Smith looked broodingly through his guest ledger.
No question about it; bookings were down since the Month of the Sardine Runs. Business at the restaurant was better, but still less than what it had been formerly.
There were a lot of good reasons why, of course. Deliantiba and Blackrock were engaged in a civil war, which put something of a crimp in travel and trade along the coast; not many pleasure boats set out for vacation destinations when a warship was likely to attack first and sort out survivors later.
Also, the price of fish had skyrocketed lately, which drove up prices in the restaurants; and though it was common knowledge that there was no fish shortage, that it was all a plot by the fishermen to drive prices up, still the fish didn’t seem to have heard that and stayed out of their customary waters. And now the new trouble…
As if on cue, Crossbrace of the City Wardens walked into the lobby, accompanied by two of his lieutenants. He assumed a stiff formal stance and avoided Smith’s eyes as he said; “Citizen! In accordance with Salesh City Statute 1,135.75, all members of alien races are required to swear an oath of allegiance and obedience to Salesh City Law. They have within two days of notification to comply or file an appeal with the—”
“He already took the oath, Crossbrace, you know that—” began Smith in real annoyance. Crossbrace, still keeping his eyes averted, held up an admonitory finger.
“Ah! That was Salesh City Statute .63, you see?” he said in a normal tone of voice. “There’s a new oath they have to rake saying they won’t vandalize our property.”
“Oh.” Smith was still annoyed. “Well, did you have to bring an arrest squad with you?”
“It’s not an arrest squad,” Crossbrace protested, looking hurt. “We thought we’d give him an escort. In case there’s trouble. There has been trouble, you know.”
Smith knew, but he muttered to himself as he slid from behind the front desk and led the way out onto the hotel’s back terrace.
It was a nice place, a shaded garden with a dramatic view of the sea. Strange and gorgeous flowers bloomed in one area set apart by low stone balustrades. There six people stood with their faces turned to the sky, in various postures of rapture. They were all Children of the Sun. The seventh was not; and he was speaking to them, softly and encouragingly.
“…and think of your own mothers, or any woman who was ever kind to you: some part of Her was in their hearts. Focus your prayers on that ideal of love and reach out to Her—”
He noticed Smith and the wardens.
“—and She must hear you, and She will help you. Now, we’ll conclude for this afternoon; go home and continue the meditation exercise on Compassion.”
Willowspear walked quickly toward Smith, murmuring “What is it?” as his students moved like sleepers waking.
“You have to—”
“It’s my duty to inform you that—”
“What are the Wardens doing here?” demanded one of the students, shooting from Bliss to Righteous Indignation like a pistol bolt.
“You can’t harass our trevani!” cried another student, grabbing up a gardening tool, and Willowspear grimaced and held out his hands to them in a placatory gesture.
“Please! Consider the First Principle of Patience in the Face of Aggression!” he cried. Somebody muttered something about a Trowel in the Face of Oppression, but in the trembling moment of peace that followed Smith said quickly, “It’s just a new oath you have to take, saying you won’t commit any acts of vandalism. All right?”
“I’ll be glad to swear the oath,” said Willowspear at once.
“What in the Nine Hells is a trevani?” demanded one of the Wardens, scowling.
“Shut up,” Crossbrace told him.
“He’s teaching ’em to worship the Green Witch,” said the other Warden.
“The Green Saint! He’s teaching us the Way of the Unwearied Mother, you unenlightened dog!” shouted another student.
“Not very successfully, either!” Willowspear cried, turning to face his students. “Put the shovel down, Mr. Carbon. Don’t shame me, please. Go to your homes and meditate on the First Principle.”
His students filed from the garden, glaring at the Wardens, who glared back, and Willowspear sighed and pressed his slender hands to his temples.
“Forgive them,” he said. “May I take the oath here, Mr. Crossbrace?”
“We have to escort you to the Temple of Law for it,” said Crossbrace, shifting from foot to foot. “Because of the trouble, see?”
“All right.”
“And a couple of mine will go with you, how about that?” said Smith. The porters Crucible and Pinion, who had been watching in silence from the lobby doorway, stepped forward and flexed their big arms.
“That’d be capital!” said Crossbrace, with a ghastly attempt at heartiness. “Let’s all go now and get it over with, eh?”
“Right,” growled Pinion.
Smith saw them off, then went into the restaurant’s kitchen. Mrs. Smith was pounding spices in a mortar, and Burnbright was peeling apples. She was perched on a tall stool, rather precariously given her present condition, and there were shadows of exhaustion under her eyes.
“So I said to him, ‘Eight crowns for that puny thing? At that price it had bloody well better to be able to jump up and grant three wishes—’ ” Mrs. Smith paused to tip ash from her smoking tube into the sink, and saw Smith. In the moment of silence that followed, Burnbright looked up, looked from one to the other of them, and began to cry.
“Oh, oh, what’s happened now?” she wailed.
“He’s had to go down to the Temple of Law again,” Smith told her. “He won’t be long, though.”
“But he hasn’t done anything!” Burnbright wept. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”
“It’s just the way life is sometimes, child,” said Mrs. Smith, mechanically going to a cabinet and fetching out a bottle of Calming Syrup. She poured a spoonful, slipped it into Burnbright’s mouth between sobs, and had a gulp straight from the bottle herself. Having done that, she renewed her efforts with the mortar so forcefully that a bit of clove went shooting up and killed a fly on the ceiling.
“One goes through these dismal patches, now and again,” she continued grimly. “War. Economic disaster. Bestial stupidity on the part of one’s fellow creatures. Impertinent little men charging eight crowns for a week-old sardine. One learns to endure with grace.” Another particularly violent whack with the mortar sent a peppercorn flying. It hit the bottle of Calming Syrup with a ping, ricocheted off and narrowly missed Smith’s nose before vanishing out the doorway into the darkness of the hotel bar.
“He’ll be all right,” said Smith, patting Burnbright’s shoulder. “You’ll see. Everyone in this street will vouch for him—and after all, he’s married to you! So it’s not as though he could be ordered to leave the city or anything.”
Burnbright thought about that a moment before her lip began to tremble afresh.
“You mean they could do that?” she said. “With our baby coming and all?”
“Of course they couldn’t, child,” said Mrs. Smith, looking daggers at Smith and reaching for the Calming Syrup again. “We just told you so. Besides, he’s my son, isn’t he? And it’s my little grandbaby’s future at stake, isn’t it? And I’d like to see the City Factor foolhardy enough to throw miscegenation in my face.”