by Frank Tuttle
“I deny the Tower is haunted,” snapped Meralda. “The lights could be anything. Except ghosts.” Out in the dark the crowd began to move. And were those horsemen, bobbing above the shoulders of the rest?
Hooves clopped on stone, and in the darkening distance Meralda saw riders drawing nearer. “They’re here,” said Kervis. “You’ll be leaving now,” he added, to the penswift.
“Thank you for your time, Thaumaturge,” he said, closing his pad before Meralda could get a look at his notes or her sketch.
“You’re welcome,” said Meralda gruffly.
The crowd withdrew, and a half-dozen mounted City Guards trotted up to the base of the stand.
“Let’s go home,” said Meralda, stepping onto the dew damp grass.
“Mind the wobbling,” said Mug.
Meralda hefted Mug’s cage and hurried for Angis’ cab, and home.
Chapter Eight
Meralda slept, and dreamed.
She saw Hang ships sail into Tirlin. Their masts rose up taller than the Tower, so tall the crow’s nests trailed shreds of clouds and shoved the sun aside. Meralda watched the streets fill with terrified crowds, and heard the Big Bell peal out alarms, and smelled smoke from distant fires. Still the masts came nearer, riding over and grinding down the palace, sailing inexorably toward Meralda.
Thick black smoke rose and spread behind the ships, until it blotted out the sky. Unable to move away from her window, unable to close her eyes or look away or even scream, Meralda watched the smoke swirl and billow and swell until it became a monstrous, mad-eyed face, eyes full of glowing red sparks.
The mouth moved and grumbled thunder, and the eyes turned full upon Meralda, and with a wrench and a start she awoke.
The five-twenty trolley rattled past, and then Fairlane was silent. Meralda lay gasping beneath her tangled, sweat-streaked covers and waited for the pounding of her heart to slow.
“Mistress?” came Mug’s sleepy voice from the kitchen. “Are you dreaming?”
“It’s all right, Mug,” she replied. “Go back to sleep.”
“You cried out,” he said.
Meralda poked her head out of the covers and took a breath of cool air. “Nightmare,” she said. She remembered Hang masts in the clouds, threw back the bedclothes, and sat up wearily.
Might as well get an early start, she thought. I certainly won’t go back to sleep after that.
She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and arose. What was it Grandmother always said, when we children had nightmares?
“Hot baths banish boogeymen,” she muttered.
“Then take a long one,” chirped Mug. Meralda heard his leaves rustle as he stretched. “It’s still dark,” he announced. “Where’s that lazy sun?”
Meralda headed for her water closet, kicking slippers out of her way as she went. She passed her bedroom window. It was dark, and the curtains were drawn, and yet Meralda hurried past, a small part of her sure that a face in the sky was still trying to peer in at her, still trying to open its mouth and speak horrors to her in a voice as loud and harsh as thunder.
“Nonsense,” she said, and she reached her bathroom, called up a light, and shut the door behind her.
“We’re a sight,” said Meralda, smiling into a soft, chill breeze. “A mage and her bird cage, out for a lark.”
She stood alone on the sidewalk in front of her building, waiting for Angis and the Bellringers. Traffic on Fairlane hurried past, turning sleepy-eyed but questioning faces toward the thaumaturge and her drape-covered birdcage, from which a trio of blue eyes on vines protruded and looked about.
Mug chuckled. “You’re being recognized, mistress. Must be the papers.” he said. “Ah, fame. Better drag out the hats with the veils again.”
Meralda shrugged. The bright sun beamed down, its rays slanting out of a deep blue sky. The wind that sailed past was cold, but dry. Tirlin awoke, safe and secure, bustling about her as if the Hang and the Tower and the Vonats were all on the other side of the sea.
Mug spoke. “Here comes Angis,” he said, and Meralda followed the aim of his eyes up the street.
Fairlane was full. Carriages and lumber wagons and cabs and road barges thundered past, but Meralda saw no sign of Angis. “He’s coming, just around the corner,” said Mug. “Listen.”
Clop-clop, multiplied by a hundred sets of hooves, blurred by the rattles and roll of as many tires. Meralda lifted an eyebrow, marveling at Mug’s hearing as Angis wheeled around the corner at Kemp.
Before her, a black army troop cab braked with a screech, rolled to the curb, and disgorged the Bellringers.
“Good morning, Thaumaturge,” said Kervis, with a small bow. “You’re up early.”
Meralda smiled. The troop cab rattled away. “Up before the guardsmen. I hope you gentlemen have had breakfast.”
“Some of us have had it twice,” said Tervis, nudging his brother.
Angis brought his cab to a halt. “Well, well,” he said, to Meralda and her guards. “Good morning, Thaumaturge. Lads,” he added setting his brake and clambering down. “Good to see you all out and ready.”
Meralda spied a rolled-up newspaper peeking from beneath Angis’ vest.
“Oh, no,” groaned Meralda. “That’s for me, isn’t it?”
Angis withdrew the Post.
“Got a good likeness of you on page two,” said Angis, with no hint of a grin. “Kind of winsome-like. I think the lad was a bit sweet on you.”
Meralda took the Post, but didn’t unroll it. “Save me some time,” she said to Angis as Mug sent a half-dozen eyes weaving toward the paper. “Just the high points, please.”
Angis shrugged. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “The Hang are buying up bookstores. Not the bricks and the doors. Just the books. All of them. They pay in gold, and I gather more than one or two booksellers just got rich, because the Hang don’t haggle. They just pile up gold until someone says yes.”
“Tell her about the haint,” said Kervis.
Angis chuckled. “Right lot of hogwash, that,” he said. “A street minstrel claims something grabbed him in an alley off Newbrick,” he said. “Just after dark, last night. Claimed it took three of his fellows to beat it back. Street minstrels,” spat Angis. “They’d claim they climbed the Tower if there was a penny in the tale.”
Kervis chimed in. “We heard some of the boys in the barracks talking, ma’am,” he said. “The Watch called the guard out last night, after the attack.” Kervis glanced about. “A couple of them claim they saw a gaunt. Right here in Tirlin!”
Mug lifted a corner of his bed sheet. “Do you even know what a gaunt is, lad?” he asked.
“It’s somebody dead who died in a marsh, and comes back to get their vengeance,” said Tervis. “It’s just an old story from Phendeli. Isn’t that right, ma’am?”
Meralda nodded, stuffed the rolled-up paper under her arm, and lifted Mug’s cage. “That’s right, Guardsman Tervis,” she said. “It’s just an old story. In any case, the nearest marsh is a good four hundred miles from here.”
“Long walk for a dead man,” said Mug. “Unless, of course, our Phendelit friends packed him in their luggage.”
“Would you get my bag, Tervis?” asked Meralda.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tervis.
Angis held the door, and Meralda found her seat. Tervis clambered in behind her, smiling and smelling of a rather strong army soap.
“Why do you suppose the Hang would buy whole bookstores?” he asked, as the cab rolled into traffic.
Meralda shrugged. “I imagine they’ll take the books home to study,” she said.
“That’s what I decided,” said Tervis. “Going home, I mean. After all, if they were planning to stay, or invade, why would they bother to buy anything? They could just wait and take what they want after the war.”
Meralda tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t think they came to invade us,” she said. “Five ships is hardly an invasion fleet, even if they are Great Sea five-masters,” she added.
Mug whistled softly. The cab rolled into a pothole, and Meralda had to steady herself with the door latch.
“Are there?” asked Tervis. “Other ships, I mean. I know it’s a secret and all, but are there?”
“Guardsman,” said Meralda. “I have heard no news of any additional Hang ships, of any sort, anywhere. I say this as a member in full of the Court of Tirlin, and I spoke to the king just yesterday. Can the person who told you about this new Hang fleet say the same?”
Kervis let out his breath in a whoosh. “No, they can’t,” he said, with a relieved grin. “I’m pretty sure they spent yesterday cleaning latrines.”
“Ah,” said Mug. “That alone should tell you something about their sources,” he added.
Tervis’ grin vanished.
“Don’t worry, lad,” said Mug. “I rather like you, and your brother what’s-his-name. I won’t tell the captain you were discussing state secrets in a public cab.”
“That’s right,” said Meralda, nudging the cage with her boot toe. “He won’t.”
Tervis sat back in his seat. “I don’t mind telling you I was worried,” he said.
“I’ll bet most of the army is still worried,” said Mug, lifting a red eye up toward Meralda. “Wonder where such a tale came from?”
Yes, thought Meralda. I wonder. It was, after all, just a story.
Wasn’t it?
Meralda dismissed the thought with a shrug. “Well,” she said, unrolling the paper and rifling through it. “Let’s see what that miserable penswift did to my hair.”
Meralda stared in horror at her picture. “I don’t own a blouse with a neckline that low,” she fumed.
Mug sneaked an eye up and snickered at the drawing.
“He fancies you a cabaret dancer, seems like.”
Meralda quickly turned the page.
“More soldiers,” said Mug, sweeping the park with a dozen of his eyes. From his perch on the platform’s rail, he commanded a good view of the entire southern park. “And another dozen mounted guards. Something’s up, mistress,” he said.
Meralda nodded. In her hand she held a cold retaining wand. The holdstone it drew from was nearly depleted, and the first refractor was only half cast.
“Hold,” she spoke, biting back one of Angis’ words. Mug waved his eyes her way.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Blasted holdstone went warm,” she said. The half-cast refractor whirled and twisted in her second sight as she groped on the work bench for a fresh holdstone.
A trumpet blew, loud and close and shrill, and Meralda started and dropped the refractor.
The spell whipped away, tangling and coiling and writhing, grounding itself in the park halfway to the Tower amid a single brief dance of shadows.
Meralda leaned glaring over the rail. Down in the crowd at the base of the half-completed speaking platform, a child hooted in glee and raised his battered trumpet to his lips in preparation for another blast.
“Shall I have him shot?” asked Mug. “Kervis is dying to shoot someone.”
Meralda turned from the rail, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. Mug waited silently.
“It’s early, yet,” said Meralda at last. “I have plenty of time.”
“Of course you do,” said Mug. “Still, perhaps a minor wound?”
“Mug,” said Meralda.
“Silent meditation, I understand,” said Mug. His eyes resumed their sweep of the park. “Take a deep breath, won’t you?”
Meralda found a fresh holdstone and a new retaining wand. “Begin,” she said, and extended her second sight. “Refract.”
“The Hang,” said Mug. “Coming this way.” He paused, then brought more eyes to bear on the Wizard’s Walk. “Sorry, mistress,” he said. “Looks like we’ll be entertaining, this morning. Better conjure up a couch, and some drinks.”
“Finish,” spat Meralda. Her wand buzzed angrily, but soon fell quiet, and Meralda wrapped it in a cloth and put it down on her worktable. “I really should come early and set wards at all the bloody gates and leave them there until the Accords,” she said. “It’s the only way I’ll ever get any work done.”
She watched as a half-dozen Hang, led by six mounted palace guards and surrounded by several dozen of the Watch, ambled down the walk. Meralda recognized Que-long, his red-robed Chezin, and Loman, the elderly Hang wizard. Loman was being pushed down the walk in a plain infirmary-issue wheelchair, by a lad whose head barely peeped over the back. Fromarch and Shingvere flanked Loman’s wheelchair, and all three wizards seemed lost in hand waving and animated conversation.
As the party drew near, Meralda tried to make out the faces or the names of the other Hang, but the press of the crowd and the mounted guards prevented her from seeing them more clearly.
“Marvelous,” she muttered, under her breath.
Tervis came clambering up the stair, halting when his head was just above the floor. “The Hang are coming to see you, ma’am,” he said. “We just got word from a runner.”
“Thank you, Guardsman,” said Meralda. “Allow them up. And remind Kervis to keep that crossbow of his on the ground.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tervis turned and descended.
Meralda pushed back her hair. “What time is it, Mug?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Mug. He reached out with a long, thin tendril and patted Meralda’s shoulder. “They won’t stay long, mistress,” he said. “There’s nowhere to sit. They’ll make polite noises, and you’ll be polite back, and they’ll go away. Nothing to it.” Meralda watched Mug swing more eyes toward her. “Is something wrong, mistress?” he asked. “You seem a bit distracted, today.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“It was a very bad dream, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” said Meralda.
Voices rose up from the stair. “They’re here,” said Mug. “Smile a lot.”
Meralda turned to face the stair, clasped her hands before her waist, and found a smile just as Que-long’s red-clad Chezin came smoothly up the stair.
“The House of Chentze bids you good morning,” said Chezin. He did not smile, but his voice was level and, while lacking in warmth, his tone held no threat, either. “The House would impose but briefly on your hospitality, if you would grant us an audience.”
“Your house is welcome here,” said Meralda. “Please, join me.”
Chezin made a small, fast nod and took the last two steps onto the platform.
Meralda watched, marveling at the way he moved. Smooth, like a cat. No, like a tiger, she decided. His black eyes dart this way and that, never still, and if his ears could move they’d always be swiveling, listening for danger from every direction. Meralda had the uncomfortable impression that when Chezin looked at her he was deciding how best to strike her down.
Next up the stair came Que-long. Meralda made a small bow as his eyes met hers, and the old man halted and returned her bow before taking his last small steps.
He looks even older up close, thought Meralda, as Que-long stepped onto the platform. Old, but hardly frail.
Que-long was nearly bald. Only a fringe of short white hair remained, ringing his scalp just above his ears. He had narrow brown eyes, eyebrows so light and sparse they were barely visible at all, a small straight nose, and tiny ears set close to his head. When he smiled, his teeth were straight and whole and white.
He was attired as he had been at the breakfast two days ago. Loose white robe, black trousers woven of some sheer, shiny material, and soft, laceless black shoes.
He bowed again, still smiling.
Que-long spoke a soft, faint word, which Meralda didn’t understand. Chezin nodded, and spoke.
“The dragon apologizes for interrupting y
our work,” he said. “He hopes you will overlook an old man’s eagerness to see wondrous foreign magics wrought by the hand of a master.”
Mug emitted a barely audible snort of derision, and Meralda felt the blood drain from her face.
“The House of Chentze is an honored guest here,” she said, quickly. “I am delighted that Chentze finds my work interesting, but I fear that the task at hand is rather, um, mundane. Still, I shall—”
A new head popped up from the stair. “Terribly sorry,” he said, halting. “A thousand contrite apologies for my intolerably rude intrusion. May I approach?”
Meralda nodded, and swallowed. The newcomer was the Hang man who’d bidden her good morning at court two days ago. Meralda had never learned his name.
The man came swiftly up the last few steps, his soft shoes silent on the treads. He leaped past the last step and landed just beyond the stair, his hands suddenly clasped behind his back, his slight frame relaxed and still.
I’ve already been caught staring once, thought Meralda. Still, she allowed herself a good look before she looked away and made a small bow of her own.
In that brief moment, she saw he had grey eyes. Light, bright grey, the exact color of fresh-poured lead. Like all the Hang, his eyes were more almond-shaped than round, from a downturned fold of skin at the inner corners. His nose was small, his hair was straight and black, and his frame was angular and compact.
The newcomer wore a plain white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Meralda could see that his arms were smooth and hairless. She tried and failed to guess his age, deciding he might be twenty or twenty-five or neither.
Meralda bowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chezin grimace slightly, and she couldn’t tell if he was troubled by her response or the newcomer’s sudden easy smile.
“Hello,” said the man. “I’m Donchen.” He glanced about, crooked his finger at Meralda, and leaned slightly forward before speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I think that I might be a foreigner.”
Mug laughed out loud. Meralda blinked. Que-long stared in wonder at Mug, who shrugged and lifted more eyes toward Que-long.