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

by Frank Tuttle

  Meralda began to snore.

  Mug regarded the ungainly thing Meralda and Donchen had built.

  It was tall and bulky, and it was not lovely. Parts that hadn’t quite fit had been hammered into place. Exposed cables and conduits hung from end to end. Some hissed and leaked mist, while others glowed and dripped slow, cold sparks.

  But they’d aimed it at Goboy’s Glass, and Mug had put his eye to it, and he’d been able to look at the Intrepid and see clear detail from more than three hundred miles away.

  It worked. “You’re not pretty,” muttered Mug sleepily. “But I guess I can forgive that.”

  Chapter 10

  “What’s all this?” Mug asked, stirring his leaves and blinking the sleep from his twenty-nine eyes. “Mistress, have you cut a hole in the ceiling?”

  Meralda nodded, mopping sweat from her face. “Technically, that’s a deck, since we’re aboard an airship.”

  “Deck or ceiling, it’s still a bloody great hole, must I ask again?”

  Meralda grinned and climbed onto her desk. She then reached up into the hole, struggled with something in the ceiling for a moment, and managed to pull a pair of thick cables through the opening.

  “I need electricity,” she said. “For the new instruments.”

  Mug gazed about the cabin.

  While he’d slept, Meralda had been hard at work.

  Both bicycles were disassembled. Every electric lamp in the cabin had been opened, and wires ran from their empty sockets. The leavings of the telescope project had joined the bicycle frames in the center of the room, where the lines from the lamps converged into the machine Meralda was constructing.

  Four bicycle wheels turned slowly in the dim light. Chains shuttled through gears with well-oiled clicks. A single beam of white light rose up from the deck in the center of the wheels. The beam entered the remains of a jewelry box, and escaped to fall on the spinning rims from lenses set into each of the box’s four faces. Tiny shards of broken mirrors reflected the lights back toward the center of the machine, which buzzed and sparked as the wheels rotated.

  “This is why we’ll never be able to keep a maid,” Mug said.

  Meralda heaved and yanked, and another yard of thick black cable emerged. “I’m going to find out why I’m surrounded by household goods, and put a stop to it.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly murdered a pair of perfectly good bicycles. What is that thing?”

  “That thing is a four-axis balanced-load thaumeter,” replied Meralda. She leaped down from her desk. “It will show the direction, the intensity, and the temporal alignment of whatever is materializing objects about me.”

  “Not to raise uncomfortable lines of inquiry, Mistress, but what if the source is you?”

  “It will show that too.”

  Beside the thaumeter, a coil of glowing wires wound up and around the remains of the hat rack, where they terminated in a sparking globe that hung just below the ceiling. Meralda pulled the cables to it, and set about stripping the insulation.

  “And that?” asked Mug.

  “A simple charge detector,” Meralda replied. She looked up at Mug and grinned. “It struck me last night, when I was talking to the Queen. There aren’t any bangs when new objects materialize. No sparks either. Why aren’t there bangs, Mug?”

  Mug flew his cage close to Meralda, his eyes wide. “That’s a live wire, Mistress,” he said.

  “I’m wearing rubber gloves,” Meralda said. “No bangs! No sparks! Mug, if these objects were actually transported somehow from thousands of miles away and thousands of feet below, what would you expect their reaction to be upon their release into this new environment?”

  “Well, straightaway, the cat did something rude in the corner,” Mug began.

  Meralda used her wire cutters as a stabbing finger. “Static discharges! Thaumic discharges! We should observe both, in every case. There should be flashes, and bangs. There aren’t.”

  “So what does that tell us?” asked Mug.

  Meralda shrugged. Her red eyes dimmed slightly. “I’ll know shortly,” she said.

  Lights flashed in the corner. Mug darted toward the boxlike affair as the lamp affixed to the top began to flicker. “That looks like Bean’s Luminous Divider,” Mug said. “The one that finally measured the speed of light.”

  “It should,” replied Meralda. “The basic workings are the same.”

  “That business over there, by your berth. Is that a thaumic elasticity thingamajig?”

  Meralda beamed. “It is a perfect reproduction of Malt’s Primal Etheric Elasticity Oscillator,” she said. “We can measure the most basic magical constant even more accurately than Malt ever could.”

  Mug’s eyes swept the cabin. “Has the ever resourceful Donchen been a participant in all this?”

  “He’s out procuring more wire.”

  “Of course he is,” muttered Mug. He flew a few rapid orbits of the new devices, inspecting them with unblinking eyes. “Mistress, I heard it all. There’s nothing to this Vonat nonsense. Why can’t you see that?”

  A pair of white linen gloves floated down from the ceiling.

  “Because of that,” Meralda said.

  “They’re just gloves,” Mug said, his voice raised. “They’re going to lie there on the floor. They can’t hurt anything.”

  Meralda held up the ends of the cables she’d just stripped and eyed them critically. “It’s not the gloves, or the objects,” she said. “It’s the act of materializing them. Magic doesn’t work this way. It simply doesn’t.”

  “Mages have been moving objects magically for centuries,” Mug said. “Molat’s Stepping Stones. Afer’s Door of Moving. I could name more.”

  Meralda dragged the thick cables across the floor to her new creation. “All good examples, Mug, because they require periodic latchings of new spells, or of fresh holdstones.” She bent, frowned, and grabbed a wrench from a pocket. “I have latched nothing, and we’ve already demonstrated that I’m expending no arcane energy.”

  “So what exactly do you intend to prove with all this?”

  Sparks flew. Meralda jumped back.

  The bicycle wheels began to turn, faster and faster, until each was nothing but a whining, shining blur. The beam of light flickered and turned red, then blue, then violet.

  “It’s done,” Meralda said. She sat at her desk, aimed a pair of latching wands at the wheels, and mouthed a Word.

  The violet light intensified, and the whine from the wheels rose up and up in pitch until neither Meralda nor Mug could hear it.

  Meralda aimed another wand at the glowing sphere above the hat rack and spoke another Word.

  The glow brightened, beginning to show flecks of purple and violet mixed with the gold.

  Mug backed his cage away from both machines.

  “I’m going to prove, once and for all, where these objects and the force used to transport them originates from,” she said.

  A knock came at the door. Donchen’s voice followed.

  “I have the items,” he said.

  Meralda picked her way through the objects that littered her floor.

  Donchen slipped quickly inside and assumed his true form. “You are an artist, my dear,” he said as he regarded the glowing machines. He gave her the bag he carried. “I believe these will suffice for the final differentiator stages.”

  “They certainly will,” Meralda said, inspecting the components. She lifted a finely detailed candelabra. “Oh, my, is this pure silver?”

  “Alon silver, I believe,” Donchen replied. “How careless of them to leave it in a locked safe.”

  Mug groaned. “Seriously? Do either of you know what Alons do to thieves?”

  “Thieves? What thieves?” asked Meralda. “We’ll return it. Won’t we?”

  “If you insist,” Donchen said. “Do you insist?”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Good morning, Mage Ovis,” said Mrs. Primsbite, her strident voice heard easily through the door. “I
thought we might have coffee.”

  Meralda raised her finger to her lips. Donchen froze in place, balancing easily on one foot. Mug let his cage settle onto Meralda’s desk and silenced its buzzing coils.

  “Now, now, you did promise unrestricted access,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “I brought an entire pot of coffee. More than enough to share with your friend Mr. Sink, who must be quite thirsty after hurrying all the way here from that nice Alon jeweler’s storage closet—”

  Meralda snatched the door open, and Mrs. Primsbite met her with a wide smile. “Good morning, Mage,” she said. “I do hope I am intruding.”

  “Might as well let her in,” Mug said, lifting his cage. “Just don’t let her talk you into a quick game of five-card stud.”

  Meralda sighed and stepped aside. Mrs. Primsbite entered, carefully picking her way through the gloom and the knee-high stacks of objects that covered Meralda’s floor.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sink,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “Or should I call you by your other name?”

  “Mr. Sink will suffice. So you know?”

  “I am a reporter, dear. And while this lovely airship looks quite large from without, it’s actually quite small on the inside, if you take my meaning. Please. Have coffee.”

  “I did promise you unrestricted access,” began Meralda. Her unspoken ‘but’ died in the air before it could form on her lips.

  “Indeed you did,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “Now then. What’s all this?” She gestured about the room. “You seem to be hard at work at something magical and urgent.”

  “We’re trying to get more speed out of the flying coils,” Mug said.

  Mrs. Primsbite met Mug’s many-eyed gaze. “There’s only one real trick to good reporting,” she said. “It involves recognizing the ring of truth when you hear it. I heard nothing of the sort from you, Mr. Mug, so I’ll just pretend you didn’t speak. Let’s start over. What’s all this?”

  Beside Meralda, a tall white wedding cake materialized. The cake, topped with a tiny bride and her tiny groom, fell to the floor with a thud, rolled onto its side, and came to rest at Mrs. Primsbite’s feet.

  “I see,” said the reporter. When a pair of crystal wine glasses crashed down beside the ruined cake, her eyes widened in sudden realization.

  “That explains it,” she said.

  “Explains what?” Meralda asked.

  “Rumors of odd items found in the halls. Strange crashing sounds at night. How long has this been happening, Mage?”

  Meralda sagged. “It began shortly after we encountered the sea serpents. I don’t know what’s causing it. All this, as you put it, is an attempt to find out.”

  “Mistress believes the world is unraveling around her,” Mug said. “We hope you might decide not to print that bit.”

  Mrs. Primsbite chuckled. “You’d be amazed at the secrets I’ve kept,” she said. “Dear, I want a story. Something I can cap off my career with. Something for the history books. But I’m a Tirl, first and foremost, and I won’t print a word that will wound the kingdom. So please, speak freely. I’m not the enemy.”

  Meralda hesitated.

  “Anyway, if the world does unravel, even the Times won’t be able to get an extra edition out,” added Mug quickly. “Show her the four-axis whateveritis. And put me in some of the pictures,” he added. “And don’t just pencil in three or four eyes. I have twenty-nine, you know. Attention to detail!”

  Mrs. Primsbite fetched a pencil from behind her ear, and a sketching pad from her pocket. “Pretend I’m not here,” she said. “Keep working. Now, why would the world choose this particular moment to end?”

  Meralda resumed stripping insulation from the supply lines she’d just pulled out of the ceiling. “Physical laws prohibit the creation of matter. Magical laws demand that effects have causes. I’ve seen what might be small local violations of both laws, violations that seem to be increasing in frequency and scale.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “But I also see the world, which appears to be in much the same state as it has always been. Tell me, what am I missing?”

  “A lot of Vonat nonsense about prophecies and Unmakers,” Mug said. “That, a touch of overwork, and a vivid imagination.”

  Meralda glared. “Standing waves,” she said, between clenched teeth. “Imagine all reality as a reflection. A reflection on the surface of a perfectly circular, absolutely smooth pond. Your reflection doesn’t know it’s a reflection, of course, and it truly doesn’t matter–as long as the water remains still.”

  Mrs. Primsbite nodded, scribbling furiously. “And if someone tosses a pebble?”

  “Then waves radiate out from the point of contact,” replied Meralda. “A single pebble makes only a tiny disturbance. By the time the ripples spread out, they’re nearly invisible. The waters are soon still.”

  “So these events,” said Mrs. Primsbite, looking pointedly at the ruined wedding cake. “Each is a pebble.”

  Meralda nodded, then bent over a machine. Sparks flew, but she kept working. “That depends,” Meralda said. “If they are normal magic, somehow aimed at me from afar by agencies unknown, then we face nothing but a ridiculous plot of some kind. Magic, at least the magic we know from science, doesn’t affect reality on the primal level, any more than a pulley or a steam piston does.” She rose, twisted a dial, and frowned. “But if I am right–if this is something new, something not quite magic and not quite normal–then the ripples are spreading with each appearance of a new object.”

  “You mentioned standing waves?”

  Meralda nodded. “Remember the bridge that collapsed ten years ago, on Yule Eve? The one they called the Sunset Narrows Passway? The one that twisted and shook in that freak winter wind?”

  “I was there,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “I saw it collapse.”

  “The length of the bridge. The speed of the wind. What started out as a tiny shake quickly became a series of undulations that tore the iron bridge apart,” Meralda said. “The phenomenon is called a standing wave. If the combination of forces and stresses is just so, vibrations feed on themselves, amplify themselves, and soon the structure is shaken apart.”

  “And yet every other bridge in Tirlin still stands,” added Mug.

  “Reality binds all things,” Meralda said. “Bridges seldom do.”

  “Wait, I thought reality was a pond,” began Mug. “Is it a bridge now? Mrs. Primsbite’s readers will never finish this story.”

  “On the contrary, it’s fascinating,” the reporter said. “But it’s not complete, is it? There’s the Vonat prophecy you mentioned.”

  Mug outlined the Vonat’s tale, though Meralda noted he was careful to omit any clear reference to Yksinare himself.

  “Too, Phillitrep’s Engine finally coughed up an answer to the famous Last Question,” added Mug, despite a warning glance from Meralda. “What did it say? Final cosmic event, due any day now? Of course it followed that up with something about mice and muffins, but Mistress is determined to be gloomy.”

  Mrs. Primsbite’s eyes went briefly round. “Phillitrep’s Engine completed its task? Mage Ovis, do you realize there are whole social clubs, with hundreds of members, who do nothing but meet and debate the probable nature and ultimate impact of the Last Question?”

  “Why would they do such a thing?” asked Meralda.

  “I suspect the discussions involve large meals, good port brandy, and fat stinky cigars,” Mug said.

  Mrs. Primsbite laughed. “Mug, I shall have to convince my publisher to give you a column of your own,” she said.

  Meralda and Donchen both spoke at once. “No,” they chorused. “At least not without an editor,” Meralda said.

  Smoke began to rise from deep within the coils of the Primal Thaumeter. Meralda hurried to the machine and knelt beside it.

  Mug flew his cage close to Mrs. Primsbite’s right shoulder. “Tell me, Wedding old friend, are columnists perhaps paid by the word?”

  * * *

  Much later, Meralda and
Donchen exchanged a single weary nod.

  “So it begins now?” asked Mrs. Primsbite, who was perched upon a velvet settee which had materialized moments before.

  “It does,” Meralda said, brushing a damp lock of hair from her face.

  “Powering up,” Donchen said, before closing a large knife switch.

  Sparks flew. Machines began to hum and whirl. The air took on a peculiar smell.

  Mug flew his cage close to Meralda. His eyes extended from between the bars as he managed to focus on every machine at once.

  “So far so good, Mistress,” he said. “Nothing is on fire. Yet. Do your stuff.”

  Meralda bit back a retort, stood, and waited.

  A box of Yule ornaments appeared beside Mrs. Primsbite, only to crash to the deck with the tinkling of broken glass. An instant later, a silver tray clattered to the floor, and then a child’s bright red kickball appeared, lightly scuffed but still adorned with the shield and sword sigil of the Tirlin Storm football club.

  Donchen moved to watch a pair of dials on the side of the four-axis thaumeter. Meralda kept her eyes on the charge detector, so it was Mug who saw the change in the Luminous Divider first.

  “Oh,” he said. “Um, Mistress, you might want to check the Divider. Something is wrong with it.”

  Meralda made her way to the machine. “What, precisely?” she asked.

  “Well, it indicates the speed of light just dropped to half its known value,” replied Mug. “Twice. Probably a bad connection.”

  Meralda knelt by the device for a moment.

  A pair of hedge trimmers struck the deck. Meralda’s face went pale.

  “Mistress?” asked Mug, as Donchen joined Meralda by the Divider.

  “It isn’t a bad connection,” Meralda said. A cup of coffee appeared by her knees. “Did you see that?” she asked Donchen.

  He nodded, not smiling.

  “I did,” he replied. “The variations are inconsistent.”

  “As I feared,” replied Meralda.

  “So the speed of light–a fundamental constant–changed when that cup of coffee appeared?” Mug said.