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

by Frank Tuttle

  “You’ll think of something. I promise you will. But I’m right, Mistress. You have the ability to control this.”

  Meralda pointed to the hat and the book and the skate. “Do I? Then why all that, and not a single pillow?”

  Mug turned all his eyes on Meralda. “Because that’s what you believe, Mistress,” he said. “You expect random manifestations. So that’s what happens. Your magic–yes, I said your magic–is conforming to your expectations. You’re using it, even though you won’t admit it.”

  Meralda put her head back down on her desk. “Expectations don’t mold reality,” she said. “Only work does that.”

  “Whatever you say, Mistress. Would you like some violin music?”

  Mug imitated the first strains of Meralda’s favorite string piece, the opening movement of Coprenate’s Parade of the Seasons.

  “I would love that, Mug,” Meralda said. “And I love you too. You know that. I’m just worried right now. What if a lit fireplace comes through? What if a match appears, burning in one of the gas bags?”

  “It won’t,” Mug said. He played louder. “Take a nap, Mistress. I’ll wake you if the Palace appears under your desk.”

  Meralda closed her eyes.

  Mug watched her drift off to sleep.

  He looked back down at the book he had shoved behind his cage. A History of the Mages of Tirlin. The publication date was thirty years in the future.

  He played on, watching Meralda carefully for any sign of waking because he fully intended to ask the Bellringers to toss this worrisome tome overboard long before Meralda laid eyes on the title.

  * * *

  Meralda woke only once, much later.

  Mug was fast asleep by then, his eyes hanging closed and limp, his leaves and vines motionless. Meralda started to wake him and ask for an accounting of the new objects which had materialized while she slept, but yawned and pulled the thin wool blanket over her head instead.

  She’d seen a second bicycle propped against the bulkhead by her cabin door. There was also a stack of what appeared to be newspapers beside her desk, and she’d been forced to move a heavy plaster bust of Tim the Horsehead from her bunk before going to bed.

  It hasn’t stopped, she thought.

  It might never stop.

  She lay awake under her blanket, her mind racing. I cannot very well remain in this cabin for the rest of my life.

  Something small dropped onto her and rolled off the bed with a soft thump.

  If nothing else, I’ll soon run out of room.

  She nearly screamed and bolted when the cat leaped up onto her bunk and squirmed quickly under the covers, bringing its furry face and wet nose close to hers.

  “Cat,” she whispered, catching her breath. “You frightened me.”

  Mug named you, thought Meralda. Something ridiculous—oh yes, I remember now. Catastrophe.

  Catastrophe began to purr. She settled onto Meralda’s chest and nuzzled Meralda’s chin.

  “I never adopted the habit of sleeping with cats,” Meralda said. “Shoo.”

  The cat didn’t budge. Meralda sighed and idly began stroking the cat’s head. Catastrophe’s purring grew louder.

  “I can’t walk about the airship while a steady rain of statues and boots falls from the air about me,” she told the cat in a whisper. “I need a laboratory. Perhaps I can borrow a few instruments from the maintenance bay.” There were a few tools there. A charging station. A thaumeter. Spare latching wands.

  “Better than nothing, I suppose,” she whispered to Catastrophe. “I’ll have to tell the Captain, of course.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Mug said, his voice sleepy. “For all you know he might put you in the flying launch and tell you to aim for home.”

  “If I’m a danger to the Intrepid, that’s just what he should do,” replied Meralda. “But that’s not our decision to make.”

  “Going to tell the Captain about Donchen too?” asked Mug.

  Meralda didn’t answer. Mug fell silent, though Meralda was sure he wasn’t asleep.

  After a time, daylight began to peek through the porthole. Meralda gently dislodged the sleeping Catastrophe and got out of bed.

  “Good morning,” Mug said. “Nothing has materialized for nearly an hour.”

  Meralda rummaged through her trunk, which she had yet to unpack, for clothes. “I know,” she said. “Let’s not jinx it by speaking of it.”

  “Are you still determined to tell the Captain about the, um, special circumstances?”

  “I have no choice, Mug. Have I worn my good grey blouse already? I’m an officer of the Court and a member of the crew,” she continued. “Keeping a secret like this would be criminal.”

  “You’re a Mage,” Mug said, waving his fronds in dismissal. “As such, you are above the law. Come to think of it, so am I, by association.”

  Meralda raised an eyebrow at his convenient conclusion and finished dressing.

  The splash of a bathtub filling sounded shortly thereafter, and the soft knock at Meralda’s cabin door came right after that.

  “Who is it?” asked Mug, in a perfect imitation of Meralda’s voice.

  “Jeffrey Sink, ma’am,” said Donchen. “I’ve brought a bit of breakfast.”

  Mug flew to the door, wrestled with the bolt, and managed to slide it free before flying away.

  “Come in,” he said, from Meralda’s desk.

  Donchen hastily slipped inside. He carried a serving tray and a carafe of coffee.

  “Oh my,” he said, looking about Meralda’s cabin and the objects strewn about. “I see it’s gotten worse.”

  “Mind the cat,” Mug said. “Oh, and be careful with the paintings. Mistress claims two of them are national treasures.”

  Donchen peered about in the dim cabin. “And where is Mage Ovis?”

  “Bathing,” Mug said. “I didn’t think you’d want to wait in the passageway in the wee hours of the morning outside the Mage’s quarters.” Mug waggled a frond at Donchen. “That’s how rumors get started, you know.”

  Donchen chuckled and cleared a space on Meralda’s desk for the tray. “How are her spirits? I’ve been worried.”

  “Me too,” Mug said. “She’s determined to throw herself on the mercy of the Captain and the King. I hope you can talk her out of that nonsense.”

  Meralda called out from her bath. “Mug, are you talking to me?”

  “Just talking to myself, Mistress,” chirped Mug. “Why don’t you just pop out for breakfast wrapped in your towel? You can dress later.”

  “Meralda, I am here,” said Donchen. “Mug let me in. I brought breakfast, coffee, and news.”

  “Breakfast?” asked Meralda. “Did you prepare it?”

  “I did,” said Donchen. “I made your favorites.”

  Water splashed. Donchen smiled, removed a plain silver ring, and Jeffrey Sink’s face and form vanished, revealing Donchen.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Mug said. “Can I see the ring?”

  “Of course,” said Donchen. Mug extended a vine, and Donchen placed the ring on it.

  Mug swung a cluster of eyes into place about the silver ring. He held it up, turning it this way and that, inspecting it from every angle.

  “Powerful magic,” he said, peering at Donchen through the ring with a single red eye. “What would happen if Mistress put this on?”

  Donchen smiled sadly. “Nothing, I’m afraid. The ring was created for me. We can try, of course, but the nature of the enchantment—”

  Meralda emerged, dressed except for her bare feet. Donchen rose and caught her up in a fierce hug.

  Mug groaned.

  “Hush,” Meralda said. Donchen lifted her off her feet and whirled her around, and Mug studied his reflection in Goboy’s Glass until the pair separated.

  “You’re still not entirely forgiven,” Meralda said. “How dare you stow away and say nothing to me save for ‘fifty-two.’”

  Donchen nodded solemnly. “I thought the exch
ange rather romantic,” he said. “In my defense, I did stand just outside the closed door and gaze sadly off into the distance for a time.”

  “Not good enough,” Meralda said. A sudden rain of neckties filled the air.

  Donchen uncovered Meralda’s tray with a flourish. A plate of scrambled eggs, a stack of pancakes, and a trio of Alon sausages were revealed.

  “How did you find sausages?” asked Meralda. “Those look like the ones from the shop on Archer.”

  “Is everyone in this room a smuggler but me?” Mug said. “Shame on you both!”

  Meralda sat as Donchen poured her coffee. “Won’t you have some?” asked Meralda. “There’s enough to share.”

  “No,” said Donchen, pulling a chair across the room. “You eat. I’ll talk. Please. Enjoy.”

  Meralda unwrapped her fork, put the napkin in her lap, and began to eat. “No one cooks like you,” she said around a mouthful. “Every meal is a feast. I’ve missed your cooking.”

  “And is that all you have missed?”

  “I believe I shall throw myself overboard at the first opportunity,” Mug said. “Donchen. You said you had news to impart. Please. Impart it.”

  A flute appeared, just below the ceiling. It struck Mug’s cage and rolled harmlessly onto the floor. Meralda scowled and speared a sausage with her fork.

  “As you recall, I was counting chairs in the Grand Salon,” he said.

  “Such a life of adventure and derring-do,” muttered Mug.

  “I found a chair missing from the Grand Salon,” said Donchen. “Which was odd, because I’d also discovered a set of plates missing from the kitchen after each and every meal. A plate, a saucer, a cup, a glass, and a dessert plate, along with the accompanying forks, spoons, and knives. All went out, but this one set was always returned late, with the next meal, as though the items were being delivered and left, to be replaced when the next meal was served.”

  “You counted forks?” asked Mug. “Who counts forks? Maybe someone wanted seconds.”

  Donchen shook his head. “Meals and rations were strictly portioned even before we dumped our original supplies into the Lamp,” he said. “Now that we are less than ideally provisioned, the portioning is even stricter. No. It became obvious to me that an extra mouth was being fed, a mouth which did not appear on any manifest or crew roster.”

  Meralda swallowed. “A stowaway?” she asked. “How could that be possible?”

  Mug’s blue eyes turned to look briefly into his brown ones. “Not to be obvious, Mistress, but a stowaway just served you breakfast,” he said. “If there is one aboard, might there not be another?”

  “I thought that too, at first,” said Donchen. “So I waited. And I watched. It took me six hours, but I located the person being fed.” He paused. “There is a Vonat aboard.”

  Meralda dropped her fork. “A Vonat. Aboard the Intrepid.” There came a clatter, as a store display case filled with elegant hair brushes fell to the floor behind Meralda.

  “Something’s not right about all this,” Mug said. “Why hasn’t the Captain clapped this Vonat in irons and tossed him to the sea monsters? Why wasn’t an alarm raised?”

  “Because the Captain and the King know all about the Vonat,” said Donchen. “They brought him on board, and kept it all a secret.”

  “Why?” asked Meralda. “Dumping our supplies, the gifts, changing course—only to bring the enemy along, free to work mischief?”

  “I doubt the Vonat is intent on any mischief,” replied Donchen. “Nor capable of it, even. He’s just a sad little man with a talent for drawing. But he’s also the Vonat Ambassador to the Hang, and his office has been recognized and approved by every nation of the Realms.” Donchen grinned. “Although that fact will probably come as quite a surprise to the Vonats themselves.”

  Meralda stared. “What?”

  “My people have certain ways of seeing the world,” said Donchen. “I have explained all this to your Court. Should the Intrepid arrive at Sheng Zhen with only four of the five Realms represented, the insult would be grave. The forces within my country that seek to undermine relations between Hang and the Realms would use this as an excuse to hamper peaceful relations.”

  “So the King kidnapped a random Vonat, hung a title around his neck, and hopes to pass him off as a genuine ambassador?” asked Mug.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” said Donchen.

  “Which means it really isn’t,” Mug said. He tossed his leaves in an impressive wave. “What an idiotic thing to do! For all we know this is another Vonat wizard, here to kill us all!”

  “No,” said Donchen quickly. “He is not a wizard. Not a warrior. He was found by Phendelit fishermen fifteen years ago, half-dead, clinging to a log in the Lamp River, emaciated and brutalized. He wound up in Tirlin, and after the Secret Service determined he wasn’t a threat, he was allowed to remain in an apartment off Valor Lane, under constant guard, of course. He translates Vonat texts and offers cultural insights whenever the Crown requests them.”

  “Valor Lane?” Meralda asked. “I buy my hats from a shop on the corner. You mean the apartments halfway down the block, beside the cafe where they make those little frosted cupcakes?”

  “Why wasn’t Mistress told?” Mug said. An umbrella, open and dripping with rain, floated down from the ceiling. “What if this Vonat is behind all this somehow?”

  “It is my belief he is not,” said Donchen. “But I am a lowly line cook. I want the Mage herself to decide whether the Vonat is telling the truth.” He looked at Meralda. “Will you do that, Meralda? Will you talk to the man, hear what he has to say?”

  Meralda took in a breath. “Does this Vonat have a name?”

  “His name is Kurbus Yksinare, and I can take you to him tonight.”

  A jaunty yellow kite fell to the floor. Catastrophe leaped upon it, batting at the kite’s tail with his forepaws.

  “Didn’t you say his room is guarded?” asked Meralda, sipping at her coffee.

  “It is. But I know a way.” Donchen ignored Mug’s sudden many-eyed glare.

  “Tell me,” Meralda said.

  Mug fumed, but held his silence while Donchen revealed his plan in a whisper.

  ~~~

  From the private journal of Mugglesworth Ovis, Novembre 22, RY 1969

  And I thought an attack by sea serpents was bad.

  Now we’ve got a Vonat hiding on board, and naturally Mistress is determined to pop by his murder room for a spot of tea. At midnight. Accompanied only by Donchen, who is a capable enough chef, but this is a Vonat spy we’re talking about.

  My wise counsel concerning caution and keeping one’s distance might as well have been a treatise on bird calls and pumpkins. Mistress and Donchen spent all morning whispering, most of the whispers delivered from unnecessarily close quarters on that tiny bed, plotting to sneak past the guards and present themselves to the one person within eight thousand miles who might have motive to do them grievous bodily harm.

  Donchen will use his Hang ring to sneak past the guards. I surmise his ring can not only change his form but render him and Mistress briefly invisible. Donchen already knows the word that will put the wards to sleep long enough to pass them by.

  This is just the sort of mad scheme that invariably ends with phrases such as ‘unspeakable tragedy’ or ‘messy demise.’

  The only good thing to come out of this is that Meralda is no longer considering telling the Captain or the King about her newfound ability to snatch household goods from home to here. I suppose learning that the Court kept secrets from her makes keeping secrets from the Court easier.

  I won’t be allowed along as they sneak off to visit the Vonat, because who wants to listen to reason when one is fully engaged in an act of folly? I’ll watch via Goboy’s Glass though, and the first time I see the glint of a dagger I’m calling for the Bellringers, mark my words, King’s secret or not.

  All this skullduggery and sneaking about takes place at midnight tonight. I’ll
be a nervous wreck by then; I’ve already lost three leaves and another is turning yellow at the edges, not that anyone cares, they’re too busy cooing and whispering.

  Penned by my remaining frail fronds, I remain, though unacknowledged and unappreciated, Mugglesworth Ovis.

  Chapter 9

  Meralda, accompanied by Mug and the Bellringers, hurried to the Intrepid’s maintenance bay.

  Kervis carried a basket, and Tervis a bed sheet. Mug darted back and forth, singing and making a scene any time a fellow crew member approached. If an object appeared out of thin air, Kervis scooped it up and added it to his basket. Tervis’s sheet was intended for anything too large to fit in the basket.

  To reach the maintenance bay, Meralda had to walk the entire length of the starboard passageway, climb two flights of stairs to the upper deck, and then make her way through a series of gangways and catwalks until she reached the plain iron doors of the bay.

  By then Kervis had filled his basket with assorted dry goods, and Tervis was struggling along with a storefront mannequin concealed under his sheet. The Bellringers hastily deposited their burdens inside the empty maintenance bay and shut the door, taking up positions on either side of it.

  Alone with Mug at last, Meralda slumped over the workbench and caught her breath.

  “We made it, Mistress.” Mug flew about, inspecting the sparsely equipped room with dismissive snorts.

  A billiard cue appeared beside Meralda, standing on end for a moment before clattering to the deck.

  “We did,” Meralda said. “Let’s get to work.”

  Hours passed. Mug watched as Meralda calibrated the new thaumeter, saw her face fall when it registered nothing, even as a small oak wardrobe packed with men’s undergarments popped into existence right beside the thaumeter’s metal case.

  Meralda charged wands, performed a series of simple latchings and unlatchings. Objects appeared, including a pocket watch and a glass of lemonade, but Meralda could find no source for the conjurings, or even detect them as they occurred.

  “Fine,” muttered Meralda, as she glared at the pocket watch. “Let’s see if you’re even real.”