All the Paths of Shadow

by Frank Tuttle

  Meralda looked away, and when she glanced back he was still regarding her from across the room, his fork loaded with scrambled eggs and halted halfway from his plate to his mouth.

  He smiled, and mouthed the words “good morning.”

  A waiter pushed a serving cart passed between them, and Meralda turned her gaze away, horrified that she might blush. Gawking like a farm girl, she chided herself. I do hope he’s not really an ambassador.

  When Meralda next dared a glance, the man was talking merrily with his fellows, his plate nearly empty. He did not look her way again.

  Soon, the serving carts were replaced with clearing carts, and the tables began to empty. Meralda waited until Yvin wasn’t looking, rose, and departed, hoping to reach the laboratory before the king or the captain could waste half of her day.

  At the door, she turned for one last look at the Hang, who were being served coffee.

  “They don’t look like monsters, do they?” said the captain.

  Meralda started. The captain stood beside her, grinning, a cup of coffee in either hand. “Thought you might need this,” he said, handing her a cup. “You did seem to be in a bit of a hurry.”

  Meralda glared, but took the cup.

  “You’ll not be bothered until late today,” said the captain. “If then.”

  Meralda let out her breath in a sigh. “Wonderful,” she said. The captain sipped his coffee and motioned toward the door. “Please, let’s walk,” he said. “Don’t want to slow you down.”

  Meralda walked. The captain fell into step beside her. When they were well out of earshot of the guards and halfway down the empty hall, he spoke again, in a whisper.

  “There were lights in the flat, last night,” he said, lifting a hand against Meralda’s protests. “I saw them myself, Thaumaturge,” he added, quickly. “Bright flashes. Hundreds of them. Some white, some red. Started at midnight. Exactly at midnight, with the last tolling of the Big Bell. Ended an hour later, to the minute.” The captain fell silent, as a harried trio of waiters bearing sugar bowls and a platter of sausages rushed past. “Any theories, aside from mischievous ghosts?”

  Meralda slowed and studied the captain’s face. “Bright flashes,” she said.

  “Bright flashes,” agreed the captain. He frowned and waggled a finger at Meralda. “You’re not about to suggest I saw reflections of airship running lights, are you?” he asked. “Because that’s what I told the papers, and a right lot of nonsense it was. Reflections. Bah. These were lights burning within the flat, Thaumaturge. Lights far brighter than any Alon lumber barge lamp, and certainly brighter than any reflection, of which, by the way, there weren’t any.” The captain lowered his hand and his voice. “You’ve said all along the Tower isn’t haunted, Mage,” he said. “Do you still hold to that? Really?”

  Meralda frowned. Did she?

  “I won’t stand here and tell you I understand what’s causing the disturbances inside the Tower, Captain,” she said. “But keep in mind that we’re seeing flashes of light. Nothing more, and I can think of a hundred things that might cause them, aside from restless spirits.”

  “Name four,” said the captain. “I’m running out of things to tell the penswifts.”

  Meralda sighed. “You might suggest that the lights are reactions of Tower structural spellworks to modern ward spells,” she said.

  “That sounds good,” said the captain. “Quite reasonable.”

  Meralda paused at a door. “No one will believe it, of course,” she said.

  “No, they’ll go right on blaming Otrinvion,” agreed the captain. He glanced warily about. “The latest popular explanation is that our famous dead wizard is warning us that the Hang are up to no good,” he whispered.

  Meralda rolled her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “I see. Otrinvion the Black, champion of the public good.” She shook her head. “Well-known for his selfless altruism.”

  The captain shrugged and opened the door, looking back at Meralda with a grin. “Just so,” he said, motioning Meralda through. “I’ve got things to attend,” he said. “The Vonats are due in tonight, and we’ll want to fluff their pillows beforehand.”

  Meralda laughed and waved, and the door shut, and she was alone in the brightly lit hall.

  She made for the west stair. The palace was oddly deserted, while everyone, even the serving staff and the guards, gathered near the Gold Room for a glimpse of the Hang. Meralda’s footfalls were loud and fast, and she thought of the Tower and the long, winding stair.

  Flashes, she thought. Red and white. Bright enough to be seen from the flat. A possible interaction between my failed ward spell and what?

  “Structural spellworks,” she whispered, with a small frown. Six centuries of mages had poked and pried at the Tower for traces of just such spells, hoping to glean from them some hint as to how the monstrous structure was erected.

  Not one single spell had ever been detected, much less isolated or studied.

  Meralda reached the west stair landing, and heard the Bellringers speaking and laughing from their post above.

  Meralda banished her frown and mounted the stair. “Good morning, Thaumaturge,” said Kervis, as she clambered up. “What will we be doing today?”

  Meralda brushed back a stray lock of hair.

  “Chasing shadows,” she said. “What else?”

  Meralda put down her pen.

  About her, the laboratory whirred and clicked and sparkled. Meralda rubbed her eyes and twisted in her chair, finally lifting her arms high over her head and stretching until her back popped and some of the stiffness fled.

  Her desk was covered with architect’s papers, and they were covered with sketches of the Tower and calculations for the latching spell. Meralda sighed and shuffled papers, searching through them for errors or omissions. Finding none, she opened a desk drawer, pulled a fresh page from within it, and set about her final set of calculations.

  Done, she stared at the numbers.

  “Two hundred and forty-two,” she said aloud. “Two hundred and forty-two unique refractive spellworks. Minimum.”

  Let’s see, she thought. Sixteen days remain, which means that even if I started today, I’d need to shape, cast, and latch fifteen refractive volumes each day until the Accords.

  Meralda took in a slow, deep breath. She wasn’t sure if it was panic or rage or a mixture of both that welled up in her chest. Fifteen spells a day? More, if either the Tower latch or the refractive spells needed refinement?

  A knock sounded at the laboratory door.

  “Thaumaturge,” said the king. “Open the doors.”

  Meralda sprang to her feet and marched for the doors. She felt the blood drain away from her face. If Yvin is here, she thought, he’s probably got the entire Hang delegation with him, and he’s idly promised them I’ll levitate the palace by lunchtime.

  Meralda reached the doors. As she turned the doorknob and pulled, the king spoke again. “Open for your king!” he cried, his voice lifting to a shout. “Open, lest I halve your pay and turn your laboratory into a stable!”

  Meralda barely had time to lift an eyebrow and step backward as the doors swung open.

  Before her stood a red-faced, open-mouthed palace guard. In his right hand he held a large bird cage, draped over with a white bed sheet. The guard’s expression was one of extreme and sudden horror.

  Kervis and Tervis, wide-eyed, flanked the lad, though their own twin faces were masks of barely concealed mirth.

  The birdcage spoke. “Good morning, Mistress,” it said, in Mug’s voice. “Take me inside, won’t you? All this swinging about has left me quite ill.”

  The guard, a young lad unknown to Meralda, thrust the birdcage out to her. “He asked to be brought here, Thaumaturge. The door guards approved it.”

  Meralda took the bird cage. The guard saluted, turned, and fled. Kervis, straight-faced, quietly shut the laboratory door.

  “I’m impressed,” said Meralda. “How did you manage this?”


  A single red eye poked out beyond the bed sheet. “I sang,” said Mug. “‘La Volta’ from Nights in the Sun. I did all four voices,” he added, proudly. “Friend and music lover Mrs. Whitlonk called for Doorman Smith. I asked him to call for a guard, a bird cage, and a bed sheet, and here I am, ready to serve,” he said. The eye turned away from surveying the laboratory and fixed itself on Meralda. “How do you stand it?” he asked. “The world, spinning and moving about like this—ugh,” he said, retracting his eye.

  Meralda bore him to her desk, cleared a space of papers, and set the cage gently down.

  “No more spinning, at least for the moment,” she said. “May I remove the sheet?”

  “Please do,” said Mug. Meralda lifted the bed sheet, and Mug blinked in the light.

  “I see things haven’t changed here,” he said, peering about in all directions at once. Half his eyes fell upon the papers scattered across Meralda’s long desk. “You’re making progress,” he added.

  Meralda shrugged. “Some,” she said. She frowned at the bird cage, and tilted her head. “You’ll lose leaves if you sit here all day without the sun,” she said. “Wait a moment.”

  Meralda walked quickly to the west wall, where old Goboy’s scrying mirror stood, glowing faintly behind its blanket. Meralda grasped it by both sides and pulled, dragging it carefully across the floor until it rested beside her desk, leaning against a cabinet filled with second century glassworks.

  Mug regarded the covered mirror with all of his eyes. “That’s old Goboy’s scrying glass, isn’t it?” he said. “Still have to keep it covered, I see.”

  “It is, and I do,” replied Meralda. She reached out, grasped the plain blue blanket that covered the glass, pulled it away, and let it drop to the floor.

  For a moment, her reflection looked back at her. Meralda brought her hand to her lips, considering her words. The Meralda in the mirror, hands still at her sides, smiled and took a single step forward, as if she were about to step out of the frame and into the laboratory.

  “Spooky,” said Mug.

  “Mirror, mirror,” said Meralda, as her reflection winked and put forth its right hand, palm up, beckoning Meralda to take it, and follow. “Show me sky,” said Meralda, forcing herself to meet her reflection’s gaze. “Sky, above the palace, and none of your tricks. I’m not in the mood. Is that clear?”

  Meralda’s reflection drew back its hand, blew Meralda a kiss, and vanished. Sudden bright sunlight poured from the glass.

  “Ahhh,” said Mug, swiveling his leaves toward the light. “Better. Thank, you, Mage,” he added.

  Meralda kicked the blanket aside and pulled back her chair. With a sidelong glance at the mirror, which showed only blue sky and the top half of a slow-moving airship, she sat, and regarded her papers.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Mug,” she said, with a sigh. Meralda considered Mug’s aversion to travel and sought out a pair of his blue eyes. “What made you do it?”

  “Well, what sort of assistant perches above the kitchen sink all day when his thaumaturge is off casting eldritch spells in the palace?” said Mug. “A poor one, that’s what,” he added, quickly. “So I decided a bit of traveling was in order, until this ordeal is done.” He tossed his leaves dismissively. “It’s not so bad, really, once one gets over the nausea, the vertigo, the feeling of one’s roots falling as the earth plummets away.”

  Meralda shook her head. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” said Mug. “Now then. It looks like you’ve got the spellworks roughed out, if nothing else.”

  “I do,” said Meralda. “All two hundred and forty-two of them.”

  Mug was silent a moment. “One at a time, mistress,” he said. “Just like in college.” Mug poked forth a tendril and pointed at a diagram. “You’ll start here, will you?”

  Meralda leaned back, and closed her eyes. It’s only sixteen days, she said, to herself. Sixteen more days.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll start there.” Just like college. One crisis at a time. “The latching spell will be the worst of all. Before I cast the real thing, though, I need to latch a quarter-scale version to the Tower, and hang a pair of refractors to that, and keep everything hung there a day and a night.” She opened her eyes. “If I hurry, I could latch and hang all three today, before sunset.” If, she added silently, that idiot king will leave me alone long enough to work.

  Mug tapped the paper. “Spoken like a mage,” he said. “Shall I check over your math, just in case?”

  “Please do,” said Meralda. She rose and spread her papers for Mug to see. “I’ll get started on the latch.”

  Mug’s eyes poked between the wire bars of his bird cage, and he peered at papers and began to hum. By the time Meralda was at her work bench, Mug was issuing a perfect rendition of Sovett’s Music for the Night, including the hundred-voice chorus and the flute ensemble.

  Meralda smiled, spoke a word, clamped a copper cable that ran up from the floor to the metal bench top, and put forth her Sight. Her work bench was suddenly lit with dozens of small glows and hanging traceries of light. The sharp silver tines of the five hundred year old charge dissipater bolted to the far end of the bench began to hiss and spit tiny sparks toward the ceiling.

  She picked up a fresh holdstone. Then twisted the top, exposing the silver and gold contacts formed in the shapes of grinning dragon faces, and placed the holdstone down carefully on a sheet of oft-scorched felt. Then she found her favorite brass retaining wand amid the clutter, thought back to her calculations, and began to shape the latch.

  At noon, a courier arrived, bearing a note from Yvin. “Be excused from the noon court session,” it read. Meralda smiled. It was already half-past. I excused myself, thank you very much. “But please send word on the status of your shadow spell. The Hang seem fascinated by the idea.”

  The courier shuffled nervously from foot to foot, just outside the laboratory doors. Kervis and Tervis, Meralda noted, appeared to take no notice of the flashes and crackles that shone and sounded faintly at her back.

  She turned the king’s paper over and pulled a pencil from behind her ear.

  “Testing first spellworks today,” she wrote. “Will advise if test is successful.”

  Good, she thought. It’s vague and worrisome, but absolutely true.

  “Thank you,” she said, handing the message tray and paper back to the courier.

  He turned and trotted away.

  “Shall one of us fetch you some lunch, Thaumaturge?” Kervis asked.

  “Do that,” replied Meralda. “Get some for yourselves, and wrap something up for Angis, too,” she said.

  “Are we going to the Tower?” asked Tervis.

  Meralda met his eyes. “To the Tower, yes,” she said. “But not up it. We’ll be working from the park today.”

  Relief eased the features of both Bellringers’ faces. “Good,” said Tervis. “The night watch saw lights again last night.”

  Meralda nodded, as if she knew. I’ve got to get a paper, she thought. Not that a word of it can be believed.

  “That won’t concern us today,” she said. “If one of you will fetch us lunch, I’ll be ready to go when you return.”

  “I’ll go,” said Tervis. He grinned slightly. “I’m sure the general here can’t carry food and his new siege piece.”

  Kervis reddened. Meralda glanced down and to her right, at the crossbow propped against the wall, and realized this weapon was even larger than the monstrous Oldmark the boy had been carrying the day before.

  “The armorer said it was the very latest weapon available,” said Kervis, airily. “It’s got twice the stopping power of an Oldmark.”

  Meralda lifted her hand. “I’m sure it’s a formidable crossbow,” she said. “And I appreciate your zeal. Both of you.” She smiled. “Now then. Lunch? And then to the Tower?”

  “We’ll be ready,” said Tervis. “Back in a bit.”

  Meralda nodded, stepped back, and let the doors swing sh
ut.

  “What’s he got out there?” asked Mug. “A mule-drawn catapult?”

  “Nearly,” said Meralda, softly. She made her way back to her work bench. “The lad seems to expect a surprise attack by armored assassins,” she added.

  “He might do better to expect ghosts,” said Mug. Meralda pretended not to hear.

  “Let’s see,” she said aloud. “I’ll need the holdstones, both retaining wands, the charger and the Riggin bottles.” She pulled her instrument bag from beneath the work bench and opened it. “What else?”

  Mug reeled off more instruments and implements, and Meralda began to pack them carefully in her bag. More lights, she mused, as she worked. Unless news of the Hang overshadows the Tower, the papers will be full of news of the haunting.

  Or worse, thought Meralda. Thus far, the papers had been content to play up the lights. But Meralda remembered something else she’d read, more than once, in old books about the Tower. The lights in the flat were also said to precede disaster for Tirlin.

  Lights, Meralda recalled, were seen in the summer of 1566. In the autumn of that year, the Red Fever had swept through the Realms, taking half of Tirlin to the grave. The lights in 1714 preceded a great shaking of the ground which toppled two of the palace spires, destroyed half a city block in the Narrows, and sent the Lamp River running backwards for three days.

  Dates and calamities raced through Meralda’s mind. She assured herself that many of the stories were no more than just stories, and tales of lights in the flat almost certainly sprang up well after the events.

  Still, though, the lights in 1566 and the ones in 1714 were well documented, as were the calamities they were said to presage.

  And yet the papers—even the Post—said nothing. Meralda wondered idly if Yvin had some control over the press after all.

  “Mistress?” said Mug. “You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?”

  Meralda looked up and smiled. “Constantly,” she said.

  Mug snorted. “I was saying,” he said, in Mrs. Whitlonk’s voice, “that perhaps you ought to consider rummaging through this wizard’s treasure trove and picking out something small and lethal to carry. Surely some of these wondrous mighty magics have offensive uses.”