by Frank Tuttle
“Don’t we all,” said Meralda.
Tervis muttered assent, and sat again.
The mirror remained dark. Meralda had sent for the captain, told him of her suspicions, then asked that a contingent of guards be kept ready just beyond the Alon halls. She’d refused the captain’s offer of additional guards to watch the mirror, deciding there was simply too much potential for mischief in the lab. Or, Meralda wondered, is it that I, like Fromarch and all the mages before us, simply don’t want strangers in my lair?
Meralda smiled at the thought. Next I’ll be slouching around in old robes and muttering to myself in public, she thought.
“Hedge-bush,” said Mug, and Tervis chuckled.
Meralda bit back another yawn and idly shoved her now-cold cup of coffee around on her desk. She was beginning to question the wisdom of insisting that she keep her own watch on the mirror, instead of assigning Kervis and Tervis to watch it in shifts.
But here I sit, she thought, half-asleep and bone weary. I can’t just go home and lie down. Not yet.
She lifted the coffee cup, took a sip, made a face, and put it down.
Sometime during her first hour of watching the mirror, she’d decided that one of the rival Alon wizards was probably the culprit. If so, he’d also be the one to recover the Tears. Meralda’s hope was she could find them first.
And then she’d begun to think about how the Tears were hidden, and she’d decided the Alon mages were, if the captain and Shingvere were correct, simply not up to the task.
Arcane concealment of the Tears, which would mean visual and tactile suppression of form and mass, was not something she’d like to try, she decided. If Red Mawb or Dorn Mukirk cast such a spell, there was more to Alon clan wizards than the college ever taught.
Mug shook his leaves, and Meralda yawned again.
“You’ll have the Tears in hand by tomorrow night, I’ll wager,” said Tervis.
“I wish I shared your confidence,” replied Meralda. “But I hardly know where to begin looking.”
Tervis nodded and smiled. “You’ll know when the time comes.”
“She can’t know of this,” mumbled Mug, in Shingvere’s merry voice. Meralda smiled and patted Mug’s pot. “Poor thing,” she said. “You’ll have to go outside tomorrow, get some real sunlight.”
Tomorrow. She looked to the clock and saw that sunrise was only five hours away.
Night is fled, and with her slumber, thought Meralda. Phendelit playwrights must lose as much sleep as Tirlish thaumaturges.
“And I still have shadows to move,” she said, aloud. She pushed an image of the face from the park aside and looked down at the drawings and calculations that covered her desk, and the words she’d scribbled earlier on a drawing of the Tower.
“Vonashon, empalos, endera,” she’d written. “Walk warily, walk swiftly, walk away.”
Spoken by a mad-eyed death’s head from within a broken spell. She looked at Mug and shook her head. I’ll never hear the end of this, if I tell him, she thought. Though I suppose I really should.
In casesomething happens to me.
Meralda rubbed her eyes. What did she see?
She picked up her pen, and shuffled her papers until the Tower sketch was before her. She thought back to that instant of Sight, just before the latch tore and fell away, and she began to draw.
“There,” she said. “What, pray tell, are you?”
She’d drawn a ring about the Wizard’s Flat. Riding the ring were a dozen evenly spaced, barrel-sized, round-ended masses, each circling the flat at a hawk’s pace. She noted the direction of flight about the flat, and guesses as to the size and shape of each dark mass, and then she drew a question mark and put down her pen.
I never actually saw the masses, she realized. She’d only seen their shadows, shadows they cast in the latch, as they flew through it.
A shiver went through Meralda. Not at the thought that she might have actually seen a spellwork cast by the hand of Otrinvion the Black himself, but that her latch might have touched Otrinvion’s spell in the same way his had touched hers.
What if I damaged Otrinvion’s circling masses as badly as they damaged my latch?
“Tervis,” said Meralda, jumping at the loudness of her voice in the silence of the laboratory.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tervis, leaping to his feet.
“Go to the guards in the hall,” she said. “Send one to the park. I want any news of lights in the flat. Real news, mind you, from the watch or the guard.” Meralda bit her lip, considering. “I’ll want hourly reports, all night tonight, delivered here. Compiled and delivered each morning every day after.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tervis frowned at the mirror. “Did you see anything, ma’am?” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” she said. “And find me a pillow, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tervis, and then he turned and darted away.
Mug opened a sleepy red eye. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Locusts?”
“Nothing. Go to sleep,” said Meralda. Mug’s eye closed and drooped on its stalk.
Meralda shifted in her chair, put her chin on her hands, and watched the dark, still glass.
“Thaumaturge,” said a voice.
What, thought Meralda, is Tervis doing in my bedroom?
“You might want to wake up, ma’am,” said Tervis, from close beside her. “The captain and the other mages are heading this way.”
Meralda opened her eyes, a drawing of the Tower filling her vision, and realized she was face-down on her laboratory desk.
I’ve a face full of ink smudges, she thought, and then she rose.
Her back popped and twinged. Her right arm, which was beneath her face, was numb and stiff. Her stocking feet were blocks of ice from resting all night on cold stone. She rubbed her eyes with her left hand and shook her right arm and Mug began to chuckle.
“It’s a secret mage waking spell, lad,” he said to Tervis. “In a moment, she’ll stand on one leg and squawk like a bird.”
“Shut up, Mug,” said Meralda. She forced her eyes wide open, pushed back her hair, and sought out the mirror.
“Nothing ever changed, ma’am,” said Tervis. “Kervis and I kept a good watch.”
“Thank you,” said Meralda. Then, in mid-yawn, she recalled Tervis’ earlier warning that the captain and the mages were bound for the lab.
“What mages?” she asked. “All of them?”
“No, ma’am,” said Tervis. “Just Mage Fromarch and Mage Shingvere, as far as I know.”
Thank fate for that, thought Meralda. “I’ll be washing my face,” she said, motioning to the door of the lab’s tiny, dark water closet. “If they get here before I’m done, let them in, and warn them to be careful what they say around the glass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tervis. “By the way, ma’am, I sent for coffee and pancakes earlier, if you’ve a mind for breakfast.”
“Thank you, Tervis,” said Meralda. For the first time, she saw the smudges beneath Tervis’ eyes, and the wild stand of his short blond hair. He’s probably slept as little as me, even with a brother to spell his watches.
“You’ve done very well,” she said, and Tervis smiled.
Meralda heard footfalls in the hall, perhaps upon the stair. She turned for the water closet, then stopped and turned again. “I must have missed the last few reports from the park,” she said.
“Kervis took them while I slept, ma’am,” replied Tervis. “Same as the others last night. No lights, no sounds, nothing. He said he didn’t want to wake you to tell you that.”
No lights. Meralda frowned, recalling her fear that her latch might have affected an ancient structural spell and wondering whether the sudden cessation of luminous activity was perhaps proof of this.
“Is that a bad thing, ma’am?” asked Tervis.
Meralda shook her head and forced a smile. “Not at all,” she said. “Thank you.” Boots sounded again, nearer this time, and Meralda raced
for the water closet door. “Tell them to wait,” she said, and she shut the door firmly behind her.
Chapter Ten
“Well, there she is,” said Shingvere, rising to his feet and wiping biscuit crumbs from his loose brown shirt front. “Fresh as a daisy, and twice as fair.”
Beside him, seated in one of the folding-chairs from which the Bellringers had kept watch, was Fromarch. He chewed, swallowed and wiped his lips. “Leave her alone,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve slept in that chair, too, and it doesn’t leave one well disposed toward chirpy early morning Eryan nonsense.”
The laboratory, windowless and lit only by her spark lamps, still seemed dark, as though night hung just beyond the walls. Indeed, Meralda realized the palace was oddly quiet, still gripped in a midnight hush despite the sunrise.
Coffee, thought Meralda. I smell coffee, and if those aging gluttons have left me the dregs I’ll turn them both into toads. She picked up her stride, boots making loud stamps on the cold stone floor.
She emerged from the ranks of shelves, and saw that Tervis was gone, as was Mug, and that the captain was nowhere in sight.
“Your guardsman took the houseplant outside for some sun,” said Fromarch. “And the captain received a message on the stair, and said he’d join us in a moment.”
“Aye, he has stomping to do, people to shout at,” said Shingvere. “Can’t have enough bellowing, you know.”
Meralda stepped around the glittering, moving levers of Phillitrep’s Engine, and smelled the plate of hot pancakes and sausages steaming on her desk. Beside it sat a silver pot of coffee, twin to the one resting on the floor by Shingvere’s right foot. And, Meralda noted with mild chagrin, a single red rose in a fluted crystal vase.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, pulling back her chair, but not sitting, suddenly thankful for the absence of windows and bright morning sun. She’d done what she could with water, soap, and a tattered washing cloth, but she still felt as if she’d slept in a ditch.
The mages nodded. Shingvere sat, smiled, stabbed a sausage with his fork, and waved it toward Meralda. “Eat, before it gets cold,” he said. “We’ll talk after.”
Meralda sat. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she’d missed supper, in all the excitement over the Tears.
She frowned and bit her lower lip. Missed supper, I did. Supper at the Hang’s table. Supper with Donchen.
“Lass, I thought you liked pancakes,” said Shingvere, his tone injured.
“Oh, I do,” said Meralda, quickly. “I just remembered something I forgot to do yesterday.”
“Anyone who got old Goboy’s glass to do as it was asked deserves a few omissions of memory,” said Fromarch. He stared hard at the mirror, which displayed the same dark room as before, and then shook his head and looked back at Meralda. “I gave up on that thing my first year.”
Meralda ate. A fine ambassador I am, she thought. First I stare at the Hang, then I give insult by not coming to dinner or sending word. She thought of Donchen seated by an empty chair, and her frown deepened. Blast it all, she groaned inwardly. And I can hardly explain my absence with the truth, either.
“You could have called us, you know,” said Fromarch. “We can watch the glass as well as anyone, and we’re not likely to burn down the palace trifling with the trinkets.”
Meralda swallowed a forkful of pancakes and reached for the syrup flask beside the coffee. “It was quite late,” she said. “But now that you’ve volunteered, I thank you.” She lifted her coffee cup, found that it still contained half a cup of yesterday’s brew, and, after an instant of hesitation, she poured it in the half-filled waste basket by her desk.
Shingvere guffawed. “You used to scold me for doing that,” he said.
“You hadn’t been up all night watching scrying glasses,” said Meralda, as she poured a fresh cup and savored the aroma. “Now then,” she said, after her first sip. “Aside from the free breakfast, what brings you gentlemen here this morning?”
The mages exchanged a brief glance Shingvere poked Fromarch in the ribs with his elbow, and Fromarch glared and hissed. “You tell her, you confounded hedge mage, even though she’s already figured it out.”
“Tell me what?” said Meralda, warily.
“We think we might know where the Tears are,” said Shingvere, nodding at Goboy’s Glass. “’Tis clear you do as well.”
Meralda lifted an eyebrow, and carefully kept her face blank. “They’re in the safe room, of course,” she said. “Right where they’ve been since this small calamity began.”
Fromarch smiled, if only for a moment.
“Well done, Thaumaturge,” he said. “Well done.”
Shingvere slapped his knee. “Rake me with a cat’s claws,” he said. “I knew we wouldn’t surprise you, lass.”
Meralda sipped her coffee, and kept her expression serene.
“We think someone wants to break up the Accords,” said Fromarch. “We don’t think it’s the Hang.”
“Neither do I,” said Meralda. “Though Mug has raised some good points against such a surmise.”
“It’s the Vonats, of course,” said Shingvere. “They’ve got people here, in the palace, and they’ve intentionally delayed their arrival to remove their entourage from suspicion,” he added. “Deplorable condition of the roads in Fonth. What nonsense.”
Meralda took another bite of a sausage. “The Hang,” she said, after a moment. “Why don’t you suspect them?”
“We’ve been keeping company with their wizard nearly the whole time,” said Fromarch.
“He means we’ve been drinking,” added Shingvere, with a wink.
“He’s a talkative fellow, once you get to know him,” said Fromarch. Then he snorted and lifted his hands. “Harmless, really. Not that he can’t do a bit of magic. He can, and don’t be fooled. But stealing jewelry and interrupting trade talks? Ridiculous.”
“Mug reminded me that good manners don’t necessarily reflect good intentions,” said Meralda. “What do we really know about these people?”
The mages, as one, took a deep breath and exchanged a sidelong glance. “Well,” said Fromarch, “this is just speculation, mind you. But we think that the Hang may have opened diplomatic channels with Tirlin ten or more years ago.”
Meralda swallowed, kept her face blank, and carefully put down her fork.
“We think Yvin may have even invited them to the Accords,” said Shingvere. “We think the Hang may be here to join the Five Realms as a trading partner,” he said. “That’s what we think.” He smiled, set his empty plate down on the floor, and lifted his coffee cup to rest on the arm of his chair. “We think the Great Sea is about to be crossed, Meralda. After all these years of wondering, or trying and failing and trying again, we’re about to see the whole wide world, Great Sea and Hang and who knows what else. Marvelous, isn’t it?”
Meralda was silent, sorting out Shingvere’s words. It does make sense, she thought. The king’s nonchalance concerning the Hang’s arrival. His instructions to consider the Hang above suspicion. The Hang’s flawless command of New Kingdom. She suspected Yvin knew things he wasn’t sharing with the full court, but nothing like this.
Fromarch met her eyes, and nodded. “Which makes all this nonsense with the Tears more than a mere inconvenience,” he said. “Say the Alons pull out. Any agreements four of the Realms make with the Hang will be forever contested by the fifth. And who knows? The Hang might leave, too, rather than have any dealings with a factious lot of simpletons who can’t all sit down long enough to sign a few pieces of paper.”
“That’s why we’re here, lass,” said Shingvere. “Not that we think you can’t handle it, mind you. Not at all. But you’ve got a heavy pack, these days. We’re only here to help you bear the load, if you’ll have us. And watching this mirror while you go off and save the kingdom seems like just the chore for two grumpy old wizards, now doesn’t it?”
Meralda pushed back her chair and stood. I’ve got to walk around a
bit, she thought. My feet are still cold in my boots, and my joints still ache from sleeping in that torture chamber of a chair. “What makes you think Yvin asked them here?” she said, stretching.
Fromarch shrugged. “It’s simple, really. I don’t think they’d have come unless they were asked.”
“They certainly wouldn’t have loaded their entire royal family onto a boat, not knowing what sort of reception to expect.” Shingvere filled his fork with more pancake. “Which means this was all arranged well beforehand.”
“Oh, Yvin wouldn’t tell anyone, of course,” said Fromarch. “Best to get the Hang all here and just spring it on the Realms. That way no one gets worked up into a frenzy too soon, and we don’t have foreign troops hiding all along the Lamp.”
“He could have told us,” snapped Meralda.
“Hmmph,” snorted Fromarch. “Since when have kings sought advice from their betters? Mark my words, though. If this bit of scheming goes bad, we’ll be the ones who’ll have to sort it all out.”
Meralda glared. He didn’t tell because he doesn’t trust, she thought. And he doesn’t trust, said a voice within her, because I’m a woman.
“He wouldn’t have told me, either,” said Fromarch, gently. “I once heard Yvin tell someone, doesn’t matter who, that magic and mages were best left to the guilds, and the tradesmen. He said the age of the wizard was over, and done, and the Realms were better for it.” Fromarch sighed. “He’s wrong, of course,” he added. “But he’s the king, and that’s that.”
Meralda found her chair again. Her head began to pound, and her clothes, wrinkled and ill-fitting from a day and a night of constant wear, rubbed and stuck and sagged. She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes and sighed.
“Perhaps I should just send Yvin a message,” she said. “Perhaps I should tell him that since the age of wizards is done, he should seek the help of the guilds and the tradesmen in recovering the Tears.”
Shingvere chuckled. “I dare you,” he said.
Meralda heard Fromarch set down his cup with a small sharp click and rise slowly to his feet.