by Frank Tuttle
Meralda settled into her cab. The driver snapped the reins, and the carriage pulled onto Fairlane Street with the steady clop-clop of Phendelit carriage horse hooves.
Carriages and coaches hurried past, most bound for the shady lanes and quiet neighborhoods that lay to the west, beyond the college and the park. The sidewalks were crowded as well, as bakers and hat makers and shopkeepers closed their doors and shuttered their windows and turned eager faces toward home.
Meralda’s driver, a short, bald, retired army sergeant named Angis Kert, bit back a curse as a slow moving lumber wagon pulled out of the alley by Fleet’s Boots. Meralda grinned. She’d heard Angis let loose before, and was always reminded of her grandfather, who cursed at his swine with exactly the same words and tone.
“S’cuse me, milady,” said Angis from his perch above. “Bloody lumber wain like to drove us into Old Pafget’s pastry shop.”
Meralda laughed. “No apology is necessary, Sergeant,” she said. “I didn’t hear a thing.”
Angis laughed. “I must not be as loud as I once was, then,” he said. “How late you reckon you’ll be, Sorceress? Late enough for old Angis to nip into Raggot’s and have a pint and a game of checkers?”
Meralda sighed. “Have three pints and ten games,” she said. “In fact, don’t wait. I’ll catch a public cab. It’ll be midnight, or worse.”
Angis spoke to his ponies and the carriage surged suddenly ahead, passing the lumber wain.
“I’ll wait for you,” said Angis, after a moment. “You’ll not find a public cab without a fight, these days, what with half of Erya camped out in the Green Wing.”
Meralda frowned. “Eryans? Here already?”
Angis guffawed. “You got to stick your head out of that lab-ra-tory every now and then, milady,” he said. “Eryans got here yesterday, king and queen and soldiers and all.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You always are,” said Angis. “Work all day an’ work all night. It ain’t my place to say, Sorceress, but if you don’t slow down a mite you’re gonna be stooped and grey-headed before me.” Angis snapped his reins. “But I reckon I’ve said enough.”
Meralda looked at her reflection in the carriage window glass. “You’re right, Angis,” she said, leaning closer to the window. “You’re right.”
Was he?
My hair is a fright, thought Meralda. But that can be fixed. She looked into her eyes, surprised by the dark circles beneath them and the weariness within them.
Angis stopped at an intersection and bellowed at the white-gloved traffic master until he waved them through. Meralda watched as a pair of shabby gas-lighter boys darted past, magefire lighters held high and leaving persistent glowing wakes drifting down the sidewalk as they rushed to light their appointed street-lamps. Meralda shook her head. She’d proposed a simple method to automate the lighting and extinguishing of the street-lamps in her first month as Mage, but the Guilds has raised such a fuss the king had refused to even consider it.
The gas-lighters vanished around a corner, leaving Meralda’s reflection alone in the glass. Meralda turned away. No wonder the papers stopped chasing me, she thought. I don’t look eighteen anymore.
She certainly didn’t feel eighteen. Whisked off to college at thirteen, after enchanting Mug into sarcastic life. Graduating in a mere four years, when most mages take eight, if they manage it at all. A year spent as Fromarch’s apprentice, before his abrupt retirement and unwavering insistence that Meralda be named royal Thaumaturge despite her youth and gender. All that, thought Meralda, to wind up spending three-quarters of my time doing petty stage magics intended to impress a gaggle of bored foreign nobles?
Meralda’s stomach grumbled.
“Sergeant,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind. The laboratory can wait until after supper. Make for the Kettle and Hearth, please, off Wizard’s Way.”
Angis whistled. “That I’ll do, milady,” he said. “A bit of Missus Pot’s meatloaf would go down tasty, all right.”
Angis snapped his reins, and Meralda’s carriage sped westward, toward the fat towers and squat spires of the college and the darkening shadows that lay about them.
“Whoa.”
Angis brought the carriage to a smooth halt at the curb, well within the pool of steady yellow light cast by the hissing gas lamp.
“Well, at least I’ve seen you fed,” said Angis. The lights from the palace lit his face a ruddy red. “Sure you don’t want to just go on back home? It’s a bit late to be working, especially on a full belly.”
Meralda yawned, fumbled with the door latch, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Thank you, Angis,” she said. “But I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Angis turned and frowned at Meralda beneath his enormous cabman’s hat. “Aye,” he said. “Tell you what. I’ll be down to Raggot’s, till midnight. Send a lad down to fetch me if you get done before that.”
Meralda nodded. “Oh, all right. Who do you fuss over on your days off?”
Angis grinned. “Not a soul, milady,” he said. “Not a soul.” Then he doffed his hat and rolled off into the night.
The sky was filled with moving lights, as late-arriving airships sailed overhead, seeking out the docks. The palace was aglow, and the streets were crowded, even well after dark. Most of the people strolling past Meralda were Tirlish sight-seers, out for a walk and perhaps a glance of the newly arrived Eryans.
Meralda smiled, bemused. At any given moment, she thought, there are probably ten thousand Eryans in Tirlin. Half the minstrels, half the fishermen, half the barge masters. All Eryan, all the time. What makes these Eryan so special that half of the North Quarter is out strolling around the palace, just hoping to get a glimpse of one?
“Look! Look there!” said a wide-eyed Tirlish lady, who stopped suddenly beside Meralda. “It’s the king! The king of Erya!”
The lady pointed, covering the wide O of her mouth with her gloved hand. Meralda stifled a laugh. The uniformed man the awestruck woman pointed out was Rogar Hebbis, coach driver to the queen of Tirlin.
Rogar nodded to Meralda, made a sweeping bow to the lady at her side, and marched into the west wing palace entrance. “He bowed to us,” said the lady, to Meralda. “The king made a bow! To me!” With a squeak, the lady fluttered away down the street, purse thumping at her side like a schoolboy’s lunch pail.
Meralda followed Rogar up the five wide steps that led up to the entry hall. The guards nodded. One scribbled Meralda’s name and the time in a ledger.
“Evening, Sorceress,” said the other. “Captain Ballen is waiting inside for you.”
Meralda stepped through the open palace doors. Parts of her frown returned. Why would the captain be waiting for me here?
Meralda padded down the long hall to the stairs at the end. The hall was deserted, but filled with the muffled sounds of pots clattering and glasses clinking and waiters shouting at cooks and cooks shouting at everyone else.
A man pushing a cart of precariously stacked Phendelit dinner plates came dashing through a door just ahead of Meralda. “S’cuse me, milady,” he said, leaping ahead of his cart and shoving the opposite door open with his right foot. “Coming through.”
Meralda brushed quickly past. Another door opened, and out stepped the captain, a fried chicken leg in one hand and a tall glass of Eryan iced tea in the other.
Meralda smiled and halted. The captain bent his long, gaunt frame in a mocking bow, brandishing his chicken leg like a baton.
“Sorceress,” he said, with a grin. “I was just looking for you.”
Meralda laughed. “And naturally you thought I’d be in the kitchen pilfering the royal poultry,” she said.
The captain took a gulp of tea, wiped his greying beard with his uniform sleeve, and returned Meralda’s smile. “Man’s got to eat,” he said. Bright blue eyes glinted beneath bushy white eyebrows. “Are you calmed down yet?”
Another waiter popped out behind the captain, then darted around him, and va
nished through a door behind Meralda.
“I’m better,” said Meralda. “Why don’t you bring your supper up to the laboratory and tell me why you’ve been looking for me.”
“Indeed, I shall,” he said, motioning Meralda forward with his chicken leg. “After you, milady.”
Meralda hurried for the stairs, mindful of the doors on either side. The captain followed, munching contentedly. “So you heard about the Tower’s shadow?” said Meralda.
“I hear everything, Thaumaturge,” said the captain, between bites. “By the way, you can thank that skunk Sir Ricard for bringing the Tower’s shadow to the king’s attention.”
Meralda felt her face flush. “Oh, I’d like to thank Sir Ricard,” she said, softly. “I really, really would.”
The captain chuckled. “Maybe someday you will,” he said. “I’d pay dear to see that.” The captain bit the last bite of meat off the leg, drained his tea, dropped the chicken bone in the tea glass, and set both in the crook of the elbow of the fourth-century suit of armor that guarded the foot of the west wing back stair. “Sir Ricard aside, though, I have a surprise for you, Thaumaturge,” he said, mounting the stairs beside Meralda. “You do love surprises, as I recall.”
Meralda half-turned as she climbed and lifted an eyebrow at the captain. “I detest surprises,” she said.
“Quite right,” said the captain. “My mistake.”
Meralda reached the second floor landing. The copper-bound double doors to the Royal Thaumaturgical Laboratory were just ten paces away, but in place of the mismatched suits of armor that had flanked the laboratory doors since the days of King Esperus, a pair of gangly, red-shirted palace soldiers stood at attention, right hands on sword hilts, eyes straight ahead.
Meralda stared.
The soldiers were twins. Both were blond, fair skinned, blue-eyed, and freckled. Both avoided Meralda’s gaze with a terrified determination, further evidenced by the sheen of sweat on their faces and their futile attempts to remain absolutely still to the point of excluding breathing and swallowing.
“Thaumaturge,” said the captain, “I present to you Tervis and Kervis Bellringer, Guardsmen of the Realm. They are to serve as your bodyguards for the duration of the Accords.” The captain shook his head. “By order of the king,” he said, before Meralda could protest. “All members of the court are to be assigned bodyguards. No fewer than two, no exceptions, no discussion.” The captain turned away from the young soldiers and lowered his voice to a whisper. “They’re good lads, Sorceress,” he said. “Twins, fresh in from a horse ranch halfway to Vonath. I won’t waste them on toads like Sir Ricard and I don’t trust them to hooligans like Ordo or Thaft. Give them a chance. This isn’t their fault.”
The captain’s half-smile vanished, suddenly replaced by a grimace of barely contained fury. He turned and stamped up the last few stairs. “You there!” he bellowed at the right-most lad, not halting until he was a hand’s breadth from the boy’s face. “Guardsman Kervis!”
“Sir,” said the left-most boy. “Pardon, but I’m Kervis. He’s Tervis.”
“You’re Kervis if I say you are!” shouted the captain. “You’re Kervis, your boots are Kervis, your hat is bloody well Kervis if I say it is! Now then.” The captain stalked over to the face of the boy on the left. “Do you see this woman, soldier?”
The boy glanced at Meralda, looked away, and nodded frantically.
“Do you think your brother Kervis sees her, soldier?”
The nods came faster. The captain leaned down and stepped close to Kervis. “You and your brother are the lady’s bodyguards, soldier,” said the captain, his voice fallen to a whisper. “What does that mean, bodyguard?”
“Sir,” said the boy, his eyes wide, “We are to protect her, um, body, from, er—”
“Enemies, sir!” croaked the other Bellringer. “Enemies, foreign or, um, domestic. Sir.”
The captain glared. Kervis shook. “That’s correct, soldier,” he said. “So if you’ve got to take on the whole of Vonath single-handed with a dull butter knife then that’s what you do. Because if anything happens to the sorceress it won’t be the army or the crown you’ll answer to. It’ll be me.” The captain’s voice rose to a bellow. “Me!”
The captain whirled, winked at Meralda, and stamped off down the stairs.
The Bellringers, sweating and wide-eyed, watched him go.
Meralda shook her head. “Guardsman Kervis,” she said, when the captain’s footfalls died. “How old are you?”
The boy cleared his throat. “Eight and ten, ma’am,” he said. “Soon be nine and ten.”
“Me, too,” said Tervis. “Ma’am.”
“I surmised as much,” said Meralda. “Well, gentlemen, let me make one thing clear, here and now. The king has decreed that you shall dog my steps. But it would not do for you to be too much underfoot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Meralda sighed. Somewhere in the palace, a clock began striking the ninth hour, and with every bell toll Meralda felt the weight of the day settle heavy in her bones.
“Guardsman Kervis,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Are you familiar with the palace?”
Guardsman Kervis leapt to attention. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Then you know where the basement kitchen is.”
“Down the west stair, left at the Burnt Door, right and two doors down from the Anvion Room. Yes, ma’am,” said Kervis.
Meralda stepped off the last stair. “Very well. Go there, at once. Tell them the sorceress wants a pot of coffee.”
Kervis beamed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Right away.”
“And get three mugs, too,” said Meralda. “You gentlemen do drink coffee, I assume?”
The Bellringers nodded. Tervis’ helmet threatened to fall off, despite the strap cutting into his chin.
“Good,” said Meralda. “We’ll all need a cup, tonight.” Then she stepped to the door, fumbled in her pocket for the big black iron key, and put it in the lock.
The door crackled faintly, and the short-cropped hair on Tervis’ head tried to stand up below his helmet.
Meralda whispered a word, and pushed the door gently open. “Knock, when you return,” she said to Kervis. “And, gentlemen, I don’t need to warn you against ever opening this door yourself, do I?”
“No, ma’am,” said the Bellringers. “Not ever.”
“Good,” said Meralda. “Good.” Then she removed the key, dropped it back in her pocket, and closed the door gently behind her.
“Nineteen days,” she said, to the shadows. “Nineteen days to shrink the Tower or move the Sun.”
“Ma’am?” spoke a muffled voice from beyond the door. “Were you speaking to me?”
“No, Guardsman,” said Meralda. “I wasn’t.”
“Just checking,” said Tervis. Meralda couldn’t see the young man, but she was absolutely certain that he had snapped to full attention before speaking. “Ma’am.”
Meralda shook her head, shrugged out of her coat, rolled up her sleeves, and went about switching on her spark lamps.
Chapter Two
Bright morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. “Good morning, Mistress,” said Mug, as Meralda shuffled out of her bedroom, barked her shin on a chair leg, and made slowly for the cupboards. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmmph,” said Meralda, squinting in the daylight. Her bathrobe, belt trailing loose like a train, hung lopsided from her shoulders. Her slippers were mismatched, right foot blue, left foot yellow with tassels.
Mug regarded the Thaumaturge with a dozen shiny eyes. “Perhaps I should be asking if you slept at all,” said Mug. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Meralda shrugged and rubbed her eyes. “It was late,” she said. “You were asleep.” Meralda filled her coffee pot with water from the sink, rummaged in the cupboard for grounds, and sank into her chair with a sigh and a frown when the coffee urn turned up empty.
�
��Forgive me, mistress,” said Mug. “I meant to remind you yesterday.”
Meralda yawned. “I’ll get a cup at Flayne’s,” she said. “But first, a piece of toast.”
“Out of bread, too,” said Mug. He tilted his eyes toward the ceiling. “I imagine the mages of legend had someone handy to do the shopping,” he said. “‘Fetch me a bag of flour and an onion,’ they’d say, before charging off to topple the Acatean Empire or clash with the Hang.” Mug shook his leaves. “Yes, that’s the life. Power, magic, and all the shopping done. You really should look into conquering the world and making Yvin run all your errands.”
Meralda peeped out from between her fingers. “Do you sit around at night and think of these things, Mug?”
Mug tossed his fronds in a shrug. “Last night I thought a lot about towers and thaumaturges,” he said. “Specifically, I wondered what mine was doing about a certain long shadow.”
Meralda groaned.
Mug’s eyes clustered together. “Bad news, is it? Going to tell Yvin it can’t be done?”
“Worse,” said Meralda. “I’m going to tell him it can.”
Mug wilted. “Oh,” he said.
“Oh, indeed,” said Meralda. “I think I can change the air around the Tower. Make it bend light differently.”
Mug’s frown deepened. “Sounds interesting, in a hopelessly implausible way.”
“Water does the same thing,” said Meralda.
Mug’s red eyes gathered in a cluster. “Water hides shadows?” he asked, with a furtive red-eyed glance toward the half-full kitchen sink below him.
Meralda shook her head. “No, Mug,” she said. “Water bends light. It’s called refraction, and different materials refract light to different degrees.”
“If you say so, mistress,” said Mug. “Will it be difficult?”
“Extremely,” said Meralda, after another yawn. “I’ll have to divide the air around the Tower into hundreds of different volumes, and assign a unique refractive value to each volume.” She yawned again.
“Is that before or after you buy coffee and bread?”
