Well." Rangzha Fon waved his hand, still smiling, but realized from the demands of his stomach that the wine's quality had been less than it had seemed. "Storms happen."
"There should not have been a storm last night. If The Magician had not escaped, there probably would not have been a storm, don't you think?"
Rangzha Fon burped.
"How elegant," said Djanhiz ola Vikili. "Several of your shipwrecked countrymen have asked for asylum in Liavek. Their story has perplexed the Liavekans. Messages have traveled between Liavek and Ka Zhir."
Rangzha Fon nodded. "You're a very smart person, Mistress ola Vikili."
She slammed the palm of her hand against his desk. "I am a captive in this embassy, Rangzha Fon. And so are you! The Liavekans will arrest us if we step outside. Jeng will not help us because we have failed him. What will we do?"
"A very smart person," Rangzha Fon repeated. "But you worry too much. Don't worry about the Liavekans outside."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I invited them in." Rangzha Fon clapped his hands.
Two Liavekan Guards in gray and blue stepped into his office, led by a red-bearded lieutenant with weary eyes. When Djanhiz ola Vikili reached toward the jade letter opener on Rangzha Fon's desk, the lieutenant drew his pistol and aimed it at her heart. He said, "My part in this business has been to watch and suffer and do nothing at all. I would be most grateful if you attacked me.
"
Djanhiz's hand remained over the jade knife, then drew back. She stared at Rangzha Fon, making him feel almost sober, and he reminded himself that her magic had been destroyed years ago. "Why?" she said softly.
"I'm the ambassador," Rangzha Fon answered. "King Thelm had his magicians send a gift to the ambassador to present to the Levar." As Djanhiz glanced at the teak box, he fumbled in his robes. "A scroll, too. But I think I'll give his gift to the Levar's Regents and let them give it to the Levar, if they want." He met her glance. "Go ahead. Look."
Djanhiz ola Vikili reached out with both hands and lifted the hinged cover, revealing the head of Prince Jeng of Ka Zhir.
"Scroll says, 'Accept this proof of Ka Zhir's friendship with Liavek. Though Thelm's bite is weakened, his pain ends.'"
•
Every year, Sessi dreaded the arrival of Restoration Day. It meant the end of Festival Week, the end of celebrating life and the return to living it. Yet every Restoration Day, she decided this was her favorite day of the year.
The Street of Old Coins bustled with people, mostly its inhabitants but also visiting friends and family, ostensibly cleaning up after the excesses of Festival Night but actually sharing gossip and leftover holiday food. The youngest kids picked up trash and the older ones swept and scrubbed, and no one minded that their work was interrupted by impromptu games, like now: Sessi and six friends chased each other with straw brooms, swatting and laughing. Her mother usually did chores that she had wanted to do for months; today she was in the front yard, painting their shutters a joyful blue. Her father usually napped in a chair on their balcony, claiming the day's best use lay in restoring himself, however that was done. Neither of her parents seemed to be devoting themselves fully to their pastimes. Now and then, they would glance at her or at each other and smile.
As she chased the cute boy from the next block, determined to swat him twice as many times as he had swatted her, a hand fell on her shoulder. She gasped and spun, flailing with the broom.
The Magician stood still, letting her hit his shoulder, and said, "I'm sorry, Sessi. I didn't mean to startle—"
"Master Trav!" She hurtled into his arms. He caught her awkwardly, then she felt his grip grow tighter for a long moment.
When he released her, he said, "I wanted to say thank you, and I wanted to say goodbye."
"You're going away?"
"For a little while, anyway." He laughed, and she laughed too, because she had not seen him really happy for the longest time. "I'm going to build and design airships. Remember the captain of the Luck of Liavek? We'll be partners. Each day when I've got my birth-moment luck, I'll create and test our new designs. Next year, we'll build a proper manufactory and start producing ships that won't disappear when my magic does. Want a ride on the first?"
She nodded. "Who'll be The Magician, then?"
"Gogo. She'll keep giving you magic lessons, if you want them."
Sessi nodded again.
"Listen," he said, squatting so they were alone in the crowded street. "It's all right if you're scared sometimes. Do you have nightmares?"
She gave the tiniest nod.
"Me, too."
"You're The Magician." She looked at his face and said, "Were."
"When you're The Magician, you'll have nightmares, too. Different ones. Don't let them rule you, and you'll be better for it."
"Me? The Magician?"
He laughed and nodded. "If you work hard. If you don't let the bad things scare you too much. If you remember that luck is something to share. If you never give up, no matter how pointless it seems." He stood up. "That's probably a good exit line. I should go."
She touched his sleeve, the empty one where a hand had been. "There's Festival cake. With almonds and cherries and chocolate sauce."
He looked away, destroying their moment of privacy in the street. Sessi's friends still chased each other. A little kid had fallen and begun to cry, but his older brother was already picking him up. An old woman in a wheelchair played a game of shah with the university student who lived across the street. A group of singers made a merry hash of "Pot-boil Blues." The smell of fresh bread came from the bakery around the comer. Someone hawked the latest edition of the Cat Street Crier with surprising enthusiasm for Restoration Day: "Storm destroys Zhir airships! Abducted girl returns safely! Beautiful weather for Restoration Day! All the news of Liavek for only half of a copper!"
"Well," said the man who had been The Magician. "There's more to life than a good exit line. A slice of Festival cake would suit me very well indeed."
"Restoration Day: Plainsong" by John M. Ford
On the day after, when there is finally time to consider things,
The citizens think on this piece of their invisible history:
On Festival Night someone makes a choice in the City,
Not a reasoned but a random one,
Which the chooser does not and never will know is special.
For if it goes one way, all remains as it is and was,
And if the other (but you've guessed this,
Haven't you), the entire City that calls itself Luck
Will vanish, towers, palaces, hovels, brothels,
Sewers, street lamps, viaducts, dustbins,
Stone and wood and brick and iron and tile,
To the last bolt and peg, all gone
As if the earth had but dreamed them,
The people gone too, their absent relatives
Suddenly cloudminded as to their even existence.
What would be left? Perhaps old S'Rian,
Bustling again, its trees full of chipmunks,
Or perhaps a bare beach, one bent tree, perhaps some Other City,
With a name and a culture and a population all its own,
New for an instant, then old in the mind
As all cities become.
And all this comes from randomness:
Whether or not someone feeds a stray cat,
Wears red or blue to the revels,
Has that one glass of wine too many,
Tosses a coin to a beggar, or which way that coin lands.
It hardly seems fair
(To those who persist in demanding the thing
Of the persistently unfair world)
That this great city, these spires and parks,
These three hundred thousand only moderately damned souls,
Should hinge on a coin toss:
Yet the coin falls the same for kings and beggars,
For priests and mathematicians alike a die has six faces.
To influence the fall is to cheat, to cheat is unfair,
Thus is it proven.
And now here diverge the two ways of the Mystery,
On the one hand:
Count up the years of the City,
Assume the coin is cast for each of them, comes down in each of them,
And in all those centuries of spinning it has always landed right.
Half a chance in a year, half half in two,
And by the long division of probability
The chance of the City's continued being
Is cut thinner than hair by the philosopher's razor.
It is impossible.
And that is what gives it its chance:
For life is impossible, after all,
The million articulations of bone and skin, blood and flesh,
The soft wet puzzle with the loose parts,
Its every step a stumble caught in time,
The city that walks
About a city it and those like it have built
From trees and stones and sand molten clear:
What are a few flipped coins against all of that?
This is the argument of perspective.
Now the other way to approach the paradox
Is to say that perhaps the coin does not always land right.
Suppose that the city is damned, some years.
If you were there, you would never admit it.
<
br /> If you were not, how would you tell?
Ships go down and the sea closes over them.
A thing of which the only evidence extant
Is only the evident existence of things
Admits no negative.
This is the argument of perception.
Some still refuse to believe in the choice at all,
Uncomfortable with the uncertainty,
Yet uncertainty is a divine comfort:
If there are two ways the world can go,
And even the gods cannot tell which,
Then there is an absolute route of escape.
The gods do not play all the pieces,
The coin is ours to toss, fumble, drop.
The ineloquence of the hands speaks volumes:
Coins slipping through the fingers,
The wobbling point of the drawn sword,
Torn stitching at the clasps of clothes.
God may be in the details,
But free will is in the accidents;
Predestination dies in a pratfall,
Whoops, hallelujah.
On the morning after Festival
People think on these things and deny that they do,
They reglaze windows, mend walls, right weathervanes,
Silently thankful that there is still a wind to stop out and measure,
Near to weeping that the sun is in their eyes, ache in their joints,
Looseness in their bowels, real, real, real;
All over the redeemed City they are working joy-blind,
Shaping pots, baking bread, sewing fabrics and wounds,
Making with their hands the ultimate prayer
Of those who endure in the hope of the truth of the world:
Please, you gods and fellow mortals,
Let us do it right,
Let us do it right, this time.
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