by Frank Tuttle
Tervis fumbled with the latches. “Here,” he said. “What happened? Did you find something?”
“I did,” said Meralda. She fumbled in the bag’s recesses for a pair of heavy copper-lined gloves, blinking furiously while she decided which was left and which was right. “Someone cast a spell here, recently,” she said. “A very strange spell.”
The captain frowned. “Can you tell what it did?”
Meralda shook her head. “Someone didn’t want me to know,” she said. “They even left a surprise for anyone who looked.” She held up her right hand, anticipating the captain’s next words. “No, the caster is not still here. No, I can’t tell you if it was a Hang spell. Yes, it might have been a charm of concealment. And no, I’m not hurt.”
The dancing blobs of light were fading. She could see clearly enough now. The Bellringers stood close by, watching her intently, concern mirrored on their faces. The captain, too, watched Meralda as if expecting her to fall into a swoon at any moment.
Meralda pulled on the gloves and snatched up her staff. It still trailed steam, and its shaft was rimed with a thin layer of dull ice.
“Come, gentlemen,” she said. “It’s a big palace.”
Chapter Five
Meralda sat heavily at her kitchen table, a steaming mug of fresh coffee in her hand. Cool air breezed past, drawn in at the open kitchen window and leaving through the sitting room. A clock ticked softly in Meralda’s bedroom, and in the distance traffic hooted and clattered, but for midday in Tirlin, Fairlane Street was quiet. “It’s good to be home,” said Meralda.
From his perch in the kitchen windowsill, Mug spread his fronds to the sun. “Indeed, it is,” he said, his words slow and hushed. Ten of Mug’s eyes, the smaller brown ones, studied the thaumaturge intently from behind a screen of leaves.
Mug decided the thaumaturge looked tired, but not particularly angry. Her long red hair stuff was windblown, but not tangled into what Meralda called a fright, and the skin on her forehead wasn’t shiny with sweat. Her eyes were clear and bright, lacking the dark bands beneath them that so often appeared after a day at court.
The dandyleaf plant relaxed, his upmost leaves drooping in relief. At least that blockheaded king hasn’t insulted her today.
“Now that you’ve done your shopping and made yourself comfortable,” said Mug, “you can tell your poor neglected familiar what you’ve been up to, and why I see so many soldiers in the streets.”
Meralda relayed her day at the palace to Mug, who gradually turned all of his eyes upon the thaumaturge. “You found how many hidden spells?” said Mug.
“Eight,” said Meralda. “One in the Gold Room, two in the west wing, three in the fourth floor guest hall, one in the High Garden, and one just outside the Old Stair fifth floor landing.” Meralda swirled her coffee and watched the steam rise up. “Eight recently unlatched spellworks,” she said. “All of them set to discharge if discovered, all remnants of extremely powerful spells.” She took another sip of coffee. “All laid within the last two weeks.”
Mug bunched his eyes together in a frown. “Two weeks?” he said. “But the Hang only just arrived.”
Meralda shrugged. “Nevertheless, the traces were fresh, but not new. Also, each spell was laid days apart. Even if you laid one every other day, that’s two weeks.”
All of Mug’s green eyes looked into all of his brown ones. “The spells,” he said. “What were they? What did they do?”
Meralda sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I simply couldn’t tell.” She put down her cup and ran her fingers through her hair. “They may have been unlatched, but still awaiting a trigger,” she said. “Or they may have already fulfilled their purpose, and were merely debris. I can’t be sure.”
“Debris? And it froze your staff solid?” Mug’s fronds tossed as if in a wind. “Mistress, if that’s debris, I’m an oak. Someone meant to hurt you.”
Meralda recalled the blinding flash of the first spell. She’d blocked it, the next seven times. But had her focus been closer in the Gold Room, she might have been blinded, first sight and second.
“What I don’t understand,” said Meralda, “is how anyone managed to unlatch such potent spells in the palace at all. You couldn’t hand cast them, and you certainly couldn’t just latch such spells to a wand, or anything small enough to get past the guards. There isn’t enough latching mass.”
Mug snorted. “Well, it follows that an invisible wizard would have an invisible staff, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Meralda. “Even a staff wouldn’t latch any one of the spells I found. You’d need two staves and an oil-insulated Cooping Tall holdstone, at least.” Meralda frowned. “And please, no comments suggesting the presence of invisible pack-mules.”
“Mules,” said Mug. “Ridiculous. A mule wouldn’t do at all. Invisible wizards prefer mad-eyed stallions, which make for more dramatic exits.”
Meralda sighed.
“And what did the king say when you told him his palace was littered with dire Hang sorceries?” said Mug.
“I never said they were Hang,” said Meralda. Then she frowned. “He asked me if they had been dispelled, and I said they had. Then he asked me to set wards at the gates to detect latched spellworks,” she said. “I got the impression that he was neither surprised nor terribly worried.”
“Not worried?” said Mug. “We have a lone Hang, a full day ahead of his fleet. A fleet that is, I assume, under the careful scrutiny of the army, which has agents behind every outhouse and tangle-weed along the Lamp River. Our lone Hang leaves his fleet, strolls unseen cross-country and into the palace, has a brief conversation with the king, and then vanishes like a stage puppet from our midst.” The dandyleaf plant rolled a leaf into a tube, and waved it at Meralda. “Then, the clever Tirlish thaumaturge, hot on the trail of the elusive Hang visitor, discovers eight powerful, mysterious spells cast at various points in the palace.” Mug rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Not worried?” he asked. “Why, toss in a Vonat spy or two and we’ll have the makings of those penny-novel dreadfuls you pretend you never read.”
Meralda stared down into her coffee cup. “Leave the Vonats out of this,” she said. “They arrive soon, and I’ll have to greet their mage.”
Mug snorted. “Who is the Vonat mage, nowadays?” he asked. “Let me guess. He’ll have a name like Dreadvault of the Black Hand or Wrackruin of Doom, and he’ll be tall, lean, and possessed of a piercing, malignant gaze.”
Meralda laughed. “I hear his name is Nam,” she said.
Mug frowned. “Isn’t Nam the Vonat word for lifetaker?”
Meralda rolled her eyes. “I never taught you Vonat,” she said.
“I know lots of things you never taught me,” said Mug, airily.
“That, I do not doubt,” said Meralda. She looked down at her cup and sighed.
“Oh, finish your coffee,” said Mug. “And talk. I’m lonely, you know. Some of us don’t get to dash about all day having adventures with soldiers and kings.”
Meralda walked to stand before the sink, put her cup down, and stroked Mug’s top leaves. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you understand I have work to do. And you know how you hate the laboratory.”
“No windows,” said Mug. “No sun, no air.” The dandyleaf plant shivered. “Forgive me, mistress. I know it’s quite cozy by human standards, but it’s just a mushroom cave to me.”
A thin vine-like frond wound loosely about Meralda’s wrist. “Oh, go on,” said Mug. “But before you go, tell me one odd feature all your mystery spells share.”
Meralda smiled. “Aside from the first one,” she said, “all of them were laid in places the king was never likely to go.”
Mug nodded with a bobbing of eyes. “Exactly,” he said. “West wing hallways, fifth-floor stair landings, eighth-floor wash rooms. Yvin’s never seen those places. Probably never will.” Mug gave Meralda’s hand a squeeze and unreeled his tendril. “It might mean nothing, mistress, but keep i
t in mind.”
A knock sounded at the door. Meralda emptied her cup into the sink, rinsed the cup out with a spray of hot water, and placed it in the drying rack with a dozen of its brothers.
“Pardon, ma’am,” said Tervis, from the hall. “Letter for you. From the palace.”
“Of course it is,” said Meralda. “He said letter, but what he meant was urgent summons.”
Mug sighed. “Seventeen more days, mistress,” he said. “Seventeen more days, and you can skip court sessions for weeks at a time and ignore Yvin’s summons and surround yourself with spark coils and magelamps from sunrise to sunset.”
Meralda took a deep breath and marched toward her front door.
“There you are, lass,” said Shingvere, who leaned against the wall by the Royal Laboratory doors.
Meralda halted at the top of the west stair. The Bellringers, behind her, halted as well. Meralda noted with mild amusement that Tervis remained facing the top of the stair, while Kervis turned and faced the foot.
Shingvere saw, and chuckled. “I’ve been waiting for you, Thaumaturge,” he said, capping a small silver flask and slipping it into a pocket within his overlarge Eryan robe. He looked toward the Bellringers and waved. “Hello, lads.”
Tervis nodded to the Eryan. “Sir,” he said.
Shingvere chuckled and winked at Meralda. “Got manners, anyway,” he said. “Ought to have been born Phendelits.”
Meralda left the stair. “Mage,” she said, smiling. “Have you been waiting long? I’ve been with the king.”
“Aye, I know all about that,” said Shingvere. “His Majesty made a big show out of your shadow moving project with Ambassador Elkins and my queen after you left this morning. ‘Moving out of the shadow of the past,’ he called it. I haven’t heard such drivel since I retired.”
Meralda winced. Yvin had used the same words with her, when she arrived back at court. “Tell me what you need, Thaumaturge,” he’d said. “I want you to make moving the Tower’s shadow a priority. Whatever you need, you shall have.”
Time, Meralda had wanted to shout. Time is what I need. But with his next breath Yvin had casually swatted away a handful of days by reminding Meralda that as Thaumaturge she would need to officially greet and tour the visiting mages. And then the audience had been over. Meralda remembered walking dumbfounded through the Gallery, nearly in tears. Not since Last Readings at college had she felt so stretched, so overwhelmed. And at that moment she’d looked up to see a thousand painted kings staring down upon her, and she’d nearly fled the gallery at a run.
Shingvere levered himself away from the wall and moved to stand beside Meralda. “Might I step inside for a wee bit?” he asked, gesturing with a nod at the laboratory doors. “We’ve got things to discuss, and it wouldn’t do for any invisible wizards who might be passing by to hear.”
“You’re as bad as Mug,” muttered Meralda, as she found her key and walked to the doors.
Shingvere followed. “How is the animated salad, these days?” he asked.
“Fine,” said Meralda, turning the lock. “He’ll want to see you, when you can.”
The doors opened, and while the Bellringers took up their stations Meralda calmed the wards with a word. Shingvere peeped inside, casting his gaze about appreciatively. “You’ve done a bit of tidying up, you have,” he said, as the wards collapsed with rustlings and a high-pitched whine.
Meralda stepped inside. “Lights,” she said.
Her glass lamps flared to life. Shingvere whistled and followed her inside. “Amazing,” he said. “Bloody amazing.” He moved to stand beneath the nearest ring of fat glass and bent his head back, squinting. “And you say those aren’t magelamps?”
Meralda found a smile. “Merely hollow tubes, filled with a peculiar gas,” she said. She pointed to a spark coil, humming in the corner. “The coils excite the gasses, even at a distance. That’s what creates the light. There isn’t a spell involved, except within the spark coils.”
Shingvere smiled. “Lass, you’re smarter than Fromarch and I put together, and that’s not Eryan flattery.”
Meralda flushed. The big old scrying mirror flashed red behind its blanket. Shingvere ambled toward it, gazing about and touching things as he went. “Go on about your business, lass.” said Shingvere, over his shoulder. “I’ll talk. You can listen.”
“I always do,” said Meralda. She walked past Phillitrep’s Engine, patted its brass gear case, and straightened the drawings on her desk before pulling out her chair and sitting.
The Eryan’s voice rose up from behind the ranks of glittering mageworks. “I’ve met the other mages,” he said. “You’ve got Red Mawb, Mage of the Isles, and Dorn Mukirk, Mage of Clan Mukirk coming to see you today. Mawb hates Clan Mukirk in general and Dorn Mukirk specifically and Mukirk feels much the same about his counterpart from the Isles. Both claim the other is an upstart conjurer with no right to take the title Mage to Alonya, and that’s about the nicest thing they’ve said so far.” Something flashed and popped, and the Eryan yelped, but before Meralda could rise he was speaking again.
“The Phendelits are sending—oh, what is his name?”
“Erdrath Yonk,” said Meralda. “I met him at college.” She put down her pencil and smiled. “He turned his hair green in First Year, and it was nearly Third before he turned it back again,” she said.
Shingvere snorted. “Aye, he’s Mage to Phendeli now.” Another flash cast brief shadows against the walls, and Shingvere made a pair of sprinting steps before speaking again.
“’Tis the Vonat I want to speak to you about, Thaumaturge,” said Shingvere. “Humindorus Nam.”
Meralda frowned. “I’ve heard the stories,” she said. “They’re the same tired old tales told about every Vonat mage, and we both know they can’t all be true.”
“You’re right,” said Shingvere. “Most of what you’ve heard about the other Vonat mages wasn’t true. But everything you’ve heard about this one is.” Shingvere paused. “And believe me, Thaumaturge, you haven’t heard the worst.”
Meralda looked up from her page of Tower calculations and sought out Shingvere.
“You’ll be wanting to be careful around him, Thaumaturge,” said Shingvere, from well behind the silvery ball of ice-cold water that hung suspended above Allabat’s Flying Plates. “Especially when he’s smiling. Aye. Especially then.”
The water blurred, and Shingvere’s form appeared within it. Small and upside down at first, but growing quickly larger until his distorted face filled the barrel-sized sphere. “Boo,” he said, with a grin.
Meralda shook her head. “Shingvere,” she began.
The Eryan raised a hand and darted from behind the Flying Plates. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve wasted quite enough of your time, lass. Just wanted to pass on a bit of friendly advice, and poke about the old place a bit before court.” He ambled back to Meralda’s desk, hands in his pockets.
“I’ll be careful,” said Meralda, when Shingvere was near. “I know enough about this Nam to leave him be,” she said. “Not that I can’t knock him flat, if the need arises.”
Shingvere nodded gravely, and laid his hand lightly on Meralda’s shoulder. “Oh, it will,” he said, no hint of humor in his tone. “And when the time comes, Meralda, my dear, remember this. Right after you knock Nam flat you’ll need to kill him. Quickly.”
Meralda blinked. “Shingvere?”
“You heard me, lass. It’s a hard thing to say, and a hard thing to hear, but hear it you must, and heed it you must. Kill him. Mercy would be wasted. Hesitation will be fatal. Kill him quick. You won’t get two chances.” And then the fat Eryan turned and was through the doors and gone. Meralda barely had time to utter the word of leaving, and then the doors were shut.
Meralda stared after him, and it was a long time before she was able to pick up her pencil and resume work on her shadow moving spell.
Shingvere sauntered past the Bellringers with a quick word and the offer of a
penny-stick to each. Both declined, and both kept their eyes alert and on the Hall, which meant neither saw the bulge under the front of the Eryan wizard’s robe or noticed the odd gait he took down the stairs.
At the foot of the west stair, Shingvere stopped, looked furtively about, and hitched at his robes when the Red Guards at the Burnt Door looked away. “That’s better,” he muttered. Then he found a grin and managed to walk without hopping all the way through the west wing, out the west doors, and half a block down Palace Way to Fromarch’s plain black carriage.
The curbside carriage door opened, and Shingvere darted inside.
Fromarch scowled at him through a thick fog of purple pipe smoke. “Well,” he said, knocking twice on the carriage with his knuckles. “Did you get it?”
Shingvere grinned. “You know I did,” he said, unfastening the front of his robe and reaching inside. “Walked right up to it and stuck it in my britches. Walked right out, too. No wonder you Tirls have got Hang in your palace. You wouldn’t amble out so easily at Cloudcrown.”
Fromarch grunted. The carriage wheeled into the street just as Shingvere pulled a solid brass cylinder out of his robe and held it up with a flourish.
“Mage Prolep’s Infinite Latch,” he said. Then he lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
Fromarch spoke a word. The cylinder, which was nearly long enough to stretch from fingertip to elbow and about as thick as a big man’s wrist, made three sharp clicking noises
On the third click it doubled its length. Shingvere yelped, but kept his grip.
“That’s it, all right,” said Fromarch. He whispered another word, and the cylinder noiselessly and instantly resumed its original size. Fromarch nodded approvingly. “That’s old, dark Tirlish magic,” he said, wistfully. “Mage Ovis has no use for it. But perhaps you and I do.”
Shingvere shut his mouth. “This Prolep,” he said. “Knew his business, did he?”
Fromarch shrugged. “He knew latches,” he said. “Otherwise, he was quite mad.” Fromarch tapped the latch with the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a bit unpredictable, but we can latch spells to it all day and never run out of latching mass.” The lean mage laughed without smiling. “Certain ugly Vonats might find this surprising in a brief, unpleasant way.”