Demetrius gathered his cleaning supplies quickly, carrying his ladder under his arm, and casting furtive glances over his shoulder at the resplendent woman behind the desk. As he left he noticed that her eyes now seemed both to be a dark brown. Demetrius closed the door behind him. The clopping sound of Judge Gast’s gait, assisted by his heavy walking stick, drew Demetrius’ eyes down the hall. He set off the other direction, towards the headmistress’ office.

The door to her office was open, and as Demetrius crossed the threshold, and his feet sank into the plush carpet. He felt a familiar feeling of safety. Haidi Atbis sat behind her desk, a quill in one hand, and a scroll of parchment spread out before her. The floor was a deep forest green, and the walls were all paneled in a dark wood that was shades stretching from black to the darkest red. Behind her the courtyard could be seen, lunchtime was approaching and the students should have been making their way to the cafeteria. The courtyard, however had an oddly abandoned look. The sound of her quill scratching at the paper was all Demetrius could hear, none of the usual laughter or conversation was carried through the picture window.

Standing stock still in the doorway, Demetrius knocked on the doorframe very lightly. The headmistress looked up from her writing, and the sound of the sharp quill on parchment stopped. Her eyes had a sunken look to them today, and her skin seemed to sag as if she’d recently lost weight and missed sleep. Her hair was tightly drawn in a neat bun behind her head, but several loose salt and pepper strands weaved this way and that around her face like errant students. Her eyes had a milky whiteness to them Demetrius had never noticed before.

“Ahh, Demetrius,” She spoke very softly, and the very quietness of the afternoon was again deafening in Demetrius’ ears, “Is it Fireday already?”

“Yes ma’am,” Demetrius was trying to look anywhere but her sad eyes, “the floor and the window today?”

She nodded, and looked back at her parchment, picking up her quill and filling the silence with the sound of scratching. Demetrius frowned, and set to work cleaning the high window behind her. He would dust around the frame of the picture window, and then he would clean the glass itself before he would do the carpet. The carpet was quite the chore, requiring him to retrieve tea leaves from the cafeteria that the serving staff there would save for this purpose on Fireday every week. He did not mind though, there was nothing he would not do for the headmistress.

Usually, she had kind inquiries for him about what he had been reading lately. Just last week, he recalled, they’d had a lengthy discussion about a book he was still reading about the culture of the nagas. Today, there was nothing but the sound of scratching, and as he wiped down the window from top to bottom, all he could see of the students in the courtyard were huddled groups. In the distance looking angry and defiant, seemed to be a large group of students with signs standing in front of the regulatory office where permits for the use of all manner of spellcasting and enchantment were requested, and often denied.

The window done, Demetrius sighed again to himself, and climbed down from his ladder. He looked up at the window, and tilted his head to and fro watching the high sun catch the glass at different angles. It was clean, though judging from the woman hunched over her desk, still not looking up, it wouldn’t have mattered much either way. Demetrius left without a word. He made his way quickly down the hallway towards the storage closet, and left his ladder and bucket and rags. Then he set off again towards the cafeteria.

Demetrius crossed the courtyard again. The sun was high and warm on his face contrasting with the oddly chill wind, and he could smell the bay on the breeze, salty and fishy. As he approached the cafeteria, he could hear the assemblage of students outside the regulatory office chanting. Their voices were a dull murmur, but he thought he could make out the word ‘freedom.’

Inside the cafeteria, Demetrius made his way to the backroom. The room was oddly empty for lunchtime, most of the huge tables were occupied by only two or three students, their heads bent low, their voices faint whispers. Demetrius braced himself for the kitchen. It should have been bustling and loud, with people shouting ‘behind’ and moving from place to place, chopping and stirring and cleaning things. Instead, the cooks were also huddled in tight little groups, seemingly more concerned with conversation than cooking. Demetrius walked through the subdued workplace, and gathered the tea leaves that had been set aside for him. There was a sandwich as well, with fresh lettuce and tomato slices as well as a big slice of meat. Demetrius thanked the cooks, and made his way back outside, taking big bites of his sandwich as he went, and relishing the sweet crispness of the vegetables and the way they contrasted with the savory flavors of the bread and meat.

By the time he returned to the admin building the sandwich was gone, but he felt much better for having eaten. His nerves were seeming to steady, and his mind was wandering back to the conversation he had overheard in Madam Druce’s office. ‘They said that they were going to shut down the University!’ Who had said that? ‘Would it really be that bad for you if they did? What’s the worst thing that can happen?’ For the girl to whom Madam Druce had been speaking, it didn’t sound like much. From what Demetrius had gleaned, Abigail was a fine student of Alchemy. Demetrius on the other hand had no idea what he would do should his home ‘shut down.’

Demetrius’ shoulders were slumped, and his sun-starved skin looked even more sallow than usual as he carried his tea leaves and broom into the office. Still the quill scratched on the parchment, and the headmistress did not even look up as he entered. He began the laborious process of carrying out the three chairs and the end tables. He had often times been assisted in this work by the headmistress, but she did not seem inclined to take notice of him today. Carefully he walked the narrow bookcase outside into the hallway. All that remained of the furnishings was the chair the headmistress was sitting upon and the desk that she was huddled against so tightly, writing with the frantic motion of a squirrel hiding food.

Carefully, starting in the far corner and working his way backwards, he spread the moist tea leaves upon the plush carpet, and a now very familiar giggling erupted in his ear like the tinkling of a tiny bell. “What’cha doin’?” Her voice was shrill as ever, but in the light of the cold reception, Demetrius was grateful for the company.

He smiled, and whispered, “Sweeping the carpet.”

She flew in front of him, and darted back and forth from the bristles of his broom back to his face, “It looks like you put a bunch of mud on the floor!”

“They’re tea leaves, they keep the dust from rising.”

She gave him a sidelong appraising look and Demetrius’ felt the corners of his mouth raise even higher, “Why don’t you just vacuum it?”

Demetrius had no idea what she meant, “Don’t know what a vacuum is,” he said honestly.

The headmistress’ quill stopped, and she looked up and spoke, “Did you say something, Demetrius?”

Demetrius looked over at her and then immediately back down at the floor, “Nothing ma’am, just talking to myself.”

She smiled at him and though her face was tired and weary it cheered him to see her aged smile, “I’m sorry I don’t have time to talk today, I’m sure you’ve noticed everything that’s going on around here.”

Demetrius paused and thought about this for a moment before responding, “Things do seem a little tense around the campus this morning.”

The headmistress’ smile vanished, “Yes, I’m sure it does, but don’t worry we’re handling things.” She returned her gaze to her parchment and seemed to be reading for a moment before she started writing again. Demetrius resumed his sweeping.

Cyndy was waving her little rectangle around, and interrupted him again to ask, “Couldn’t they just clean everything with magic?”

Demetrius shook his head, and Cyndy frowned at him again before saying, “Well, they could clean with magic!”

Demetrius glanced at the headmistress again but she seemed thoroughly involved in what she was writing again, “It’s a matter of permits.”

The scratching of the quill stopped immediately, “Of course it is! But we have to abide by the law, we can’t just let people run around casting any spell they wish! That’s a slippery slope back to Towers and enslavement!” Her pale face seemed to be flushed with color.

“I didn’t mean to,” Demetrius started to say, but the headmistress looked furious.

“I mean, what do they want from me! Standing out there with their signs, led by that backstabbing bastard, Veles, and his ‘free energy’ movement!” Her voice was slightly shrill, and Demetrius was terrified. He had never seen her in a rage like this before, he wanted to disappear, to fade away. He looked down at the floor and saw that it was almost entirely still littered with tea leaves.

Demetrius resumed his sweeping, carefully removing the tea leaves and the dust they caught. He kept his head down, and said nothing further, completely ignoring Cyndy. Finally she vanished, and Demetrius wished he could with her. The rest of his time sweeping stretched on for an eternity. At long last, the carpet seemed to be clean, or at least free of the tea leaves. The headmistress was still writing, and seemed to be occasionally stabbing at the parchment.

Once Demetrius had returned all of the furniture, he said, “Whatever happens, I’m sure that you will do the right thing for the school.”

The woman to whom Demetrius felt he owed his life looked up at him, and said, “That will be all for today, Demetrius. Take care of yourself.”

The dean had a high nasally voice that a Demetrius felt didn’t fit with his huge, almost round body. He was sitting at his desk below Demetrius reclining his bulk into the overly cushioned chair, “Terrible luck that. Nothing you can do to save the trees?” He paused for a moment listening to a voice Demetrius couldn’t hear and then continued, “Well it’s just as well, we’ve received word of a higher profile case. Wrap things up there as quickly as possible,” again he paused and listened and then he said, “Town by the name of Uriel, right out there on the edge of the desert. From the sounds of things the entire village is dead. We need you to get there as quickly as possible, Dr. Mendes.” He sat up in his chair and began searching through his desk drawers.

Demetrius was high above dean Stinson, leaning precariously on a stepladder. The dean had one of the largest windows in the University directly behind his desk and the dean liked it to be cleaned twice as often as the rest of the offices in the admin building. It always amazed Demetrius that the top of the window managed to get dirty at all, considering it was twelve feet above the floor. He leaned back so that he could see the window catching light at different points, and satisfied he began descending the ladder.

In spite of the dean’s nasally voice, the private office offered a welcome respite. Demetrius was not eavesdropping deliberately but there was no way to avoid it. Lately there seemed to be no way to avoid listening to all sorts of conversations. Many of them rather heated. Demetrius had never been able to stand the sounds of an argument and now the entire University was at each other’s throats. They fought their verbal wars in the halls, in the cafeteria, the dorms and the lecture halls. They even carried the arguments with them to the bathrooms and yelled at each other through the stall walls.

When Demetrius reached the floor, the dean swiveled around in his chair and stared out the window. With his pipe in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other he looked every bit the ancient scholar that he was. The dean was bald on top and had long ago decided that the only logical course of action was to grow the rest of his hair out as long as he could. He wore a pointy blue hat covered in golden stars, crescents, and all manner of geometrical figures. His robes were the same stately blue and seemed to swell like the ocean around his midsection. Demetrius began folding up his ladder and the dean asked him, “Have you seen the graffiti?”

Demetrius had in fact seen the graffiti. It was a new thorn in his side that competed with Cyndy for his irritation. He said, “Yes, sir. I’ve been doing my best to clean it up everywhere I see it.”

The dean swirled his brandy and puffed at his pipe. He blew a smoke ring and then blew another ring through the first. When he spoke his high voice seemed like it came from a distant place, “They wouldn’t be writing those things if they’d been there,” he raised his glass to his lips, “in the war, you know.”

Demetrius felt like something was expected of him, but he didn’t know what exactly so he said, “It’s right difficult to clean, sir. I’ve been having a lot of trouble.”

The dean seemed to be considering this and finally he said, “You do a good job around here, Demetrius. When Atbiss took you in, I wondered if you were going to rob the kitchen blind and run away that same night, but you stuck it out. You’re as much a part of this school as anyone.”

“Thank you, sir,” Demetrius said, and at his ear he heard the familiar sound of Cyndy giggling.

“That will be all for the day,” the dean turned his chair back around towards his desk, “lock the door behind you on your way out please.”

Demetrius carried his step ladder out into the hall and then locked the thumbolt on the door to the office. He looked around furtively and said, “Are you planning on taking off again, or did you get your fill of listening in around the campus? ”

Cyndy was poking at the rectangle that never left her hand, she looked up at Demetrius, strangely solemn and said, “I suppose. It’s really something you should be concerned with though.”

Demetrius walked and Cyndy flew beside him. He was carrying the ladder under his arm, his steps furtive in the once hallowed sanctuary that was the admin building. There were no students in the halls, no sounds at all but his own echoing footsteps. He could bask in the blessed silence while he was still here. The ladder returned to the custodial closet now, and he had no reason left to linger. He made his way towards the exit shambling like a ghoul.

“It sounds like pain to me,” he said with a sigh, “I can’t stand it. Everyone is so angry lately, and they think they’re screaming at each other, but really they’re just crying out in pain like wounded animals.”

Cyndy flew directly in front of his face and said, “Oh Demetrius, just when I begin to wonder if it was a mistake to try and meet you, you remind me why you’re my favorite!” She planted an almost imperceptible kiss on his forehead and flew out ahead of his as soon as he opened the door.

Between the cobblestone paths that formed a filigree, were patches of grass and flower beds, and the occasional bench or refuse bin. Few students and faculty were walking along the paths making their way in various directions, but for the most part they stood huddled together in tightly woven circles of suspicion. It was late afternoon and there were some more things he could have cleaned before nightfall, but the air had a thickness to it that he didn’t like.

Demetrius decided that he would make his way to the men’s dormitory as quickly as possible. His reading had suffered greatly since Cyndy had decided she was a part of his life. Tonight, he would skip the meal served at seventh bell and skip the arguments. He would stay in his room and read. It wasn’t as if his room was soundproof, but at least the thin walls would dampen the sound, should some of the students in the adjacent dorm start yelling. If he was reading, he would have something to distract his mind from their hateful sounds. The book on the culture of the naga was fascinating, and though the headmistress had not wanted to discuss it with him today, there was always next week.

Halfway between the admin building and the dorms he had to pass the protestors. They were well dressed, wearing ceremonial robes usually saved for graduation. Each of them held signs made of wood with vellum stretched between a wooden frame at the top. Many of the signs said, ‘FE,AR’ though some had more elaborate messages written on them. The more text however, the smaller it needed to be, and so even passing close enough to touch a bright-eyed and fair skinned girl who was shaking her sign fervently, Demetrius could not read what was written on it. It seemed to be a paragraph.

Surrounding the group were the campus security. Their office functioned directly under the Licensing and Regulations, whose very office was being picketed. They were mostly newly graduated students. Demetrius had overheard many students talking about the security, saying that they were too incompetent to pursue any other career field. They looked rather bored, large men and women in the black robes of their office, each of them with a strange looking rod at their side. They stood in a loose semi circle, not between the office, rather between the protesters and those passing.

At the forefront of the group, stood professor Veles, Demetrius recognized him immediately. Everything about him seemed greasy. He had his black hair slicked back on his head giving him an almost reptilian look. Tall and muscular, with tan skin, Demetrius had heard many students comment on how handsome the junior professor was. To Demetrius, he looked skeevy, like some of the street urchins he used to run from. He was standing on a wooden box that Demetrius recognized as one of those that the school used to ship out the soap manufactured by the first and second year alchemists. He was chanting with the rest of the group, but as Demetrius got closer to him, he raised his hands and those assembled around him silenced. He began to pontificate, gesturing wildly with his hands to punctuate his words.

“Gathered comrades, feast your eyes upon the oppressors, siccing their jack boot thugs on we, the peacefully assembled!” Demetrius looked again at the bored looking security agents, he didn’t see any boots. One of the younger looking men who couldn’t have been much older than Demetrius was wearing soft looking slippers.

“This military oppression of our right to free speech, and Free Energy,” he paused here, raising his hands high above his head, and the gathered protestors all chorused him, shouting ‘free energy!’ Satisfied, with the echo of his words, he carried his speech on, “This oppression, is just the beginning! We labor under a false pretense! Do we study so that we can be slaves?” And again he waited for the response, his followers shouted ‘no!’ in unison, and Demetrius considered leaving the scene.

Other students started approaching now, cautiously like scavengers sniffing at carrion that may still be alive. Demetrius looked around, and found that it was quickly becoming a crowd he was standing in. There was ill murmuring. Veles did not seem concerned, if anything the negative audience seemed to spur him on to even greater heights of grandeur.

“You who stand before us, shielding yourselves in petty ignorance, in the belief that what you were taught is the only thing that can be true, how will you account for yourselves when you find you are on the wrong side of history?”

An angry woman’s voice that was somewhere in the mob Demetrius now found himself trapped in called back, “You are standing on the side with the Towers!”

Veles smiled as a wave of agreement rippled through the crown, and even some of those who were standing just below his perch looked shamefaced, searching for anything to see besides eyes that might hold judgement. Veles had to start with a shout to bring attention back on himself, “Are you so weak! You, the best and brightest! The shining stars of noble blood and education! You stand here before me, and tell me that the only thing keeping you from ascending to the deadly precipice of a Tower is your lack of a permit? You’d have me believe that we need beg permission to cast the simplest cantrip, or invoke the most elementary enchantment?

“I would!” It was director Lane’s booming voice that answered. The man cut a path through the crowd of students, who parted like blades of grass before a bull.

“Director Lane! I was wondering when you would arrive.” Professor Veles’ words dripped with venomous courtesy.

“Veles, once the fifth bell rings, you need to disperse. Your permit expires.” Kimble Lane stood in an island of solitude in the sea of onlookers. In his right hand he was holding a long scroll with the text facing out towards Veles, and his left hand rested on the hilt of his naked sword.

Veles spoke again loud enough for everyone to hear, “Do you hear this! It is not enough that we march under the oppression, now they dare to put on a time limit on our expression!”

Kimble looked around, and the mood seemed to be against him. Even those who were not in the protest group looked at the authority he represented with distrustful eyes. He straightened his shoulders and commanded, “When the fifth bell rings, disperse! You applied for, and receive a permit to assemble here for the span of the afternoon, but the permit is going to expire, it doesn’t matter if you don’t feel like you got your point across.”

There was a murmur spreading through the crowd that fell away to silence as the sound of the school’s bell could be heard chiming five times. Director Lane had put away the scroll and his right hand now rested on the hilt of his sword. His left was raised the way Demetrius had seen early, as though he was preparing a spell. “Veles, that’s time. You and your lackeys can apply for another permit, but you need to disperse now.”

“And if we refuse?” Velese sneered.

“Try me.” Kimble’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. Demetrius felt the tension like a physical force, suddenly he wanted to leave badly. He turned and started to push his way through the crowd, shouldering past people and apologizing. No one seemed to notice him, their eyes were darting between the junior professor on his improvised stage and the director.

Cyndy had been forgotten in the tension, but she spoke now and startled Demetrius, “Where are you going? You have to see this!”

Demetrius turned around to the sound of her voice, and as he did he saw past her tiny form to Veles. His hands were raised up in a gesture of supplication as if warding of Kimble Lane’s words. “Director Lane, please, you misunderstand me.”

“Oh I understand plenty! I know your type, now get down off that fucking box,” and he turned and looked at the group roaring, “And all of you need to leave, now! The show is over!”

Demetrius watched as Veles surreptitiously lowered one of his hands into the pocket of his robe. The moment it entered his pocket, a great white orb crashed into Veles’ chest and knocked him off of the box into the students behind him. Signs were jarred from their hands. People tumbled backward, and then swelled like the tide back towards the now prone form of Professor Veles on the paving stones.

Kimble tried to push his way through the crowd of students, “Let me through, let me through! He may be injured!”

“Haven’t you done enough?” It was a woman’s voice, choking back sobs as she spoke, “He was peacefully demonstrating, and you attacked him!”