by Frank Tuttle
And then Donchen rounded a corner. The image in the glass shifted, moving to keep the Hang centered in the glass.
As Donchen rounded the corner, he vanished.
Mug whistled and aimed a dozen suddenly rigid vines at the glass.
“Mistress!” he shouted. “He’s gone!”
Meralda looked up, frowning.
The street scene in the glass turned back and forth, as though searching. Passers-by walked past, but Donchen was nowhere to be seen.
“Impressive,” said the Tower.
“Impossible,” sputtered Mug. “Mistress, he’s made himself invisible!”
Meralda put her pencil down. “That’s not possible, Mug.”
“Then where is he?”
“He is precisely where he should be,” said the Tower. “Observe.”
The image shimmered. Meralda watched as pedestrians walked the sidewalk, and then she smiled.
“The people on the street can still see him, Mug,” she said, pointing at the glass. “Watch. They’re stepping aside. Slowing or speeding up to let him pass. It’s just us who can’t see him, because we’re using a spell.”
“Indeed. But see here.” The Tower paused, and the glass flickered, and Donchen was once again walking down a crowded sidewalk. “I have adjusted for his spell.”
Mug turned eyes toward Meralda. “That’s no Phendelit spell he’s using, is it, Tower?”
“It is not. I have not seen the like of it before. I surmise it is Hang.”
“I’ll bet a donut Mr. Fancy Pants knew you’d try to watch him, mistress,” said Mug. “A bit out of character, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s the Vonats he’s hiding from, Mug, and you know it. He has no idea we’re watching him too.”
“I agree with the mage,” said the Tower. “What a fascinating method of spell construction he employed.”
“I’ll want to see it too, when we’re done here.” Meralda rubbed her eyes. “If we’re ever done here.”
Mug groaned suddenly. “Oh, no,” he said.
Meralda looked to the glass again.
Shingvere darted out of a shop, watched Donchen for a moment, and waved to someone inside. An instant later, Fromarch appeared and joined the other wizard before both began to march down the street behind Donchen.
Mug shook his leaves. “This will not end well,” he said, as the two elderly wizards struggled to keep up with Donchen’s leisurely pace. “A pair of trumpet sounding trolls would be less conspicuous.”
The Tower spoke. “Another attempt is being made to latch a spell to my structure. I believe Donchen has detected its origin. He appears to be heading directly for it.”
“Can you deflect this one too?”
“Easily. I believe it best if I allow it to latch, though. Doing so will prevent further, possibly more damaging, attempts.”
A cab pulled to the curb beside Shingvere and Fromarch. A frail arm, clad in a loose white sleeve, beckoned to the wizards from the cab’s suddenly opened door.
The image in the glass shifted, revealing a brief image of the side of the cab.
Loman, the Hang mage, grinned from inside. He spoke briefly, and Shingvere and Fromarch exchanged shrugs and then heaved themselves into the cab, which pulled back into traffic, pacing Donchen.
Meralda bit back an Angis word. The retired mages were known to most of Tirlin and all of Vonath. Donchen might be wearing a Tirlish face, but anyone looking for curious eyes on the street will certainly see the mages, and probably wonder about the man they seem to be following.
“Well, that does it,” said Mug. “Nothing good ever came of that many wizards sneaking about.”
“Tower,” said Meralda. “Can you communicate with either Donchen or that bunch of meddlesome wizards?”
The Tower was silent for a moment.
“Doing so now will risk alerting any hostile practitioners in the area. Might I suggest an alternative?”
“Please.”
“Finch’s Movable Door.”
Meralda shook her head. “We only have one of the pair. The other was burned in the palace fire.”
“Mage Finch made three. He had a mistress on what is now Hopping Way. The third door still stands, and the third key is hidden beneath Mitter’s Hand of Letters.”
“This is a very bad idea, mistress!”
Meralda rummaged through her desk. Pencils, pens, rulers. But there, in the top drawer, was a silver letter opener she’d received at commencement and hadn’t touched since.
It wasn’t as big as a dagger, but it would have to suffice.
“Oh, at least take the incinerator!”
“And ignite a dozen pedestrians, or burn down the entire block?” Meralda sighed. “Tower. What aisle, what shelf?”
“Aisle five, halfway down, fourth shelf from the bottom. I suggest you take a stool.”
“Wisdom of the ages and the best he can suggest is a bloody stool,” muttered Mug.
“The spell is latching to my structure now,” said the Tower. “I will allow it. The spell caster is now at their most vulnerable. I suggest equal measures of haste and caution. I will be unable to communicate while I observe the latching. Fare thee well, Mage.”
Meralda hiked up her skirts and ran.
Key in hand, Meralda faced Finch’s Movable Door.
It leaned against the shelves. It was scuffed and dusty and the right side of it was charred nearly black. But the keyhole was intact, and the latch above it was whole.
“Mistress!” shouted Mug. “At least take a Bellringer!”
Oh, that won’t attract any attention, thought Meralda. No. This I do alone.
She took a deep breath, pushed the old iron key into the worn old lock, and turned it.
The lock clicked. Meralda put her hand on the latch and pulled the door open. She saw only the shelves of artifacts through the open door.
She took the key from the lock, put it in her pocket, and stepped through the door and onto Hopping Way.
Blinking, Meralda stepped down the three worn stone steps that led from the weather-beaten door at her back. A tabby cat looked up at her with impassive green eyes and then padded away, tail flicking.
Pedestrians hurried past. None stared or drew back or even paused for a second glance. Whatever spells Finch employed, thought Meralda, they were subtle.
Meralda remained on the last step, looking for landmarks or any sign of Donchen or the three wizards. There, just four buildings down, she recognized the whipping flag of the Royal Post Office, and she realized she was perhaps a full city block ahead of Donchen and his erstwhile entourage.
Which puts me practically next door to the Vonats, she thought. The silver letter opener felt very small and dull in her hand. What if Finch’s Door revealed my presence?
The Hang pointer in her pocket made a soft clicking sound. Meralda withdrew it, opened the case, and watched as the needle swung to face a point toward the Vonat compound.
The numbers in the dials whirled and finally settled. Meralda recalled Donchen’s voice as he had counted aloud in Hang, pointing to each character as he spoke.
Five hundred and forty feet. The spell caster was only five hundred and forty feet from where she stood. Which meant Fromarch and Shingvere were only five hundred and forty feet from rushing headlong into the fringes of a Vonat spell.
Meralda darted off the step, nimbly fell in step behind a Phendelit flower girl, and headed toward Donchen.
As she walked, a pair of shadows fluttered past. Crows?
Meralda put her head down and hurried past the flower girl.
Donchen was indeed concealing his almond-shaped eyes and inky black hair behind a charm. The spell lent him the appearance of a weary Eryan dock worker, complete with battered felt cap and sooty, calloused hands from handling dirigible mooring ropes.
But the spell failed to extend to his soft-soled shoes. Meralda spotted them instantly, gliding down the sidewalk, and she put herself square in his path.
&nbs
p; He stopped, his bearded Eryan face breaking into a wide grin.
“You’re being followed,” said Meralda, before he could speak. She caught his elbow and guided him off the sidewalk and into the doorway of a cigar shop.
“Really? What an amazing day I’m having. By whom?”
“Loman. And mages Shingvere and Fromarch. They’re even sharing a cab.”
Donchen sighed and rubbed his face. His hand passed through the specter of his beard. “Marvelous. Do you think our spell casting friend has spotted them yet? He’s trying to transport a rather large spell, by the way. Where to, I have no idea.”
“I know.” Meralda wished Donchen was wearing his own face. “It’s aimed at the Tower. I’ll know more once it’s latched. But for now, I need to keep Fromarch and Shingvere as far away from the Vonats as possible. They’ll detect it, too, and there’s no telling what they might do.”
“Something involving a massive explosion, I surmise.” Donchen put a finger to his chin. “I don’t think anyone has seen me. Shall I go on ahead, see what I can see?”
Meralda nodded. “Go. I’ll turn the mages around. But do be careful, won’t you?”
“I am a ghost,” said Donchen, with a smile. “As such, I have little to fear.”
And he sauntered out of the doorway, and vanished into the crowd.
Meralda resisted an urge to watch him go. “Your shoes,” she called, not knowing if he heard, or understood.
Then she whirled and made her way up the street in the opposite direction, darting to the edge of the sidewalk so she could see oncoming cabs well before they passed.
“We almost ran you over,” growled Fromarch.
“What you almost did was ride headlong into a Vonat spell,” said Meralda, forcing herself to keep her voice lowered to whisper. “And you waving the Infinite Latch around! What do you think might have happened if the Vonat had decided to hurl something your way?”
“We’d have ruined a room or two, what with all those stinking Vonat ashes,” said Shingvere, waggling a finger at Meralda. “We’re hardly first years, you know. I have done a bit of magic in my time.”
Meralda hushed him with a furious gesture. All around them, bemused diners looked on, forks paused in mid-raise, ears turned and listening.
Loman, the elderly Hang wizard, laughed to himself as he tried to wrap Phendelit noodles around his fork.
“You still haven’t told me what the three of you were out doing,” said Meralda.
“We’re just three old men, out enjoying a cab ride,” said Fromarch. “Isn’t that right?”
“Nonsense.” Meralda glared. Loman met her gaze and winked. “Why were you following Donchen?”
“Who?”
“Never met the man.”
“Donchen is dead,” said Loman, in perfect New Kingdom. “How does one follow a ghost?”
“You’re insufferable, the lot of you!” Meralda pushed back her chair and rose. “Do I have your words, as gentlemen and scholars, that you will take a cab back home and stay there? Please?”
Fromarch exchanged shrugs with Shingvere. “Fine. We’ve got a bit of beer to drink, as I recall.”
“We certainly do.”
Loman nodded owlishly. “I myself enjoy the occasional fermented beverage.”
Meralda glared, turned, and stalked out of the diner.
Fromarch let the door slam shut before speaking.
“How did she know?”
“Search me,” said Shingvere. “I was sure she was holed up in the laboratory.”
“She is a very clever young woman,” said Loman. “Do you often see crows inside your eateries?”
Fromarch frowned. “Never.”
“My old eyes,” replied Loman. “So, shall we do as your mage bids, and go home?”
“Eventually,” said Shingvere. “Eventually.”
Fromarch grinned and waved to the waiter for a check.
Chapter Fifteen
Meralda made her way back to the weather-beaten door on Hopping Way, put her key in the lock, and stepped through the door and into the dark narrow space between shelves in the back of the laboratory.
Traffic noise followed her until she closed the door.
“Mistress!” cried Mug. “Quick! Donchen is up to something.”
Meralda darted out the aisle, dodging treasures as she ran.
Mug followed her progress with a single eye while he kept the other twenty-eight trained on the mirror. Inside the glass, Donchen sat on a bench at a trolley stop and read the Times.
Meralda leaned on her desk and tried to catch her breath.
“He’s reading the paper,” she said.
“Wait.”
Donchen turned the page.
A bright yellow butterfly fluttered from the paper and flew quickly up and away, beyond the view of the mirror.
“That happens every time he turns the page.” Mug waved his fronds. “Tower claims the butterflies are hidden by the same spell that made him invisible.”
“The insects are massing around the building occupied by the spell caster,” said the Tower. Its voice was muted and distant.
“Can you tell what they’re meant to do?”
The Tower did not reply.
“Guess that’s a no, mistress,” said Mug. “That cab almost ran you down, by the way.”
“So I’m told.” Meralda pulled back her chair and sank wearily into it. “So our ghost is also a magician, if not a mage himself.”
“Cook, mage, spy, ghost—when does the man sleep?”
Meralda picked up her pencil and idly began to doodle tiny Towers on a page of shadow latch calculations.
“The Vonats are up to something, Mug.”
“Do tell.” The dandyleaf plant turned a half dozen eyes toward Meralda. “Wait, did you see something, out there?”
Meralda shook her head no. I didn’t see a thing, she thought. But an awful suspicion was blooming, and with it anger. “They’re trying to latch something to the Tower.” She added the tethers and the curseworks to her drawing. “Why do you think they’d pick the Tower, of all things? Why not the palace? Why not the Gold Room itself?”
Mug shrugged.
“Because they know about my shadow moving spell,” said Meralda. “My spell. We know someone hid spells in the palace. Which means someone has been listening. In fact—Sir Ricard. I’d bet a purse of Vonat gold doubloons he’s been waiting for weeks to give Yvin that ridiculous idea about moving the Tower’s shadow.”
Mug went still.
“Mistress.”
“Yes. I think so. I think the spell they’re latching to the Tower is intended to do something awful at the opening ceremony of the Accords. I think the Vonat are working with that small group of Hang Donchen mentioned. I think they want to wreck any chance of the Hang joining the Realms peacefully, and I think they plan to blame the whole thing on me.”
“Make it appear as if your shadow moving spell goes wrong?”
Meralda nodded, her jaw clamped too tight to speak. They mean to kill a great many people as Yvin gives his speech, she thought. The Hang delegation among them. Ruin the Accords, infuriate the Hang, leave the Realms divided and weak. And all of it blamed squarely on her. On the female Tirlish mage, who had no business ever donning the robes in the first place.
Mug rolled a dozen eyes. “They don’t know about the curseworks, though.”
“No. Otherwise they’d simply have attacked them directly, and in secret.”
Mug shivered. He looked toward the mirror, watched as Donchen released another yellow butterfly, and muttered an Angis word.
“Mistress, what are we going to do?”
Meralda’s pencil lead broke. She rose.
“Nameless. Faceless. Right here, right now.”
Mug went wide-eyed.
From the rear of the laboratory, amid the shadows and glittering and whirring and hissing, came the sound of fluttering wings. A pair of dark shapes darted down from the ceiling, and came to rest on
either side of Meralda before assuming the forms of two rough hewn lengths of ironwood.
“I am not, nor will I ever be, your master, or his equal.” Meralda swallowed, searching for her next words. They’re as likely to strike me down as they are to agree, she thought. But if I’m going up against the entire Vonat nation and who knows how much of the Hang, I need them.
“Tower believes your master would not want this place laid waste by his hand,” she said. “You either agree, or you do not. If you do, I ask for your help now. Not for me. Not even for Tirlin. But in deference to your master, who is fallen, but whose wishes nevertheless remain unfulfilled.” She raised her hands, not quite touching the staves, but only a hand’s breadth from them.
“What say you, Nameless, Faceless?”
“Mistress, I wouldn’t…”
Meralda took each staff in her hand.
The laboratory fell silent, save for the gentle clicking of Phillitrep’s Engine.
The staves were cool and unmoving in Meralda’s grasp.
“Well, I’ll be mowed and pruned,” said Mug, after a while. “Congratulations, mistress. Tim the Horsehead just turned green with envy.”
Meralda took a deep breath, and hoped the staves couldn’t feel her shiver.
“Find the Vonat mage Humindorus Nam,” she said. “I want one of you watching him at all times. See that you aren’t observed yourselves. Can you project images into the mirror?”
The mirror flashed, showing a brief reflection of Meralda holding the staves.
“Good. I want to know where he is and what he’s doing, starting right now. Show him when I ask. Show him even when I don’t if he does anything interesting. Go.”
The staves became blurs. With the sound of flapping wings, they vanished into the Mirror.
Meralda let out her breath in a long exhalation.
“That was brave,” said the Tower. “Very brave indeed.”
Meralda mopped sweat from her forehead and grinned. “Is the spell latched?”
“It is. I am now attempting to determine its nature. Part of the structure is Vonat in nature. Part is unknown to me.”
“Hang.”
“Most likely. I overheard your conversation with the construct. You believe this spell is offensive in nature.”
