In honour of the many people whose skills aid us in our daily lives.

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The Tailor

I come into the sewing circle with a light-hearted step, and lay out my finest
reams of cloth. I cannot help but smile as I do so, for I work today on an
errand of joy. My niece's wedding draws near, and who better to make sure that
she is at her loveliest? It is true that she seldom pays attention to what she
wears - goodness knows I fuss over our attire enough for both of us! - but a
wedding is special, and all must be perfect.

I remember the lessons I learned from my own mother of sewing, years ago when I
was only a clumsy little girl, afraid to go out and play with the other
children. I learned then that the selection of materials and the cut of the
design were at least as important as the workmanship itself. That lesson has
served me well through the years, and my clients are usually well-pleased with
the patterns I select.

What colour would suit the bride? Gold for her hair or blue for her eyes, or
rose for the faint flush of her cheeks? My fingers dance lightly over the bolts
of Dairuchi silk stashed in the corner, feeling their cool smoothness under my
fingers, and I select a heavy, draping silk of midnight blue. I sit before my
table and set to work with scissors and thread, and soon enough a robe grows
beneath my fingers.

I stand back to admire my handiwork, and a smile creeps onto my face. Truly
they say that labours of love are different, for I see already that the garment
will be beautiful when it is done. With a jolt, I realise that what I now make
is no pattern I have ever seen before, but something born of my own
imagination. I stop and marvel at this creation that I once thought beyond my
skill, and laugh with sudden joy.

Humming a little woodland ditty, I settle myself into my chair and begin to
embellish the robe, stitching tiny diamonds upon the fabric for the effect of
constellations, for the bride who would outshine the stars.

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The Jeweler

To tell the truth, I'm irritated these days. Gold prices are ridiculous, and
you can't get silver for love or money at all, unless you can find someone
willing to pop into Angkrag. It's dangerous these days, though, being as it
belongs to the other forest. I guess it just means I'll have to ask a city
person to get it for me, more's the bother. I had some stashed in a chest in
the back, but I lost the key, and the chest belonged to the jeweler before me,
so Naggle stubbornly refuses to make me another key.

Just as I'm grumbling about metals to myself, the chimes on the door ring out,
and I glance up to see who's come into my shop. It's a couple, looking slightly
furtive. "What do you need?" I ask briskly, and the young man glances quickly
around my shop before telling me that he needs a pair of wedding rings.

Now, I love making jewellery. Crowns, earrings, necklaces, you name it. Wedding
rings are special, though. I can't quite put my finger on what makes them so
different, but making something that I know will be kept and treasured for
generations awes me. I'm a simple craftsman, and maybe this is the only legacy
I'll ever leave. So I agree with enthusiasm, and lead them into my back room.

I let them pick their materials among gold, platinum, and the pitiful amount of
silver I still have left. The young lady quietly asks me about commodity prices,
and winces at what I tell her. "I want it to be made of wood," she says, and
smiles dryly at my startled look. I nod and promise them that I'll get it done
and send it to them.

When they're gone, I sit down at my workbench and begin my work. Wood is easy
to get, and easy to carve, and soon I have two plain wooden bands made to fit
their fingers. I weigh my work in my hands, and shake my head - too plain, too
rough for what should be one of the grandest occasions in a lifetime. With only
a moment's hesitation, I rummage through my chest of commodities and find the
last of the silver I bought two years ago. I fashion two pairs of interlocking
hearts of silver, and inset them into the wood.

Perfect. A surprise for them. I beam broadly at the twin rings, and place them
into a tiny box. Whistling, I stroll to the aviary next door, and a soaring owl
bears my work to the loving couple-to-be.

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The Enchantress

Some days I regret choosing my trade. Though enchantment always sells well, and
is perhaps one of the more glamourous of the trades, it makes me slightly
uneasy. I am not naive - I know what my work will be used for. For one who
loves peace as much as I do, I cannot be easy with knowing that my enchantments
will be used for violence. I can only console myself that it may be used to
defend my beloved Celest, but it is not enough, and today was particularly
hectic. After five hours of enchanting curse scrolls, I came to a decision.

Footsteps ring out in the bookstore outside. I raise my head and scowl at
whoever it is entering - perhaps a citizen wanting to renew an enchantment -
but it is not one of my fellow citizens who enters, but rather a forest woman,
looking rather out of place in her simple garb.

"I'm quitting my trade," I tell her shortly, before she opens her mouth. "Don't
ask me for enchantments."

She stammers and blushes. "My kinswoman is having a wedding," she says at last.
"I want a robe for her, enchanted to ward off harm. Could you not do this before
you forsake your trade?"

I hesitate, for I like to enchant items of warding - the defensive magicks come
so much easier to me. And, after all, it is for a special occasion. I unwrap the
package and cannot help but gasp, for the robe is beautiful: blue as sapphire,
soft as a spiderweb, strewn with diamonds that shimmer like the holy stars. I
had not thought the forest rustics capable of such work. I lay it reverentially
out on the floor, and raise my hand over it, chanting rhythmically and evoking
the images of protection in my mind.

I call upon water to dull steel, imagining rivers flowing to the Inner Sea,
wearing even the hardest of stones smooth with time. I call on air to cushion
the body, evoking the high winds of the Razines that are so strong they seem
like walls of glass, and on fire to consume all dangers. I do not call on the
tainted Earth, but even with one element missing, the garment begins to glow
with a shining light, and I feel my magic suffuse it.

I withdraw my hand, glad with my work in a way that I usually am not. I can see
the subtle threads of power running through the robe now, bearing enchantments
for protection and well-being, born of my will and concentration. It will serve
its owner well. With a smile, I hand it to the woman, and thank her for her
custom, then sit down in my chair, feeling drained but oddly peaceful.

Perhaps enchanting is not a bad thing after all.

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The Artisan

My protege enters the room with a gleeful bound, and I look up, raising my
eyebrows at her. "Careful!" I warn, as she narrowly misses crashing into my
latest creation - a lyre, newly finished and covered with a white cloth, which
rests on a small stand in the middle of the room.

"Oops!" she says, ducking her head to hide a grin. I shake my head at her
clumsiness - so unbefitting of a bard! - and ask her how she fares these few
days.

"Great," she tells me happily. "I just passed my testing. You should've been
there!"

"I should have," I agree. Truly, my old bones are letting me down. It's the
main reason why I sit in my shop carving and whittling all day instead of
performing and doing dizzying maneuvers on stage. I remember the days when I
was the finest acrobat in the forest. All past now, alas. I can still teach,
but that is cold comfort compared to the thrill of being on the stage in
person.

"And I got my first request," she says. "I'm to play at a wedding!" She laughs,
and I frown thoughtfully - I have been absent from my post as guild teacher of
late due to a bout of illness, and I have no idea whether or not she is good
enough to play at such an occasion.

"Look at this," I say suddenly, beckoning her over to the stand where the lyre
I am making stands. I yank the cloth off from the lyre, and smile as she gasps
in wonder.

"It's beautiful," she says, and so it is, fashioned of pale wood and set with
inlays of moonstone, with strings of silver. She looks at me, seeking
permission, and I nod. She takes it from its stand, and plucks at the strings,
and it is my turn to gasp. The notes are like crystal, and the flowing melody
she calls forth is clear and lovely as a mountain stream - not perfect, by any
means, but heartbreakingly beautiful in its own way.

"Where did you learn that?" I ask her, and she frowns, setting the lyre back on
its stand.

"I don't know," she says. "I just thought it sounded like the waterfall in the
forest."

I stare at her, and that is when I know that she has talent. That much I can
hear, and one day she will be good. Among the best, perhaps. How absorbed was I
in my own work, that I did not see earlier? Impulsively, I pick up the lyre and
place it in her hands. Her eyes widen, and she looks at me uncertainly.

"It is yours," I tell her. "From an old man whose only claim to music now is
through the hands of others."

She shakes her head at that. "Music belongs to us," she says, "no matter how
old either of us may grow." She smiles at me, and I believe her.

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The Cook

You can laugh at me all you like, but there's nothing I love better than giving
a feast, for all the work it takes me. Especially a wedding feast, even though
nobody pays attention to the cook then. Still, it beats listing a menu of all
your finest dishes to someone who doesn't appreciate it and says, "Just get me
somethin' to fill me up, I don't care what". What a waste of a dish!

Anyhow, I like preparing wedding feasts, though as feasts go this one was
rather simple. There weren't many people there, but I know some of them. The
bride's aunt is the local tailor, and the bride has bought things from me
before. Some of the others I've seen but can't put names to, such as the young
minstrel playing on a white lyre.

The ceremony's nice, as most weddings are. The presiding priest gives a perhaps
too-long sermon about the elements and seasons, but the couple speaks the ritual
words with heartfelt meaning, smiling at each other as if there's nobody else in
the world. It's so sweet of them that I wonder briefly what it would be, to be
young again and in love. Maybe I missed my chance.

The priest proclaims them man and wife, and the couple kisses, alight with joy.
I almost forget what I'm supposed to be doing, but then I remember, and scurry
into my kitchen to fetch the cake and the wine and several other dishes I made
for the occasion. The bride smiles as I come back with the food. "Thank you for
the trouble you took, madam," she says to me, and I nod, feeling secretly
pleased.

Soon enough the food is gone, and the more raucous guests have gone to an
aethermanse to get themselves even more drunk. The bride and groom too prepare
to leave, accompanied by a crowd of well-wishers and relatives, and when they
are gone my dining hall is quieter than ever, scattered with the remains of the
meal and some shards of glass from a dropped bottle.

I sigh and start to clean up, feeling strangely empty after the festivity and
the happiness that wasn't mine. Maybe it's time I gave up the business of
cooking, settled down, got a family, baked some cookies for my nephews and
nieces instead of running around making food for other people. Time to retire
and leave the kitchen to the apprentices?

Maybe.

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The Bookbinder

I seldom get any custom. It's a common fault of bookbinders to complain about
illiteracy. Not illiteracy in that people around us can't read - simply that
they don't buy books. As a result, bookbinders are few and far between. I'm one
of the few who haven't switched to other trades, clinging stubbornly to
bookbinding like a snail to a wall.

At least it's quiet in the Lunarlit Bindery. The Library itself is pretty
neglected most times, except for when bands of scholars arrive to study there,
and even fewer people come to the attached bindery, so I can borrow any books I
like and read in peace. It comes as a surprise, therefore, when footsteps ring
out on the stone floor and a woman enters. I stare, for she wears a bridal veil
over her blue robe - a bride fresh from a wedding? What could she have to do in
a dusty old bindery, seeking a dusty old man?

"Is there anything you need?" I ask her.

"A simple diary if you please, sir," she replies, and smiles radiantly. "Today
was a day I should remember all my life, and I would record it for my
children."

I smile, for I can guess what occasion she means, and gather my materials. The
finest leather from Shanthmark, scoured with sand and stretched to be cured and
dried into creamy parchment, inks and tints in a number of hues, and a number of
fine gems from the dwarf villages to decorate the covers. I show her some
designs, and she selects a simple one of blue leather and moonstone.

I hum as I work, stretching thicker, sturdier leather over thin wooden boards
and sewing them with hemp thread to form the covers, insetting the gems as I
work. Then I take the parchment pages and bind them together seperately to form
a diary of twenty gloriously illuminated pages, before setting them into the
cover and stitching them to form a whole. It fits perfectly, of course - lack
of demand has not made my skills wane.

The sweet-spoken woman smiles as I hand her book to her, and quietly asks to
borrow a pen. I hand her a quill, and she sits down at my desks and writes
something on the first page. As she stands, I glimpse what it is she has
written:

The memoir of a perfect day, made possible by the skills of many.