All the Paths of Shadow

by Frank Tuttle

  The captain nodded. “There you are, then. This wasn’t a blood feud. Someone just wanted to make it look that way.”

  “A murder committed in a crowd of penswifts would be just the thing to wreck the Accords.”

  Mug deflated. “You won’t even talk to the Alon queen, mistress? She liked you. You could at least be sure.”

  “I am sure, Mug. That man was no more Alon than you or I.” She looked to the captain. “But he looked the part. The penswifts will certainly claim this was an act of hot-headed Alon mischief.”

  “The penswifts can write whatever they want. I sent a runner to the king before the fight broke up. The papers won’t print a word of it.”

  Meralda lifted her right eyebrow. “Even the king can’t deny them the right to publish.”

  The captain chuckled. “No. But he can appeal to their patriotism and beg them for silence.”

  “He might as well whistle them a dancing tune,” snapped Mug. “Murder sells papers.”

  “Bribes seal lips,” mused the captain. “Especially very large royal bribes, which are usually accompanied by subtle hints of royal mayhem.”

  “So the papers won’t print a story of an assassination attempt on the steps of the castle.”

  “Not this time.” The captain turned to face the Bellringers. “You two. Charging that fiend, knocking him down. Rare good sense, that. I don’t have access to the royal purse, but will put in a word for both of you. End of summer might see you lads promoted.”

  The Bellringers exchanged grins. “Thank you, sir,” said Kervis.

  The captain rose, groaned, and turned toward the door.

  “Got to get back out there,” he said. “I’ll be back around later. You two see that the thaumaturge doesn’t run into any more vanishing Alons.”

  The Bellringers nodded.

  Mug tossed his leaves in disgust. “So that’s it? The king bribes the papers, and you just go about your day as though nothing happened?”

  “Kervis. Tervis. Take your posts, please. We won’t be leaving for a while.”

  The Bellringers leaped to their feet.

  “And thank you. You were both very brave out there.”

  The brothers blushed in identical shades of crimson and bolted for the door.

  Meralda waited for the door to slam before rising and pulling the scrap of tarp off Goboy’s glass.

  The Wizard’s Flat was there, lit by horizontal shafts of early morning sun. Nameless and Faceless were gone.

  “Good morning,” said Meralda.

  “I assume your remark is rhetorical in nature.” The image in the glass wavered a bit, then stabilized. “Yes. An informal greeting. Forgive me. I have not carried on a conversation in nearly a millennia.”

  “The mage was attacked not an hour ago, Tower,” snapped Mug. “Attacked by a man who appeared from nowhere and vanished in broad daylight. Your famous sticks of lumber didn’t so much as say boo.” The dandyleaf shot an accusatory vine toward the glass. “I thought you said we could expect a bit of help from that lot.”

  “Attacked? By whom?”

  Meralda waved her hand at Mug for silence. “By someone posing as an Alon,” she said. “Someone with magical assistance. I do not believe he simply slipped away on a busy street with half the guard out looking for him”

  “Interesting. I, too, was the subject of an attack at approximately that time.”

  “You? Attacked?” Mug snorted. “With what, battering rams and pick-axes?”

  “Someone attempted to latch a moderately complicated spellwork to my main structure. I deflected it, of course, but the construction of the spell was most unusual.”

  “Unusual how?”

  “I have maintained an intimate familiarity with every arcane practice in all of the Realms,” replied the Tower. “Vonat, Phendelit, Eryan, Alon. I am expert in them all.”

  “Your wooden friends do a lot of traveling, don’t they?”

  “Mug.” Meralda rose and began to pace. “And this was something new?”

  “It was.”

  “Do you know who sent it?”

  “Not yet. I know the general area from which it originated. The spell caster was careful to maintain a considerable distance and employ a number of obfuscatory measures.”

  “Dorleigh and Ventham,” said Mug. “Somewhere between those two streets, wasn’t it?”

  The Tower’s tone took on a hint of bemusement. “Just so, construct,” it said. “Just so.”

  Meralda frowned. Mug turned a trio of eyes toward her.

  “I may be just a lowly construct, mistress, but I do read the Post. The Vonats rented out a couple of rooming houses in that neighborhood. They always do that, since they throw the kind of parties King Yvin won’t stand for.”

  “I dispatched Nameless and Faceless to that area as soon as I detected the intrusion,” said the Tower. “Their absence during your difficulty was thus my fault. I apologize.”

  “Well. Finally.” Mug tossed his fronds. “Was that so hard?”

  “The staves.” Meralda thought for a moment. “Have they returned?”

  “No. I can attempt to recall them now, if you wish. Though I cannot guarantee their timely obedience.”

  Meralda paused in her pacing. “No. Let them be. Though I would like to hear what they found, when they return.”

  “As you wish.” The Tower fell silent for a moment. “Have you considered the matter of the curseworks, Mage Ovis?”

  As if I’ve considered anything else, thought Meralda. “I have. Tower, a question. This unique new magic you encountered, could it be Hang magic?”

  “I have considered that. I simply have no knowledge of the Hang or their arcane traditions. But given the presence of the Hang, it seems likely. You suspect collusion between Hang and Vonath?”

  “I suspect a few rogue elements within the Hang may be involved. And all of Vonath, including the rats, the crows and the crickets.”

  The Tower hesitated.

  “Humor.”

  Meralda chuckled. “An attempt. But if we face Hang magic, we need to know something about it. And who knows? There might be something in the Hang traditions that can help repair the spokes.”

  “A possibility.”

  There came a knock at the door. The image in the glass shook, and became nothing but a simple refection of Meralda and Mug.

  Kervis stuck his head in the door.

  “Ma’am,” he called. “It’s Mr. Donchen. He says he doesn’t have an appointment, but he needs to see you.” Kervis grinned. “He’s brought more food, too. They have two kinds of breakfast over there, and he’s brought both.”

  Meralda pushed back her hair, wished she’d had time to comb it, and forced a smile.

  “Well, show him right in,” she called. “He’s just the man I wanted to see.”

  “That was excellent,” said Meralda, pushing away her empty plate.

  Donchen smiled and made a little bow with his head. Meralda caught herself staring again, trying to guess his age. There were no wrinkles at the corners of his almond-shaped grey eyes. His short-cropped hair was a uniform inky black. His teeth were perfect, and a brilliant white.

  He grinned back, and Meralda blushed.

  “I am glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “Though I must confess, I did not prepare any of this. Chef Inglee did all the work. I merely stole the serving cart.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I’ve had nothing but coffee in ages.”

  Donchen nodded. “You are a busy woman, Mage Ovis. Dining with possibly nefarious foreigners. Being attacked on the palace steps by vanishing Alons. It’s a wonder you ever dine at all.”

  Mug bunched his eyes.

  “You know about that.”

  “I was there.”

  “Didn’t see you rushing to anyone’s aid,” muttered Mug.

  “I was too far away,” replied Donchen, nonplussed. “But not so far away that I couldn’t confirm the use of a very familiar charm. I did in fact make an effort
to track your assailant, Mage Ovis. I fear I failed in that effort, shortly after commencing it.”

  “Was he heading south, when last you saw him?”

  Donchen nodded. “He was. This is significant?”

  Meralda shrugged. “It’s suggestive. The Vonats have rented a pair of boarding houses south of the palace.”

  “Hmm. I see.” Meralda watched the man’s face. He kept it blank, but she didn’t need Sight to see his mind working behind his eyes.

  “You said I could ask you anything, yesterday,” she said. “Did you mean that?”

  “I did.”

  Meralda leaned forward. “All right. Then I have a question. Who are you?”

  “And none of that friendly cook business, either,” added Mug. “You know what she means.”

  Donchen smiled. “I do. I will answer, though you may find it troubling at first. I am a ghost.”

  Mug snorted. “You eat a lot for a specter.”

  “That’s not what he means,” said Meralda. “Is it?”

  “No. It is customary, you see, for persons of my position and background to spend a certain number of years as a sohata. A ghost. As a sohata, I may walk where I will, speak as I will, act as I will. No one of the House of Chentze sees or hears me. Thus, I am a ghost.”

  “But not the dead and buried sort? No rising from the grave or feasting on the blood of the living?” Mug stared hard at Donchen with all twenty-nine of his eyes. “Because we take a dim view of those sorts of goings-on here in Tirlin.”

  Donchen laughed. “I assure you, Mug, I neither rise from the grave nor feast on blood. I much prefer feather beds and vegetables.”

  “A ghost.” Meralda searched his eyes for any hint of deceit. “So your Mighty Dragon has no idea you’re speaking with me?”

  “I am sohata, Mage Ovis. I walk unseen. My only voice the wind. The tradition is ancient and much venerated. Even private speculation concerning a ghost is believed to invite a bewildering variety of dooms.”

  That actually makes sense, thought Meralda. No wonder he seems to do as he pleases. I could certainly use a year or two as a ghost myself.

  “You say you followed the Alon?”

  “I did,” said Donchen. “Though I suspect he was no more Alon than you or Mug or I. He was using a charm of concealment to alter his appearance. You suspected this too, did you not?”

  Meralda nodded. She didn’t glance toward Goboy’s glass, but she knew the Tower was listening.

  “I fear the charm employed the magic of my homeland,” said Donchen, frowning. “For that, I apologize.”

  Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “Only a person with Sight could even detect magic,” she said. “And only one with talent and training could identify it.”

  Donchen laughed and spread his hands. “I make no claims to any great prowess in the arts,” he said. “But I do have some small knowledge. As a sohata, I have spent hours looking over Loman’s shoulders. I may even have pocketed a trinket or two.” He grinned and reached into his pockets with both hands.

  “Why, look here,” he said, placing two small objects on either side of his empty plate. “I can’t imagine how these came to fall in my pockets.”

  Mug immediately aimed a cluster of eyes at each small device.

  One appeared to be a small brass compass, the lid flipped open to reveal a needle, tipped in red, pointing steadily at the laboratory doors. But when Meralda looked closer, she saw that the face of the dial lacked any markings for directions. Instead, a pair of brass wheels, each worked with tiny Hang symbols, moved and spun according to workings she couldn’t see.

  The other device resembled a perfume bottle, complete with an elegant spray bulb. The glass was crystal, cut with ornate designs and gilded with delicate gold filigree.

  “Hang ghosts have sticky fingers,” observed Mug. “I’m beginning to like you after all.”

  “What are these?” asked Meralda, resisting the urge to pick them up and inspect them closer. “And why have you brought them to me?”

  Donchen smiled. “This,” he said, picking up the compass, “is a very simple device which will point out spellworks. Hang spellworks, I mean. Most of the arcane traditions of the Realms simply won’t register, which is why the needle is ignoring the many wonders housed here and is instead pointing that way. South, isn’t it? Well, our ships are docked south of here, and I’m sure that accounts for some of the indication. But see these dials? This one indicates distance. This one denotes intensity.”

  Donchen offered the device to Meralda, and she took it.

  The needle pointed toward the door, and the tiny wheels spun and whirled.

  “Those characters are numbers,” said Donchen. “I’ll scribble them and their Kingdom counterparts down for you before I go. We measure feet in nearly the same way. I’ll leave figures for that too.”

  He picked up the bottle, and placed it carefully in Meralda’s hand.

  “This is a more, um, active magic,” he said. “I hope you don’t find a need for it. But, if you should find yourself facing hostile persons again, spray them with this. You’ll find they cannot hide from you afterward, no matter where they run, no matter what spells they employ. If you see them again, you will know.”

  Meralda regarded the bottle carefully. It was nearly full of a clear liquid, and though the beveled edges of the cuts and the gold filigree made seeing inside it difficult, it seemed as though something moved deep within it.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a magic sword in a pocket somewhere, do you?” asked Mug. “Something a little more martial than a squirt of water to the nose?”

  “Perhaps next time.” Donchen rose and stretched. “I feel the need for a walk, Mage Ovis. I think I’ll amble about your fair city for a bit. Perhaps I’ll take in some new sights. What neighborhood would you suggest I visit, pray tell?”

  Meralda rose and smiled. “I hear the area between Dorleigh and Ventham streets is interesting this time of year. You might even see a Vonat or two there, though I understand they try to keep out of sight.”

  Donchen nodded. “We’ll just see how talented they are at that, won’t we?” He bowed, tossed Mug a salute, and gathered up empty plates and dirty silverware.

  “I’m sure we’ll speak again soon, Mage Ovis,” he said.

  Meralda pulled his serving cart by her desk and helped him clear away the remains of the meal.

  “I’m sure we will, Mr. Donchen,” she said.

  “Please. I am sohata. Call me Donchen. No one will hear.”

  “Only if you call me Meralda.” Meralda blushed, for no reason she could determine.

  Mug groaned and pretended to suffer a sudden attack of blight.

  “You’re going to trust him? Just like that?”

  “Did I tell him about the Tower? Did I tell him anything he didn’t already know?” Meralda stood, glared, and began to pace. “Perhaps you failed to notice he’s been more than forthcoming, Mug. Far more than I.”

  “I think you’re succumbing to his otherworldly charms,” said Mug. “I think—”

  “I found no evidence of dissembling on the part of the young man,” said the Tower.

  “Oh, what do you know? You yourself admitted you hadn’t had a simple conversation in a thousand years. Now you’re an expert at sizing up strangers?”

  The Tower had no reply.

  Meralda shook her head. I wonder if Mug is right. I do like Donchen. There’s something genuine under that self-deprecating humor.

  “Oh, he’s a smooth talker, all right,” muttered Mug. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we know nothing about him other than what he tells us. Which he could be making up on the spot, for all we know.”

  “I don’t think so, Mug. He’s offered to help, which I need. So until he gives me a reason to distrust him, I’m not going to start.”

  “Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when he turns out to be a Vonat in disguise.”

  Meralda glared. Mug tossed his leaves and glared back.r />
  “Tower. Can you follow Donchen, watch what he does?”

  “With ease.” The scene in the mirror flashed, became a crow’s eye view of the Hang as he pushed his serving cart back toward the kitchen.

  Donchen smiled at the people he met in the halls, spoke to some, laughed with some. The image in the glass was silent, and Meralda found herself wishing she could hear what was said.

  “Good thinking, mistress,” said Mug. “I’ll keep eyes on him while you work.”

  The image of Donchen shrank until it occupied only half the glass. In the other, a drawing appeared, depicting the Tower and the damaged curseworks which spun atop it.

  Meralda sank back into her chair.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s start with the very first spell your master latched when he laid the curseworks. I need to know everything I can about the core of it, please.”

  The image in the glass shimmered. Some of it fell away, leaving only a whirling, tangled mass of fine lines spinning slowly against the dark.

  “Observe,” said the Tower. “There are four thousand, nine hundred, and fourteen elements. Each is independent of the other…”

  The Tower droned on. Mug watched Donchen leave the palace. Meralda covered three pages of drawing paper with notes and sketches. Donchen ambled down crowded city streets, his hands in his pockets, his lips pursed in a carefree whistle.

  Meralda called for coffee. Mug watched Donchen idle in front of stores, chat with strangers, wait and move with crowds as they were waved across streets by traffic masters.

  “He’s using magic of some sort,” muttered Mug. “No one seems to notice he’s Hang.”

  Meralda nodded, her pencil scratching across the page.

  “It is a minor charm of concealment,” said the Tower. “Phendelit in nature.”

  Mug imitated a derisive snort. “Stolen, then.”

  “Are you talking, Mug, or watching?”

  “Both, mistress.” Mug fell silent, his eyes intent on the glass.

  Donchen stopped to speak with a skirted Eryan flower girl. He spoke. She laughed. He produced a coin, and she produced a yellow rose. Donchen took it and walked away smiling.

  “Bet that’s for you,” whispered Mug.