by Frank Tuttle
What would Shingvere ask, if he were here?
“Very well, Tower,” she said. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions of you?”
“It is vital that you do so,” replied the Tower. “Else I would not have revealed myself.”
Mug’s leaves shook. “I knew it,” he said, in a whisper to Meralda. “I knew it. All this meddling with shadows and wards. Something’s wrong. So badly wrong it’s breaking a thousand years of silence and using your mirror to do it.”
“Hush,” said Meralda, with a glare.
“The construct is correct,” said the Tower. “Master forbade me to reveal myself, and I have obeyed. Until now.”
“Why?” asked Meralda. “And why to me?”
“Because Tirlin is doomed,” said the Tower. “Doomed, by Master’s hand. I can no longer stay his wrath. It is my hope that perhaps you can.”
Meralda put down the Inferno. Steady, she said to herself. Perhaps it is merely engaging in melodrama.
“Doomed, in what way?”
“See this.”
The image in the glass rippled, twisted, and became an exterior view of the Tower.
From the flat, a series of spokes shot out, parallel to the ground. At the end of each spoke, a dark mass formed, and then the spokes began to turn.
Mug turned eyes upon Meralda. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”
“Briefly,” she answered. “In the park, when my first latch collapsed.”
“Yes,” said the Tower. In the glass, Meralda saw her latch and refractors form, watched as the latch was chewed in half by the turning spokes, saw it fall away and vanish.
“I allowed your shadow moving spell to latch,” said the Tower. “I thought it harmless. I was wrong.”
The spokes began to wobble as they turned, and the steady flight of the dark masses took on a bobbing quality. “The instability is growing,” it said. “Soon, the binding will fail.”
In the glass, the spokes jerked and flailed. Some lost speed, some began to turn faster. Then they collided and tangled and tore each other apart.
The dark masses broke free, one by one, and were hurtled out and away, vanishing from the glass.
Meralda shivered. Like falcons tethered to a pole, she’d thought, upon glimpsing them in the park.
“Curseworks,” she said, aloud. “Aren’t they?”
“They are,” replied the Tower. “Fire. Pestilence. Decay. Madness.” The Tower paused. “And others, more subtle, yet no less destructive. There are twelve. Master was vengeful, at the end.”
The image in the glass flashed, and the spokes and the masses were gone, replaced by the flat and the staves.
“How long?” asked Meralda.
“I may be able to maintain the binding for another two hundred and forty hours,” replied the Tower. “Perhaps less. But certainly no more. After that, Master’s curses will fall, and Tirlin will be consumed.”
Even Phillitrep’s Engine seemed to halt, as if listening.
“Two hundred and forty hours is ten days,” said Mug.
“Consumed,” said Meralda. “Are you speaking figuratively, perhaps?”
“Burned, razed, broken, ground to dust,” replied the Tower. “Employ what euphemism you will. Master designed the destruction to be complete. ‘Utter and thorough,’ he said. ‘Let us visit upon them what they have brought to me’.”
Meralda met Mug’s wide and staring eyes. He’s dying to ask the Tower why it isn’t just keeping quiet and letting the curseworks fall, she thought. And that isn’t a bad question.
“If that was your master’s plan,” she said, slowly, “why aren’t you just letting it happen?”
The Tower image flickered. “At the end, Master seemed confused,” it replied. “He was dying. His works were lost. His lands were aflame. But he looked upon the curseworks, and he was saddened, and I believe he tried to dispel them.”
Meralda nodded. Nothing was known about Otrinvion’s final hours. Perhaps he wasn’t the heartless villain of legend, after all.
“Did your master perhaps leave records concerning these curseworks behind?”
“He did not. They were crafted in a place beyond my senses. I know almost nothing of their basic natures.”
“And yet you believe I can render them harmless.”
The Tower hesitated.
“My knowledge of the kingdoms and the mages they employ is extensive,” it said. Meralda thought of Goboy’s glass, hanging in the laboratory for the last four hundred years. Had the Tower been watching and listening, all that time? Before that time, even? “You are the most skilled mage in all the Realms. If you do not try, then doom will befall Tirlin. I believe Master would find this event undesirable. Thus, I am bound to make every effort to forestall it.”
Mug swapped eyes between Meralda and the mirror.
“Are those your master’s staves?”
“They are.”
“Mistress,” said Mug. “If that’s true, and friend Tower is telling the truth—”
“I am.”
“—they would certainly be able to handle a Vonat or two, wouldn’t they? What about it, Tower? We help you with your little doom problem, you let the mage here borrow Nameless and Faceless?”
“Mug!”
“The staves are not under my control,” said the Tower. “They obey me when it suits them, but only then. I have already directed them to assist the mage in her efforts. If the mage is in danger, then I believe they will act to protect her.”
“You believe?” Mug tossed his leaves. “How about it, kindling wood? Do we have a deal?”
Meralda nearly shoved Mug in a drawer.
The staves stood still.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Mug, be silent.” Meralda pulled back her chair and sat.
It could be lying, she thought. Or it could be a Vonat trick. Or a trap left by Otrinvion. Or any number of other nefarious schemes brought to life by who knows who. It could be the Hang, the Vonats, or rogue members of Tirlin’s own court.
Or it could be exactly what it says it is, and it could be telling a terrible, terrible truth.
“Tower. You said you knew nearly nothing of the curseworks and their natures.”
“Correct.”
Meralda shoved aside a heap of papers, found a fresh sheet and her pencil. “So tell me everything you do know. In as much detail as you can provide, please.”
Mug shook his leaves and brought all his eyes together in a multi-colored blinking clump.
The Tower began to speak, filling the glass with diagrams and symbols, and Meralda wrote long into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
Even exhausted, Meralda could not bring herself to sleep in the laboratory. Not with Goboy’s mirror and whatever lay within looking out at her all night.
So she put Mug in his birdcage and roused the Bellringers and headed for home. She was sure she heard something very much like the flutter of wings overhead, but she did not lift her gaze.
After all, she mused as the cab rolled homeward, there is precious little I could do against them, if they are indeed the Nameless and the Faceless of legend.
Mug didn’t speak at all. His eyes remained upturned, staring at the cloudy, starless sky.
It was two of the clock by the time Meralda tip-toed over her threshold. Mug kept all but two of his eyes shut against the swaying of the cage, and didn’t stop shaking until he was once again safe on the kitchen table.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me all that was just a bad dream, mistress,” he whispered.
Meralda shook off her boots on the rug. “I’m afraid not, Mug.”
“Do you think they’re here? The you-know-whats?”
“I don’t know. Probably. But if they are, I expect them to behave. This is my home, and they are guests within it.”
“And if they wake Mrs. Whitlonk she’ll shave them down to toothpicks,” added Mug.
Meralda gazed about her kitchen. If the stav
es were present, they were quiet and remaining out of sight.
I don’t suppose I can hope for more than that, thought Meralda.
“You should get some sleep,” said Mug. “I’ll keep watch, if you like.”
Meralda smiled. “No need. We’re as safe as we can possibly be, I suppose.”
Mug tossed his leaves wearily. “At least move me into the bedroom.” He clenched his eyes shut. “Quickly, please.”
Meralda rose and caught Mug up, before he could change his mind.
The five-twenty trolley roused Meralda from a troubled, restless sleep. She moaned and fought her way out of her tangled bedclothes and stumbled toward her bathroom.
Mug tossed as she passed, but none of his eyes opened. Meralda paused to draw back her curtains, so the dandyleaf plant would have the first rays of the sunrise, and then set about bathing and dressing.
That done, she sought out breakfast, remembering too late that her cupboards were bare. So she sat and combed her hair while Mug spread his leaves to the bright morning sun.
The Bellringers came trundling to her door precisely on time, bearing coffee and pastries. Meralda seated them at her tiny kitchen table and ate while they traded ‘how many Vonat’ jokes with Mug.
Meralda wiped pastry crumbs off her chin and drained the last sip of coffee from her cup. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, rising. The Bellringers leaped to their feet. “We should be on our way.”
“I’m going too,” said Mug, mournfully. “Pray prepare my carriage.”
“At once, Your Highness.” Kervis fetched Mug’s cage, while Meralda pulled a folded sheet from her linen closet.
“Cheeky little devils, aren’t they?”
“Hush, Mug,” said Meralda. She gently put Mug in his cage and draped the sheet over it before handing it to Kervis.
“To the Tower, court, or the laboratory, ma’am?”
“The lab,” replied Meralda. She forced herself to smile. “I have a lot to do.”
Angis deftly maneuvered the carriage through the press of morning traffic. Meralda had called for him to stop at Flayne’s for one more cup of coffee, which she held carefully aloft as the carriage bumped and wobbled. The coffee steamed, fresh out of the pot and blazing hot.
Meralda was glad Tervis sat with her, because his presence certainly kept Mug from questioning her choice of destination. I’m sure he’s wondering why I’m not immediately going to the king with news of the Tower, and the curseworks.
And I’m not sure I have a good answer for him, just yet.
On one hand, if doom truly is about to befall Tirlin, the king should be the first to be told. There might be time to abandon the city.
Outside the carriage, traffic flowed past. Voices were raised in greetings and laughter. Shopkeeps struggled to remove their window shutters as they opened for another day of business. Dirigibles soared past overhead, casting long fast shadows over storefronts and crowded sidewalks.
Abandon Tirlin?
How?
She shook her head. No. That we cannot do.
Even if I somehow convinced the king of Tirlin to flee the crown city and drag the entire populace with him at sword point, where would we all go? Cappas is a third the size of Tirlin. Romin not even that.
I refuse to live in a tent, vowed Meralda. There must be another way.
If I tell Yvin before I’m sure, she decided, he would only complicate matters by involving the army or the guilds. He might even decide to mount another attempt to knock the Tower down.
Meralda shivered at the thought.
“Something wrong, Mage?”
“Nothing. Just a chill.”
Mug snorted from beneath his bed sheet.
Also, thought Meralda, if what the captain said yesterday was correct, the Vonats started bribing court functionaries a year or more ago, all with the aim of wreaking havoc at the Accords. They may have even installed Hang eavesdropping spells in the Gold Room itself, and if so, discussing the Tower’s story of the doom bound for Tirlin would be nothing short of disastrous.
So no. Not the king. At least not today.
“Penny for your thoughts,” quipped Mug.
Meralda closed her eyes and tried to blow her coffee cool.
The castle was awash in uniformed soldiers, court members arrayed in all their finery, and a roving mob of penswifts which swept from place to place shouting questions and trying with little success to elbow their way past a dozen bemused guardsmen armed with short, stout lengths of oak.
Meralda was halfway to the doors when the penswifts spotted her and charged with two dozen strident cries of “Mage Ovis! Mage Ovis!”
The Bellringers stepped ahead of her, hands raised. “Don’t crowd, don’t crowd,” cried Kervis, above the din. “Back off, I say! Back off or else!”
Meralda frowned and marched ahead. If I let them stop me, she thought, I’ll be half an hour elbowing my way through them.
Penswifts and court functionaries and Bellringers all met in a mob. Mug shouted something, but Meralda couldn’t make out his words.
“Mage Ovis,” bellowed the closest penswift. His words were instantly repeated by a dozen of his fellows, and Meralda was quickly surrounded by a press of arms and chests and faces.
The Bellringers shoved and shouted. Penswifts yelled back. A paperboy caught in the press squealed and managed to slip past a sea of legs.
A splash of red and green moving through the crowd caught Meralda’s eye, as she shoved and sidled her way through the penswifts. Looks a bit like an Alon kilt.
“Mistress!” cried Mug. “Something isn’t right!”
The crowd shifted, just for an instant, and in that instant Meralda caught of glimpse of a tall, bearded, red-haired Alon, clad in kilt and sash, shoving his way through the mob toward her.
Mug shouted again. The only word Meralda made out was ‘knife’.
The Alon marched steadily forward, shoving penswifts to the pavement, pushing court staff roughly aside.
Meralda looked for his hands, and saw a brief glimmer of steel.
She tried to run. She tried to force her way past the ring of penswifts who shouted questions at her face, at her back. She didn’t dare put Mug’s cage down for fear he’d be trampled and her other hand still gripped the oversized paper mug of hot coffee and though she shouted for the Bellringers she could see neither of them.
The Alon charged. Penswifts went flying. Meralda tried to hurl herself backwards, but the tightly packed bodies at her back kept her pinned to the spot, and the bearded Alon shoved his way to her, knife uplifted.
Meralda hurled her hot coffee square in his face. The Alon howled and stabbed, missing Meralda’s chest by a hand’s breadth and allowing her to land a single solid kick somewhere in the region of his ornate clan belt buckle. The man folded at the waist, cursing and spitting.
Meralda tried to dash away, but again the crowd held her fast. As the Alon straightened and lifted his knife again, Meralda snatched Mug’s sheet away and hurled it at his face.
He batted it away.
Blurs rushed past Meralda on both sides. The Bellringers flung themselves at the Alon, both striking him at his knees. Alon and Bellringers and half a dozen bystanders went down in a tangle, grappling and punching, rolling and shouting.
Whistles blew. A column of guardsmen charged into the fray, swords drawn, and the crowd evaporated as quickly as it had formed.
Three burly guards in full plate encircled Meralda. The rest grabbed combatants and fallen penswifts and Bellringers alike, hauling each to their feet and warning them to stillness and silence with gruff shakes and glares.
The Alon was gone.
“There was an Alon!” said Kervis, wiping blood from his lip. “I tackled him!”
Meralda whirled, but the people hurrying away from the guards were Tirlish or Phendelits or Eryans. Not a scrap of Alon plaid could be seen anywhere on the street.
The captain, himself, came charging out of the castle, sword drawn, e
yes ablaze. He saw Meralda and ran for her. More boots sounded from just beyond the doors.
“Thaumaturge!” he shouted. “What happened here?”
“Nothing at all happened here, Captain,” she said, forcing a smile. “Nothing at all. Why don’t you see us inside?”
The captain frowned. His men exchanged confused glances. Kervis kicked Tervis in the shins when the younger Bellringer made as if to protest.
“Someone get my bloody sheet,” muttered Mug. “It’s going to be that kind of day.”
Meralda nodded a quick thanks to her trio of perplexed guards, gently hefted Mug’s cage, and bade the Bellringers follow her into the dubious safety of the castle.
“He tried to kill you, mistress,” said Mug, quivering with fury. “How can you be so calm about it?”
“She’s using her head, houseplant,” said the captain. “Something you should try, now and then.”
“Demanding an arrest, threatening the Alons? That’s just what they want me to do, Mug. Calm down and you’ll see that.”
“All I saw was a bloody big knife, mistress. And a man determined to stab you with it.” Mug tossed his leaves and bunched his eyes. “Tervis? Kervis? Either of you care to chime in?”
The Bellringers withered under the captain’s sudden glare.
“Perhaps we saw an Alon, and perhaps we didn’t, Mug.” Meralda shivered at the memory of the bearded man bearing down on her. “He came from nowhere. He vanished without a trace, despite being a foot taller than everyone else and wearing more bright red plaid than anyone in the crowd. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”
Mug snorted. “So he’s sneaky and a fast runner. Mistress. Dorn Mukirk was ready to kill you himself, just a few days ago. What makes you believe this Alon wasn’t some kin of his?”
“Because Alon blood feuds follow certain rules, houseplant. One of them is the formal declaration of feud by the offended party. Has Dorn Mukirk sent you a letter, Thaumaturge? A letter which mentions a fight to the death, honor of the clan, that sort of thing?”
“Of course not.”
