by Frank Tuttle
“Sight,” she whispered.
Nothing. Nothing at all. No hint of magic, no trace of subtle spells.
I must See!
Sight rose up, just for an instant, and lit the safe room with lines of fire. Tiny glows and bursts of radiance sprang up along every edge, danced on the every plane, showered cold fire from the serrations set into the safe’s dial. Meralda shifted her gaze toward the shadowed rear of the empty safe, and her Sight went white, as though she had looked into the noonday sun. Then it was gone, leaving her blinking and half-blind and with no idea of what she had seen.
“Did you see anything?” asked the captain, from the door.
Meralda took in a breath, and wiped her eyes before turning.
“I assume this door will be locked, when we leave,” she said.
The copperheads, who both stood just outside the door, nodded.
“You will continue to guard it?” asked Meralda.
“Until ordered otherwise, aye,” said the rightmost. “Ordered by our queen,” added the other, with a glare.
Meralda lifted her staff, held it horizontally out before her, and silently mouthed a very rude Angis-word.
The glaring copperhead, she noted with satisfaction, drew away from the door in a quick backward shuffle. “I’m done here, Captain,” said Meralda. “Let’s go back to Tirlin, shall we?”
“Gladly,” said the captain, who turned on his heel. Meralda brushed past the copperheads, and the Bellringers fell in step behind her.
Meralda folded the king’s summons until it was too small to fold again, and dropped it in the trash bin by her desk.
Mug, who sat basking in the late afternoon sun streaming from Goboy’s scrying mirror, saw, and laughed.
“If Fromarch was here, he’d have a conniption fit,” he said.
Meralda shrugged. “I saw him do the same thing, more than once. I’m tired of being summoned, today. Enough.” She stretched and yawned. “All he’ll do is ask me if I’ve found the Tears yet. Does he really think I might say ‘Why yes, I found them hours ago, must have slipped my mind, isn’t it amazing how daft I can be’?”
Mug chuckled. “Our king thinks a wizard stole them, so naturally he also thinks said wizard may have mentioned his motive and methods to you in the course of idle conversation,” he said. “What about that, mistress? Do you think sorcery was involved?”
Meralda sighed. “It’s easy enough to look at the situation, see the Tears stolen from an impenetrable safe room, and say ‘Oh well, the thieves used magic’.” Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “Very well, then,” she said. “Tell me. What sort of magic? Used in what manner?”
Mug shrugged with a flurry of leaves. “The same kind of magic someone used to hide spells throughout the palace,” he said. “One is even led to speculate that an entirely new brand of thaumaturgy is at work here. Hmm.” Mug cast all his eyes toward the ceiling. “What recently arrived group of mysterious foreigners might we be led to consider?”
Meralda thought of Que-long’s open, easy smile, and she shook her head. “I can’t believe the Hang sent a fleet across the Great Sea just to pilfer the odd jewel box,” she said.
“Indeed,” replied Mug. “Why, pray tell, did they send their fleet at all? Have they offered any reason for their visit?”
“The captain tells me they have a reason, but they are waiting for the Accords to begin before announcing it,” said Meralda. She glared. “And that, Mugglewort Ovis, is a state secret. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Mug. “Still, though. You must admit suspicion of the Hang is a perfectly reasonable attitude.” Mug swung eyes toward Meralda. “You rather like the Hang, don’t you?”
I do, thought Meralda, surprised at the realization. All these years, thinking them faraway monsters. But they seem so genuinely nice.
“Consider,” said Mug. “Isn’t muddying your judgment with fondness just as dangerous as basing it on fear?” Mug paused. “The Hang are well-spoken and polite, I’ll grant. But that doesn’t mean they’re angels.”
“You sound like Shingvere.”
“That may well be because we’re both right,” said Mug. “Unless you know something I don’t. And, given the complete lack of attention certain thaumaturges, the guard, and the watch are giving the Hang, I suspect you do.”
Meralda shrugged. “It’s knowledge, I suppose, but only indirectly,” she said. “But according to the captain, Yvin has ordered all involved to treat any evidence that the Hang were party to the theft as evidence planted by the real thieves.”
Mug blinked, with all his eyes. “Yvin said that?”
“He did,” said Meralda. “He’s also ordered the court to deny any theft has occurred.”
“What about the Alons?” asked Mug. “Did he order them to smile and think happy thoughts, too?”
“Begged is a better term, I think,” said Meralda. “They’ll talk, of course, if the Tears aren’t returned. Soon.”
“Alons? Talk?” Mug made a snorting sound. “They’ll riot, is what they’ll do,” he added, “just before they pull out of the Accords.”
Meralda nodded. He’s right, she thought, imagining a thousand wild-eyed, bearded Alons raging down Fleethorse with a greater fury than they displayed at any football game. For some reason, she thought of the lone traffic master at Kemp trying to hold them back with his white glove and silver whistle. “We can’t let it come to that,” she said, rubbing her temples. “But how do we stop it?”
The scrying mirror flickered, losing its hold on the darkening, red-streaked sky. Meralda patted the mirror’s frame. The image steadied, and Meralda fought back a yawn and rose to her feet.
“Ah,” said Mug. “A bit of mage-like pacing.”
Meralda ignored him and began to pace, hands clasped behind her back, mouth set in a frown. She paced to Phillitrep’s Calculating Engine, turned, and returned to her desk before starting again.
“Let’s forget the how of the theft, for a moment,” she said. “Let’s talk about the why.”
“Why, what?”
“Why steal the Tears? Really. What do you do with them, after you magic them out of the safe room?”
“The Tears are worth a fortune, are they not?” asked Mug, with a rustling of fronds.
“As long as they are the crown jewels of Alonya, yes, they are,” said Meralda. “But steal them from the queen’s person, and what do you have?”
Mug pretended to whistle. “A hundred thousand furious Alons bearing down on you with swords,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Meralda. “You couldn’t sell the Tears to anyone who could afford them.”
“So remove the jewels, and melt down the settings,” replied Mug.
“And you have a few pennyweights of gold, a bit less silver, and a sack of gems known to every jeweler in the Realms,” said Meralda. “As a theft, stealing the Tears just doesn’t seem worth the trouble.”
“But as a political maneuver, it works beautifully,” said Mug. “Anger the Alons. Break up the Accords. Cast suspicion on the Hang. Sully the good name of Tirlin.” His eyes all converged on Meralda. “Forget the Hang,” said Mug. “Let’s start blaming the Vonats.”
“They aren’t even here,” said Meralda.
“They haven’t paraded through town, no,” said Mug. “But I’ll bet they’re here, all the same.”
Meralda halted, hands on the back of her chair.
“Well,” she said. “If I’m forbidden to consider the Hang, I suppose a Vonat will do,” she said. “Though, of course, the who and why is not nearly so important at the moment as the where.”
“Agreed,” said Mug. He tossed his leaves. “Let’s assume the guard and the Watch are pursuing every mundane means at the kingdom’s disposal,” he said. “What can we do that they can’t?”
Meralda frowned. “My Sight won’t be of any use for a day or two,” she said. “And what I saw in the safe room told me nothing.”
Mug considered this. “You saw no trace of rece
nt spellworks,” he said.
“I saw the coronal discharges from the metal of the safe,” she said. “And the room showed the usual arcane buildup any old structure displays.”
“Hmm.” Mug brought eyes to bear on Meralda. “Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd?” he asked. “After all, didn’t the Alon wizards lay some sort of wards on their own crown jewels?”
“I asked,” she said. “According to the captain, the Alons laid no wards. It’s all that clan feuding they’re so fond of. Red Mawb and Dorn Mukirk’s clans have been at it for fifty years, with neither side having the courtesy to surrender or die. Because of the feud, the Alon queen forbade them to enter the safe room, for fear they’d ensorcel the place to dust in a show of inept one-upmanship. Imbeciles.”
“I see.” Mug imitated the sound of fingers drumming on a tabletop. “And they have the smashed jewel box, arguably the best clue left at the scene. How convenient for the thieves.”
Meralda nodded and sighed. She recalled the picture of Tim the Horsehead that covered the safe, and wondered if the thief felt even a hint of fear as he swung back the portrait to reveal the locked safe.
Probably not, she decided. After all, Tim the Horsehead was long dead and long gone, and the current mage in Tirlin was Meralda Ovis. Daughter of a prominent family of swine herders and sausage makers. First in her class of bespectacled, serious young men who were more banker than mage.
She halted in her pacing, facing Mug and looking past him and the mirror into the ranks and rows of magics stored and twinkling in the shadows. Was each glittering trinket perhaps the life’s work of a mage?
Mage. I wonder, she thought. Has the title lost all meaning? Since Tim’s time, how many names had risen above the rest, to be remembered forever as mighty wielders of magic?
None, thought Meralda. None, and neither shall my name be remembered, unless it is as a footnote on first year midterms. She could almost see the question written, almost see the frowns it raised. Who was the first woman to wear the robe? And some would know and scribble “Meralda Ovis” and some would shrug and guess and that would be the end of it, the end of her, the end of Mage Meralda.
She thought back to college, remembered how many of those somber young faces were bound for the guilds, and happy to be so. “Forget that court nonsense,” she’d heard one of them snicker at her back during commencement. “Let her have mage. I’ll take a Master’s robe from a guild, any day, and be glad of it, too.”
Meralda looked away from the ranks of cabinets.
“Now just you wait a moment, Miss Ovis,” said Mug. “I see those big moon-eyes getting all misty because you didn’t conjure up the Tears and throw them at the copperheads,” he said. “It’s just like college all over again. You set impossible goals, and then act surprised when you can’t achieve them.”
Meralda sighed. “Mug,” she said.
“Don’t ‘Mug’ me,” replied Mug. “I’m right, and you know it. I’ll tell you something, mistress,” he said. “I studied history right along with you. I’ve heard all the stories. I’ve read all the old books. I believe your hero Tim the Horsehead made things up as he went along, took a lot of wild chances, and had a lot of wild strokes of wholly undeserved, utterly blind, plain dumb luck. I think you are already his equal, if not his superior, in spell shaping and use of Sight, and I know you’re a lot better at mathematics, because Tim’s staff did all his math and his writings are full of errors after the staff was broken at Romare.” Mug paused, rolled a long leaf into a finger-like tube, and shook it gently at Meralda. “So stop berating yourself for not being Tim, Mage Ovis. We don’t need Tim anymore. We need Meralda.”
The faint sound of applause rose up behind Mug, and he made a mocking bow toward the sound.
Meralda realized her fists were clenched at her sides. She took a breath, relaxed her hands and her jaw, and forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said.
Mug blinked at her. “You’re welcome,” he said. His voice softened. “I meant all that, by the way.”
“I know you did,” said Meralda. She walked to her chair, pulled it back, and sat. “So,” she said, licking her lips and pausing a bit when she realized her voice was shaking. “When our history is written, what will it claim we did next?”
Mug considered this. “Well,” he said, slowly. “When confronted by knotty dilemmas, most wizards turn to relics and whatnots,” he said. He turned his eyes upon Goboy’s scrying mirror, through which the last rays of the sun still streamed. “Shall I?”
Meralda sighed in exasperation. “You know full well it’s a waste of time,” she said, patting the mirror frame when the glass flashed at her words. “Not that our friend here isn’t a wondrous and useful work,” she added, hastily, “but the glass can only display images of actions taking place in the present.” And since all of those tend to be images of bedrooms or bathhouses, she thought, the mirror tells us more about Mage Goboy’s favored entertainments than it ever has about anything else.
“Well, then, let’s ask it about the present,” said Mug.
Meralda frowned. The mirror could reflect some things, well enough. Ask it for the sky, or the clouds, or Tirlin from high in the air, and one could expect several hours of reflection before the image broke apart. But ask for anything smaller than the sky, a room, for instance, or a person, and the mirror would flash an instant’s reflection on the glass, and then begin its random perambulation through the more private parts of Tirlin. Meralda’s early investigations of Goboy’s mirror had resulted mainly in a good deal of embarrassment and ultimately the blanket.
“Mirror, mirror,” said Mug, before Meralda could stop him.
The sky and the faint sun vanished, replaced by reflections of Mug and Meralda and a single glowing spark lamp on the ceiling.
Meralda looked at her reflection, and looked away when it winked back at her.
“Show me the Tears,” said Mug, in the king’s own voice. “Show me the Tears, wherever they are.”
The mirror flashed bright white, casting brief shadows on Meralda’s desk. Startled, Meralda looked up at the glass, but it was dark.
Dark, but not black. Indeed, a dim light flickered at the right edge of the glass, halfway up the frame.
“I’ll be trimmed and pruned,” said Mug.
The image grew lighter and clearer. The flickering light became the guttering stub of a candle, burnt down nearly to nothing. Its four fellows were gone, mere lumps that neither smoked nor glowed.
The candle stand sat on a plain wood table. A chair was pushed beneath it. And on the wall adjacent to the table, faint but visible in the failing candlelight, Tim the Horsehead grinned out of a painting.
Meralda rose, eyes wide, biting back an exclamation.
“That’s the safe room, isn’t it?” whispered Mug.
Meralda nodded, brought a finger to her lips. Mug nodded with a tossing of leaves and fell silent.
Meralda sought out Opp’s Rotary Timekeeper and watched the rings whirl round. Ten, twenty, thirty full seconds, and still the image in the mirror held.
The safe room. Meralda let out her breath, afraid to move or speak or even look away.
“Show me the Tears, wherever they are,” Mug had said.
And now we see the safe room?
Meralda rose, banged her right knee on the desk leg, shoved her chair sharply backward, and bit back a shout.
“Mistress?” said Mug, who turned half his eyes upon her, but left the other aimed motionless at the glass.
“The Tears,” said Meralda. “You asked…oh, blast, the nature of your question was such that the object in question would have its whereabouts revealed,” she said, wary of using words the mirror might interpret as a new command. “Think about it, Mug. Imagine you’re a villain. You want to cause trouble. You put a spell on the safe, or the jewel box, and you make it look as if the Tears have been stolen.”
Mug tapped the glass with a leaf. “But you hide the Tears, instead,” he said. “Somehow.
Hide them in the safe room.”
“And then you just wait,” said Meralda. She stepped closer to the glass. “You just wait, because sooner or later, the Alons will be gone,” she said. “And sooner or later, Yvin will remove the guards from the safe room. Oh, he might also bar it and lock it, but given time, you can get in. And if not? Well, the damage is done.”
Meralda stared into the glass. I’m right, she thought, smiling at the guttering candle, shifting her gaze to the ghostly equine smile of the Horsehead in the portrait. I’m right.
Mug blinked with fifteen eyes. “It sounds plausible,” he said. He blinked again. “I can’t find anything wrong with it.” He paused. “Except, of course, for the mirror’s sudden spate of competence.”
Meralda felt her smile shrink, just a bit.
“Odd,” she said. “Though not undocumented. Remember the missing princes, back in 1810?”
“I thought you said that Mage Lommis made that story up, to implicate the Vonats,” said Mug.
“I may have been wrong about that,” said Meralda. She reached out and touched the dark oak frame. “I may have been wrong about a lot of things.”
Mug shrugged. “Glasses showing rooms, mages admitting errors. This is a night for rare occurrences,” he said. He thrust an eye toward Meralda. “That aside, what now?”
Meralda turned from the glass to Mug. “It’s time someone else had a very bad day,” she said, and she smiled. At the sight of it Mug pulled his eye hastily back.
“Oh, my,” said Mug.
In the glass, the candle guttered and went out.
Midnight. Meralda yawned and stretched. Mug muttered in his sleep, and Tervis rose from his chair and stood.
The scene in Goboy’s mirror was dark, aside from the faint line of light that crept in from under the safe room door.
“Shut up, you awful hyacinth,” said Mug.
“Ma’am?” said Tervis.
“He’s dreaming,” said Meralda. “Ignore him.” She reached up and stroked the topmost of his leaves.
“Never thought about plants dreaming,” said Tervis. Then he yawned. “But I reckon they get tired; too.”