trudging home at last, stops and stares at the wall. From a crack in the pavement a green vine has sprouted and scaled the red stones with supernatural speed. It has thrust tendrils under the poster, spread and ripped and crumpled its fragments; and small green snails are crawling over what remains, greedily consuming the paper and its bright inks.
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