Every Wind of Change

by Frank Tuttle

  Map of the Realms

  EVERY WIND OF CHANGE

  by

  Frank Tuttle

  Map of the Realms by Jessica Khoury maps

  This is Book 3 in the Paths of Light series.

  Book 1: ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW.

  Book 2: ALL THE TURNS OF LIGHT.

  Copyright 2018 Sizzling Lizard Press

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is unlikely, given that one character has 29 eyes.

  WARNING: This book is not intended for use as a flotation device or as the constitution of a new nation. Do not apply directly to forehead. Warranty void if squirrels are inserted into Chapter Four. Do not read while driving or operating Dreadnaught-class planetary tugs. Not considered a significant source of Vitamin D. You are having a wonderful hair day.

  Contents

  Map of the Realms

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Mister Mug’s Musings, Tuesday, October 5th, 1970

  3. Chapter 2

  4. Chapter 3

  5. Mister Mug’s Musings, Tuesday, October 12th, 1970

  6. Chapter 4

  7. Chapter 5

  8. Chapter 6

  9. Mister Mug’s Musings, Thursday, December 25th, 1970

  10. Chapter 7

  11. Chapter 8

  12. Chapter 9

  13. Chapter 10

  14. Mister Mug’s Musings, Tuesday, January 4, 1971

  15. Chapter 11

  16. Mister Mug’s Musings, Tuesday, January 18, 1971

  17. Chapter 12

  18. Chapter 13

  19. Mister Mug’s Musings, Sunday, January 23, 1971

  20. Chapter 14

  21. Mister Mug’s Musings, Wednesday, February 11, 1971

  22. Chapter 15

  23. Chapter 16

  24. Chapter 17

  25. Chapter 18

  26. Chapter 19

  27. Chapter 20

  28. Chapter 21

  29. Chapter 22

  30. Chapter 23

  31. Chapter 24

  Other Tuttle Titles

  About The Author

  1

  Mug the enchanted dandyleaf plant piloted his flying birdcage down Tirlin’s deserted pre-dawn streets.

  Each of Mug’s twenty-nine eyes bobbed and moved, scanning the sky for the telltale flap of a crow’s black wing.

  “I’ll catch you buggers tonight, I will.” Mug worked his tiny silver flight levers with a flexible tendril. “We’ll see who’s laughing then, won’t we?”

  At that very moment, a crow’s harsh caw sounded directly below, and Mug swung his cage into a sudden steep dive. Before Mug could turn and dart into a narrow alley, a small projectile struck his cage, and he was suddenly enveloped in a thick cloud of flour.

  Mug sputtered and blinked. Two crows cawed, their tones mocking, and Mug’s thin voice rose up as well. “You’ll regret that, you chickens,” he shouted, as the two crows flapped away into the night. “You’ll regret that!”

  “Quiet out there,” a sleepy-eyed man yelled from an open window. “People are trying to sleep.”

  Mug brought his cage to a hover at the man’s face. “I’m far too important to be quiet. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “I read your column in the Times, Mr. Mug,” the man said, rubbing his eyes. “How many flying houseplants do you think there are in Tirlin? Why are you covered in flour?”

  “I’m always covered in flour on Tuesdays,” Mug replied, his tone airy. “That’s just common knowledge. Do you want an autograph? Everyone seems to.”

  The man grumbled and slammed his window shut.

  “Well, nearly everyone,” Mug amended. He turned his eyes skyward. The sun was not yet risen, but the stars were fading quickly. Mug knew Mrs. Adamson would soon find her seat beside his desk, ready to take dictation for the Tuesday column.

  A crow’s head peeked above the roof of Mortimer’s Fine Baked Goods.

  “Game’s over for today,” Mug piped. “Some of us have to work, you know.”

  The crow answered with a hoarse croak. Mug turned his cage toward the Palace’s lighted spires and hurried off to his office at the Times, his mind racing as he flew.

  Meralda has forbidden me to write about her again, Mug thought. Especially in regard to her private life. Mug recalled the shade of crimson Meralda’s face achieved as she read ‘Upon the Nature of Romance.’

  “She was quite vexed,” Mug said as he navigated between the spires of the Palace. “Perhaps a follow-up piece is in order. Yes. ‘Deeper Romantic Ruminations,’ or perhaps simply ‘Mage Meralda’s Midnight Meanderings.’”

  A crow cawed. “Oh hush,” Mug replied. “I wouldn’t really. Anyway, I’ve decided to anger the Palace this week. I shall mock King Yvin’s new beard, and incidentally disparage his trade agreements with the Hang. That should be good for a lot of shouting, don’t you think?”

  The crows flapped noisily away. Mug rolled five of his eyes.

  “Well what would you know,” he muttered. “You’re neither one of you journalists.”

  Across town, in her tenth-story apartment, Meralda stirred and woke.

  She rolled over, saw only darkness past her window, and pulled the sheets up over her head. “Too early,” she muttered, burying her face in her pillow.

  She didn’t see the horse in her bedroom until it began to chew speculatively at the corner of her bed.

  There followed a few moments of confusion, as the horse – a sturdy, hairy miniature breed Meralda couldn’t name – and Meralda found themselves eyeing each other warily from opposite corners of Meralda’s tidy bedroom.

  Meralda lowered the bladeless oak ax-handle she kept hidden under her bed. The tiny horse sniffed a wool scarf hanging on the closet door.

  “Leave that alone!” Meralda shouted. The horse moved his lips away from the scarf with an air of profound hurt.

  “Donchen,” Meralda said, fumbling with the switch on her dresser lamp. “I’ll murder you.”

  When the lamp flared to life, Meralda spotted the red bow affixed to the horse’s shaggy mane and the white envelope that hung below it. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, read the envelope. Below that, SURPRISE.

  There came a knock at Meralda’s door. The pony trotted toward the sound, leaving Meralda to hurry into a dressing gown.

  “I am going to strangle you,” she blurted, as she yanked her door open. “What in heaven’s name were you—?”

  The young man in the hall, his hand still poised to knock, took a sudden pair of steps back. The pony rushed past him, galloping down the hall, bright red bow bobbing with every step.

  “Well don’t just stand there,” Meralda said, brushing past the befuddled stranger. “Help me catch the horse!”

  The man closed his mouth and followed. The horse paused long enough at the corner of the hallway to look back at his pursuers, and Meralda was sure the beast was laughing at her as it charged away.

  After Carl the stable lad took Surprise the miniature pony to the Park for his morning walk, Meralda drank her first coffee of the day.

  She sipped and glared at Donchen’s note.

  Dearest, it began. Happy birthday! In keeping with the Tirlish custom of giving a small gift to the celebrant, I have procured for you a fine specimen of Yonkish miniature pony-hood. His name, appropriately, is Surprise. I am told he is a steed of excellent temperament and impeccable manners.

  You were quite adamant that you not receive any further gifts of jewelry, as you will recall. Which is a pity because I recently acquired, never mind how, several pieces of great beauty and historical significance. But I shall donate them to the Museum of History as you suggested.

  Surprise will be housed at the New Park Stables, which adjoin th
e Park itself. His lodgings and care have been arranged for in perpetuity. I hope we will enjoy his company often. If you wish to keep him in your flat, I’m sure he’d like that too.

  Sadly, dear, I have been called away on urgent business and will be absent for your birthday celebration. I shall return as swiftly as possible and will miss you every moment until then.

  There is a bag of carrots in your cupboard. I believe horses enjoy carrots. I also believe homicide is still frowned upon, even when carried out by officers of the Court upon discovering livestock in their domiciles.

  Love always and happy birthday,

  Donchen.

  The loud buzzing of flying coils filled the room as Mug’s birdcage sailed through the open kitchen window.

  “Smells a bit equine in here,” Mug announced as he set his flying contrivance expertly down on the dining table. “On a scale of one to murder, just how angry are we today, Mistress?”

  Meralda folded the letter. “You’re not even going to deny you played a role in depositing a horse in my apartment?”

  Mug’s leaves tossed. “Why bother? Of course, I helped. Aren’t you going to ask me how we got a pony, intact, up all those stairs in the middle of the night?”

  Meralda rose. “I am not,” she replied. “I don’t even care to know.” She refilled her cup and sat. “Did you do as I asked, this morning?”

  Mug sent all twenty-nine of his eyes glancing around the room. “I did,” he said, his voice hushed. “I followed Donchen.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t see or hear you?”

  “I stayed above seven hundred feet,” Mug replied. “No one saw. No one heard. You were right, Mistress. He back-tracked and slipped down alleys and took to the rooftops, but I saw him slip into the back entrance of Darton House.”

  Meralda nodded slowly, struggling to keep her face blank. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely,” Mug replied. “Your boyfriend only pretends to be an honest, hard-working jewel thief. Truth is, he’s got a backdoor key to the Secret Service house, which means dear old mischievous Donchen is certainly a spy.”

  2

  Mister Mug’s Musings, Tuesday, October 5th, 1970

  This article originally appeared in the Tirlin Times

  Today marks the one-year anniversary of the airship Intrepid’s triumphant return to Tirlin.

  This author was, as you know, aboard the Intrepid on her flight to Hang across the vast Great Sea. So, it is with no small measure of pride that I dedicate this column to the brave men, women, and shrubs who dared Fate and changed our world forever.

  Even more important than our first official visit to the Hang homeland was the discovery of the Arc. In the year that has passed since Mage Meralda first set foot upon the mysterious aerial structure, much has been learned about it – but for every mystery the Mage has solved, a hundred new questions have arisen.

  We know that the span of the Arc is approximately 92 miles. We know that it hangs some ten thousand feet high in the sky, always over the same storm-tossed patch of the Great Sea. Moreover, six months ago, a first-year telesonde operator aboard the research airship Bright Morning discovered the Arc’s strange song.

  I have heard the song. It is a high-pitched, warbling whistle — but Mage Meralda has recorded it and is on the threshold of deciphering its secrets.

  Is it a threat? A plea? A warning?

  Rest assured, gentle readers, you will learn the truth of it here first. As soon as the Mage has gleaned the song’s meaning, I will reveal it here in the pages of the Tirlin Times.

  Can any columnist from a competing paper make such a bold claim?

  I think not. Lest any of my esteemed colleagues at lesser papers take offense, I hasten to add that their journalistic endeavors are not entirely in vain. The City Crier, for instance, makes an excellent wrapping for fresh-caught fish, and the pages of the Examiner are, I am told, just the thing to reach for when forced to start a fire with damp kindling.

  Sadly, the Daily Report can make no such boasts.

  Other items of interest today include rumors of a banking scandal involving three high-ranking members of the Court. Naming them would serve no good purpose now since all three have suddenly developed and pursued powerful interests in country life, but curious parties might take a stroll through the shaded avenues of High Pollenda Place and take note of the stately homes that are up for sale.

  I feel sure each can be had for a bargain, as the previous owners were so keen to embrace the healthy rural air they neglected to leave behind any means of conveying to them the proceeds of their sales.

  This writer, himself a native of the quaint, simple countryside, wishes the errant gentlemen well and reminds them that the arm of the Law is long and ever tireless.

  3

  “Reminder, Mage Meralda,” Morton’s Talking Head intoned. “Meeting with the King at ten o’clock.”

  Meralda sighed and drained the last of her coffee. “I can hardly wait,” she muttered.

  “Shall I make a note of that?” asked the Talking Head.

  “No,” replied Meralda. “Thank you. That is all for today.”

  The Head closed its eyes. Meralda rose and stretched.

  Her worktable spilled over with scribbled notes, hastily drawn diagrams, and the remains of half a dozen failed mechanisms. She frowned down at the debris, tempted to skip the meeting, but she knew he would send the Bellringers to fetch her and probably dawdle with agonizing slowness through whatever ridiculous conversation he planned as an act of subtle revenge.

  “Best to get it over with,” Meralda said. “Although I’m quite sure it will be an utter waste of time.”

  Morton’s Head replied without opening its mismatched eyes. “Noted. Meeting with the King a waste of time. Filed under ‘General knowledge.’”

  Meralda hurried from the Laboratory, taking to the smaller corridors and less-used chambers, her mind still fixed on the Arc’s strange song.

  There is meaning in the song, she thought, stepping aside as a silver serving cart and its harried attendant wheeled past her. It repeats every two hours and ten minutes. And that first half a minute is simple counting, followed by addition and multiplication. But the rest…

  Meralda stumbled into Jenkins, the King’s butler. She apologized and realized she had reached the meeting room with a full minute to spare.

  The butler looked down his nose at her. “Whom shall I announce?” he asked.

  “The Empress of Hang,” Meralda replied, brushing past him as he flung open the door. “Coffee. No cream. One sugar.”

  As the butler sputtered, King Yvin rose to greet Meralda. “Morning, Empress,” he said, chuckling. “I believe you know Mrs. Primsbite.”

  Meralda blinked at the sight of her friend seated across from the King. “I do indeed. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Mrs. Primsbite smiled. “You won’t think so in a few moments.” Her smile vanished.

  Meralda pulled back a chair and sat. King Yvin fell heavily into his chair, and Mrs. Primsbite seated herself as well.

  “You’re both unusually somber,” noted Meralda. “If this is about something Mug wrote—”

  “I wish it were that simple. Something is going on, Mage.” King Yvin glared at his hands. “The Hang are about to back out of every trade deal we managed to broker last year. There is talk of a massive fleet buildup along their east coast. We hear rumors that they are building airships of their own. Airships designed for war.”

  “War?” Meralda frowned. “War with whom? Certainly not the Realms!”

  “With that Arc of yours, we think,” King Yvin replied.

  “It’s not my Arc,” Meralda snapped. “And how does one go to war with what appears to be an inanimate object?”

  “It gets worse,” King Yvin said. “Mrs. Primsbite, if you please?”

  Mrs. Primsbite turned to Meralda. “In addition to armed airships, dear, the Hang appear to be making a serious attempt to leave our atmospher
e entirely. They’re trying to push their airships into the void. I wouldn’t believe a word of it myself, were my sources not utterly unimpeachable.”

  “You’re telling me the Hang are building…airships for vacuum? Voidships?”

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Primsbite agreed. A knock sounded softly at the door. “That will be your coffee. I do hope Jenkins brought enough for us all.”

  “If he didn’t he will,” King Yvin growled. “Enter,” he shouted.

  The butler pushed a serving cart inside. Donuts and coffee were distributed amid Mrs. Primsbite’s merry chatter. Within moments, even the grumpy butler was laughing. Meralda sipped at her coffee and marveled at the penswift’s ability to hide her razor-sharp wit behind a veritable wall of inane babbling.

  “And do your unimpeachable sources know why the Hang might be building a void navy?” Meralda asked, after Jenkins shut the door.

  “I have no idea at all,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “My sources are as baffled as any of us.”

  King Yvin hastily swallowed his third donut. “It’s not only the Hang that have lost their collective minds,” he said, brushing crumbs from his beard. “If the Hang are preparing for war, the Vonats are going to great lengths to avoid it. We’ve been watching them dig for the last six months. And when I say them, I mean every last one of them, down to the granny ladies. Every other military or civil project was simply abandoned. They’re not even trying to hide the excavations. They’re digging down as deep as they can as fast as they can, and hauling every last scrap of food and barrel of water they can carry down with them.” King Yvin shook his head. “Meralda, they’ve stopped bothering to bluff us about border disputes. Stopped everything. An Alon barge ran aground on the Vonat side of the Lamp a few weeks ago, and the Vonat soldiers marching past slowed down just long enough to ask the barge master if he had any shovels for sale.”

  Meralda lowered her coffee. “That is troubling.”