All The Turns of Light (Paths of Shadow Book 2)

by Frank Tuttle

  “This is both the first time and the last time I ever set foot on this craft,” Meralda declared. “I mean it. Never again.”

  Both the old Mages nodded solemnly.

  With that, Meralda followed Shingvere up into the Intrepid’s bustling frame.

  Chapter 2

  Back at the Palace, the Laboratory was quiet.

  Quickly, Meralda whispered the words that identified her to the Laboratory’s ward spells. She waited a single heartbeat, then twisted the worn brass door handles. They opened without even the faintest of noises—Meralda oiled them herself, once a week—and she slipped quickly through.

  Once inside the Laboratory she carefully closed the door, holding the latch up and then slowly letting it fasten without so much as a click.

  She stood perfectly still, not even breathing.

  Twenty steps away, Donchen and Mug hunched over a worktable. Both spoke in hushed tones. Donchen’s back was to Meralda, and all twenty-nine of Mug’s mobile eyes were fixed on the table. Meralda took a careful step forward, pleased that the cork sole of her new boot made no sound on the floor.

  I’m going to actually manage it this time, she thought.

  I’m going to sneak right up on Donchen.

  Meralda suppressed a grin. Weeks of careful sneaking had gotten her no closer than fifteen paces from Donchen before the ever-alert Hang gentleman sensed her approach. Meralda found this particularly infuriating, because Donchen often appeared noiselessly, catching her completely unaware. It was in his nature to be secretive and mysterious because he was sohata, a living ghost, silent and wary amid his Hang countrymen.

  Donchen laughed softly, freezing Meralda in her tracks, but he did not turn. Meralda remained still for a moment, watching and listening intently.

  “Mistress will have a fit,” she heard Mug say. “An absolute fit. I can hardly wait.”

  “Let’s just avoid use of the words ‘burglary’ or ‘theft,’” she heard Donchen whisper. “After all, neither term is strictly accurate.”

  Mug laughed. “Right. You just happened to climb into a window five stories off the street, you accidentally picked a Morten eight-tumbler safe in the dark, and you found this inside instead of the spare pencil you were looking for.” Mug’s leaves tossed as if in a gust of wind. “Why, that sort of thing happens all the time!”

  Meralda inhaled and started forward. One step, two steps, three steps, four…

  Mug saw her, of course, but she quickly raised a finger to her lips, and the enchanted dandyleaf plant pretended not to see her. She knew Mug was secretly amused by her campaign to sneak up on Donchen, and indeed he didn’t aim a single eye her way.

  All around her, the Laboratory seemed to hold its breath. Certainly the hundreds, the thousands of magical devices lining the Laboratory’s tables and shelves clicked and whirred and sparked and hummed. But it seemed to Meralda as if the usual cacophony was muted, if only slightly. Even Phillitrep’s Thinking Engine, which had spent five centuries tirelessly working on the solution to a problem the absent-minded Mage Phillitrep had forgotten to write down, slowed in the shuttlings of its silver levers and copper gears.

  Five steps, six, then seven, then eight!

  “This has been, by far, your best effort,” said Donchen. He turned, smiling, his grey eyes alight with mirth. “Had your lovely perfume not betrayed you, you might have made another five steps.”

  “Mistress!” Mug said. “I didn’t see you there, motioning me to be silent.”

  Meralda shrugged and laughed and crossed the Laboratory quickly before falling into Donchen’s lap.

  “I’m getting much closer,” she said. “Soon I’ll be as ghostlike as you.”

  Donchen drew her into a quick kiss. His agile fingers tugged playfully at the tight bun of her long brown hair.

  Mug groaned and rolled all his blue eyes.

  “I’ll just pretend to study something in yonder far corner,” he said. “Don’t mind me. Forget I’m here.”

  “We could never forget you, friend Mug,” Donchen said.

  Meralda stood and smoothed her skirt.

  “Yes, you’re far too loud, for one thing,” Meralda said.

  Mug turned all his eyes toward Goboy’s mirror, which leaned in its frame a few yards away. “Not to be the terrible burden I’m quite sure I am, but have you given any thought to replacing the flying coils on my carriage?”

  Meralda grinned. Mug’s ‘carriage,’ as he called it, was a secondhand birdcage she had fitted with a small trio of flying coils and tiny controls suited for Mug’s flexible fronds. Mug had quickly proven to be a skillful pilot, to the point where the crows around the Palace recognized the peculiar buzzing of the flying coils and gave Mug’s airborne birdcage a wide berth.

  Such was Mug’s enthusiasm for flying that he had burned out two of his coils in as many weeks, and Meralda lacked the time to wind and tune replacements.

  “I’ll finish the new ones tonight,” she said, pulling back her desk chair and sitting. She grinned at Donchen. “But first, let’s see that fascinating object you slipped into your right front pocket, shall we?”

  “You did not see me put anything into my pocket,” he said. “You couldn’t have. I wasn’t facing you.”

  “Which is why I sat in your lap,” Meralda said. “Remember not to use the words ‘burglary’ or ‘theft.’”

  Mug simulated a low whistle. “She’s got you,” he said. “You’d best surrender while she’s still smiling.”

  Donchen laughed and produced a folded white handkerchief. “A mere bauble, hardly worthy of your own radiant beauty,” he said, rising and offering the cloth to Meralda. “I hope it suits you.”

  Meralda took the tiny bundle, unwrapped it, and suppressed a small shout.

  “That’s the Romar necklace,” she said, gently lifting the glittering strand of jewels up so that it turned and sparkled in the light. “The Watch has been looking for this for years.”

  “Six years, I’m told,” Donchen said. “I’m sure they’ve quite forgotten about it by now. You could start wearing it tonight.”

  “The papers would love that,” she said. “Royal Thaumaturge Nabbed With Stolen Jewels.” She put the necklace down, still awed at the way it shone and sparkled. “So how did it find its way into your pockets?”

  Donchen shrugged. “Oh, I had an evening free, and a certain gentleman wanted his only daughter to be married in her mother’s necklace,” he said. “I read the original accounts of the robbery, and certain avenues of inquiry suggested themselves.”

  Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “Certain fifth-story windows as well,” she said. Donchen raised his hands in surrender.

  “Well, the hour was late, and I didn’t want to cause any alarm in the guilty household,” he replied. “It was only the work of a few moments. Later tonight, a parcel will make its way to a different house, and tomorrow, at least one wedding will prove a bit merrier than expected. Surely there’s no harm in that.”

  “The Watch might reach different conclusions,” Meralda said.

  “Let’s not trouble the Watch with such petty concerns,” said Donchen. He pulled his chair close to Meralda’s and sat. “But enough about my rather uneventful day. Tell us about yours, dear. I surmise it was not entirely a pleasant one.”

  Meralda took in a breath. Sometimes I wish he weren’t quite so perceptive, she thought.

  “I have news.”

  Donchen leaned forward and brought his hands together below his chin, fingertips just touching.

  “It isn’t good news.”

  “No,” replied Meralda. “It isn’t. Donchen, have you had news from home lately? Family news?”

  “Tirlin is my home now, delight of my heart.”

  Mug simulated a faint gagging noise, which ceased when Meralda glared his way.

  “No, I have had no news.” Donchen sat back. “My decision to remain here was the final straw, as you say. I am sohata, for now and forever.”

  Sohata. Hang f
or ‘ghost.’ Which meant he was dead to his House, dead to his father, his mother, any family anywhere he might have, including his grandfather, the Emperor.

  Meralda struggled to find the right words.

  “The Emperor,” Mug said, turning his eyes away from Goboy’s glass. “He is ill?”

  Meralda took Donchen’s hands in hers. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “Gravely ill.”

  Donchen’s expression did not change. “The weight of years, or something else?”

  “There was no mention of foul play. Just the weight of years. I am so sorry.”

  “He gave me a golden dragon, when I was nine,” Donchen said. “An enchanted toy. It walked and roared, and spat tiny flames. He told me to enjoy the magic while it lasted, because all things pass from this world to the next. I was heartbroken on the day my dragon walked no more. We buried it in the garden, but he said my dragon would live on forever, in my heart.” He smiled wanly. “Thank you, Grandfather. I see the lesson now.”

  Mug turned all his blue eyes on Meralda. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Not now, Mug.”

  Donchen’s smile vanished.

  “It’s about that bloody great whale of an airship, isn’t it?” Mug grumbled.

  “Mug!”

  As if in answer to her raised voice, a pair of flitting shadows darted from the Laboratory’s shelves. The dark splotches remained close to the ceiling, hiding themselves in the flickers of Meralda’s electric lamps, but Meralda knew they came to rest directly above her.

  She acknowledged the ancient staves with a silent greeting. Nameless, Faceless. All is well. Thank you, but I do not require any assistance.

  Mug snorted. “Oh, the sticks are paying you a visit now?” He waved his leaves in the air. “Shoo, the both of you, before I have you chopped into kindling!”

  Donchen stood, worry creasing his brow.

  “The Intrepid?” he asked.

  “That numbskull King is getting ready to launch it early, isn’t he? With you aboard, I assume, to sit astride the flying coils in case they stop working halfway to Hang?”

  “Of course not, Mug. And show some compassion. Donchen’s grandfather is ill.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” Mug turned half his eyes toward Donchen. “I truly am. But I’m right about them hauling you aboard for the first airship crossing of the Great Sea, am I not?”

  “Nothing of the sort has been discussed by the Court, much less ordered by the King,” Meralda retorted.

  “Ha,” Mug said. “Then where have you been all day?”

  “With Shingvere and Fromarch. We were touring the docks, yes, but that’s all. Touring.”

  “Touring.” It was Donchen who spoke. “And I assume your elderly friends made no mention of any impending airship voyages?”

  “We both know the elderly gentlemen are prone to engage in the worst sort of baseless, idle gossip,” Meralda said.

  “Told you so,” Mug said.

  Goboy’s Glass flashed, and Mug’s reflection wobbled as though cast in troubled waters. Mug’s reflection vanished. In its place, a stylized image of the Tower appeared.

  Mage Ovis, the Tower intoned, its ancient and brooding voice clear and calm as it emanated from the glass. Pardon the interruption. But you did ask to be notified when I was able to locate the item employed for communication between the Palace and the Hang.

  Donchen raised an eyebrow.

  “Spying now, are we?” Mug asked.

  Meralda raised her hand for silence.

  “Thank you, Tower. You have found it, then?”

  Yes. It is of Hang origin. It appears to be an ornate box, from which a hornlike apparatus protrudes.

  “Is this hornlike apparatus decorated with repeated images of fire-breathing dragons, each of which has six legs, and with this symbol emblazoned on each dragon’s forehead?” Donchen moved to Meralda’s worktable and scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper. When he finished, he held it up toward Goboy’s Glass.

  The symbol was Hang, all lines and flourishes. Meralda could identify perhaps two dozen Hang word-signs, but this was not one she knew.

  That is the symbol. You know this device?

  Donchen lowered the scrap of paper. “Direct your focus beneath the box, close to the legs,” he said. “Do you see what appears to be a series of childish scribblings, and one crude image depicting a little boy and an old man?”

  The image in Goboy’s Glass flashed and wobbled before revealing the shadowed underside of a gold-gilded box. There, drawn in faded black ink, were two crude stick figures. One was much taller than the other, and had a beard. Both were smiling beneath a decidedly lopsided sun.

  Yes. Are these the markings?

  Donchen nodded. “I never possessed a knack for drawing,” he said.

  Meralda touched his arm. “You drew that?”

  “This device was my grandfather’s. He loved it, and it never left his side, even after Grandmother passed away. It is old beyond measure. I often hid beneath it while Grandfather slept. I think he knew.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m sure he knew.”

  “So it’s a communication device,” Mug said.

  “It’s more than that,” said Donchen. “It’s a family secret. No wonder he left it here when the fleet departed last year. It would surely have been burned upon his death. No sorcerer in history has been able to discern its workings. It works over distances as vast as those across the Great Sea. Any words exchanged over this device between King Yvin and Hang are absolutely secure from prying Hang sorcerers. Prying Vonat sorcerers too, who I’m sure would love to eavesdrop.”

  “What about that, Tower?” asked Mug. “Have you found a way to defeat the box’s magic, and eavesdrop on secret conversations yet?”

  I have made no attempt to do so, construct, replied the Tower. Mage? Is it your wish that I meddle with this implement?

  “No,” Meralda said. “But do listen in on the room. If news of the Long Dragon arrives, I want to know it immediately.”

  As you wish.

  “Like I said, spying! And on the Court and the Crown, no less!” Mug hooted. “Mistress, I am so proud of you!”

  “I’m hardly spying.” She laid her hand on Donchen’s. “But you have a right to know. If we wait for the Court to relay the news, you might get part of it, or none of it.”

  “Please don’t imperil yourself over this,” said Donchen.

  Meralda shrugged. “I am not the first Mage to peek through Palace walls. I imagine they quite expect it by now.”

  I am confident my surveillance of the room will go undetected.

  “Maybe.” Mug tapped on the desk with a tightly-rolled leaf. “Let’s hope the Long Dragon recovers, and enjoys many more years on his throne. Perhaps by then you’ll be retired, Mistress, and at little risk of being ordered aboard untested airships on some daft voyage across the Sea.”

  “No daft voyages, Mug.” Meralda leaned down and put her eyes close to Mug’s. “No ocean crossings, no airships. Now let’s get your new coils wound, shall we?”

  ~~~

  From the private journal of Mugglesworth Ovis, October 32, RY 1969

  Two months to the day.

  That’s how long it took for that blithering idiot of a King to order my Mistress to join the crew of the Intrepid and charge off on the very daft voyage she promised me she’d refuse.

  And she did refuse. At first.

  But in the end, she relented, and now we are both making preparations to board the doomed airborne contrivance, wave farewell to Tirlin and, I am sure, vanish forever the instant we lose sight of land.

  Thus this journal. I’m going to keep it handy, from the moment we cast off from the Docks until the moment we plunge screaming down toward a wet and doubtlessly messy demise.

  I’m also keeping a bottle and a cork handy. Maybe someday a beachcomber will happen upon this journal, recognize my name, and say to themselves, “So that’s what happened to poor Mug and Meralda the great Mages of Tirl
in! If only they’d listened to Mug!”

  If only.

  But as it is apparent, my words, no matter how wise or persuasive, fall on nothing but deaf ears, I shall recount our (brief) adventures herein, so at least some record of our final days remains.

  Today we visited our quarters on the Intrepid, and much ballyhoo was made over the placement of Meralda’s gear and various comforts. My own suggestions that each item be tested first for buoyancy and resistance to ravaging fires were viciously ridiculed and unjustly dismissed.

  The Intrepid includes two decks of cabins, sufficient to house the 162 drowning victims which shall depart in a mere three days. The King, of course, is not among these poor unfortunates. Nor is any member of his family, or indeed any royal family of the Realms save the Alon Queen. I suspect she is being forced into taking the journey by a rival clan, which shrewdly estimated an airship disaster would prove cheaper than outright assassination.

  We were even allowed onto the Intrepid’s flight deck. Mistress keeps going on and on about the quality of the work, and the genius of the design. But make a comment about the legendary flammability of lifting gas, and one finds oneself shut in a closet. Shut in a closet!

  I know you are shaking your head in dismay. So was I, even in the darkness of the closet with no one to share my miseries!

  Fromarch and Shingvere have been raising a stink, demanding passage as well. They even took to circling the Palace in that motor-car of theirs and taking turns shouting through Amorp’s Strident Horn. That dunderhead of a King ordered the street blocked, so they took to the sidewalk, drove through two newspaper stands and a diner, and sent all the bills to the Palace.

  I wish the old Mages would take me with them when they go out for such a lark.

  The Mages won’t be crossing the Great Sea, of course. And neither will Donchen.

  I really can’t fault King Dunderhead on that count. On the slim chance that the Intrepid makes it across the Great Sea intact, the last thing you want your Hang hosts to see is a rival for their newly-vacant throne waving merrily from the windows of a foreign airship. Donchen accepts this.