Every Wind of Change

by Frank Tuttle

  “It means the Vonats think they know something we don’t,” King Yvin said. “The Hang too. It all hinges on the bloody ring in the sky. I’m sure of that much. Which leads us to the topic at hand.” King Yvin lifted the coffee pot, refilled his cup, and gestured to Meralda. “More?”

  “Not now, thank you.” Meralda felt her stomach begin to churn. He’s going to ask me to make the Arc go away, she thought. I just know it.

  “I want that bloody great hunk of trouble gone,” said King Yvin. “I know, I know, that may not be possible. Failing that, I want to know what’s got the Hang and the Vonats preparing for war or doomsday, and what to do about it.”

  Meralda lifted her cup before she remembered it was empty. “You do realize the Arc may well be beyond the reach of any power I might command,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

  “You stopped something from coming through it once,” King Yvin replied. “Empty-handed and half dead from grief and exposure, as I recall.”

  Meralda blinked, pushing that memory away.

  “The unmagic is gone. And far too dangerous to risk, even if I still had the use of it.”

  King Yvin shrugged. “I wouldn’t presume to dictate specifics. But as King, I must, and do, dictate this – from this moment on, discovering the nature of the Arc and what, if any threat it might present to Tirlin is your one and only focus. I’m sorry, Meralda, but I really must insist.”

  “And I really must resign,” said Meralda, the words spilling from her before she realized she had spoken them.

  King Yvin merely chuckled. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve longed to say those words myself. Sadly, after giving your petition of resignation careful and lengthy consideration, I reject it, ordering you to retain your position as Mage until Tirlin is out of danger. Now, now, Mage, it’s not all bad,” King Yvin added hurriedly, as Meralda stood. “There’s an upside to all this.”

  “Indeed there is, dear,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “I know this is all very upsetting. But stay, won’t you, for me?” Mrs. Primsbite smiled and motioned for her to sit, and Meralda sank into her chair.

  “You get a raise,” said King Yvin. “I’m doubling your salary.”

  “You also get a new position,” said Mrs. Primsbite, smiling a secretive smile. “One I just know you’ll be excited to accept.”

  “Will I have a choice?” Meralda asked.

  “Not at all,” King Yvin replied, filling her cup. “Welcome to the Secret Service, Mage. Meet your new boss.” King Yvin grinned and looked to Mrs. Primsbite.

  Meralda turned to Mrs. Primsbite. “I’m a bit confused,” she said carefully. “You’re with the Secret Service?”

  “She’s the Deputy Director,” whispered King Yvin. “Has been for sixteen years.”

  “Seventeen,” Mrs. Primsbite said. She reached out and laid her hand on Meralda’s. “Welcome to the Service, dear. I’m so glad to have you aboard.”

  “I’m speechless,” Meralda said, at last.

  “Speechless about the Service is a good way to start,” King Yvin said. “It’s a necessary step, Mage. You’re going to bump shoulders with things that might need to be kept secret or lied about. Now the burden of making that decision is on Mrs. Primsbite’s shoulders. You can send me a thank you card later.”

  Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “How thoughtful of you, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, don’t be cross, Mage. As I said, it isn’t all bad news. I know I’ve dumped a bushel of trouble in your lap. So, I’m also giving you help to deal with it.”

  Before Meralda could ask, she heard the butler’s dry demand for identification outside the door. She listened to a pair of indignant replies, and then the door flew open.

  “We’re late,” announced Fromarch, as he stomped inside. “All his fault, as usual.”

  A second elderly mage hurried in behind Fromarch. “Lies,” Shingvere said, winking at Meralda before plopping down beside her and helping himself to a donut.

  “Hello, Yvin. Mrs. Primsbite,” Fromarch said, dragging back a chair. “Has he told you the good news, Meralda?”

  Meralda’s heart sank. “My new help?”

  King Yvin met her glare. “They’ve agreed to act as your assistants. To follow your directives without commentary or debate.” King Yvin turned his gaze toward the two slouching wizards. “Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  Fromarch muttered an affirmative. Shingvere, his mouth full, executed a brief salute.

  King Yvin sighed deeply. “Let me remind you, gentlemen. Tirlin is now on a war footing. Our neighbors are preparing for what looks like a cataclysm. Your job is to assist the Mage I’ve assigned to forestall such. For Tirlin.”

  Shingvere nodded, suddenly somber. Fromarch lost his grin and spoke to Meralda.

  “We’ll keep our mouths shut, and we’ll do what you say. We’re here to help, Meralda. In whatever fashion you require. Glad to do it.”

  “Proud to do it,” added Shingvere.

  “Let’s share what we know,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “I’ll begin.”

  Two cups of coffee, thought Meralda. Two cups of coffee and half a donut. In that brief time I’ve become a spy, and learned war is looming.

  I should have another donut, she decided, and then she pushed the thought aside and listened to Mrs. Primsbite’s calm recitation of chaos in bloom.

  It was nearly dark before Meralda shut the Laboratory doors behind her and headed for home.

  Mug was nowhere to be found. He’s probably off playing the ridiculous flour-throwing game with the crows, Meralda thought, before remembering it was Tuesday, the day Mug’s columns appeared.

  Meralda hurried to find a newspaper stand and snatched up a copy of the Times, turning quickly to page 7A, home of Mister Mug’s Musings.

  She scanned the article before slumping against a lamppost in relief.

  Satisfied her personal life wasn’t mentioned, she tucked the newspaper under her arm and set out again. Woke up a Mage, now I’m a spy, and I’ve not even had supper yet, she mused. I do hope the rest of my evening is uneventful.

  A familiar buzzing sounded somewhere above and behind her. Meralda searched the dusky sky for Mug’s flying birdcage. “I hear your coils,” she called out. “And if a bag of flour should drop anywhere near me I swear, Mugglesworth Ovis, I should not be at all surprised if the vicinity is beset by sudden discharges of inexplicable lightning.”

  Mug’s silver cage dipped suddenly into view, and he dropped until he came to a bobbing hover a few feet from Meralda. “Well someone is in a mood,” he announced, his eyes turned toward Meralda. “Long day at work?’

  Meralda nodded. “Perhaps the longest yet.”

  “Well, tell me all about it,” replied Mug, falling into place as Meralda resumed her determined march down Fleet Street. “What has that simpleton of a King done now?”

  Meralda bit her lip and kept her silence all the long way home.

  * * *

  The moon peeked through Meralda’s kitchen window by the time she’d told about the day.

  “That’s the most implausible tale I’ve heard since we returned to Tirlin,” Mug said when Meralda fell silent. “You haven’t taken to drink, have you?”

  “Not yet.” Meralda glared at her kitchen table. “I simply can’t believe Mrs. Primsbite is with the Secret Service!”

  Mug’s leaves stirred. “Deputy Director? Sounds more as if she runs the Secret Service. That’s the only part of this that does make any sense. As a penswift, she can go anywhere, talk to anyone. She’s the famous Mrs. Wedding O. Primsbite, star reporter for the Times. She’s certainly not some high-ranking spy master engaged in a dangerous game of espionage, now is she?”

  Meralda sighed. “And just what am I supposed to do about the Arc? Ninety-two miles of metal so hard we can’t scratch it, defying gravity and everything else we know, and King Yvin wants it gone. As if I need only snap my fingers.”

  Mug turned his full gaggle of eyes back toward Meralda. “There wa
s a time not so long ago when you could have done just that. Any chance you could, you know, turn your eyes bright red again, just for a moment?”

  Meralda glared.

  “Never mind, never mind, it was just a thought. Take a deep breath, Mistress. Forget the Hang and the Vonats for a minute. Concentrate on what we know, not what we don’t.”

  “The Arc’s song,” Meralda said. “That’s got to be significant.”

  “Maybe the Hang figured out the lyrics. Maybe it’s not a tender upbeat love song.”

  “I want to believe they’d share this with us, had they done so,” Meralda said. “We did agree to disclose any and all discoveries freely.”

  “We certainly did,” agreed Mug. “Well, glad that’s sorted out, then. We can all rest easy now.”

  “This is neither the time nor the place for sarcasm.”

  Mug rolled most of his eyes before turning them toward the rising moon. “If you were a huge ugly thing made of some outlandish metal and hung up there amid the clouds, what would you sing about?”

  Meralda rose. She moved to stand beside Mug.

  “When I became Mage to the Court, I was so sure I’d change the world,” Meralda said.

  Mug’s eyes swiveled. “You have. You broke the Tower curse. Averted war. Invented the Ovis Flying Coil and the spark lamp. Oh, and you saved the world. Not a bad list of achievements. You really ought to have a statue somewhere.”

  “That’s not what I meant. All this –” Meralda frowned. “Nonsense. I can’t knock the Arc out of the sky. Moving the Tower’s shadow nearly wrecked the city. Sometimes I wish I’d never accepted the office of Mage.”

  “Well, you did, and you are, and King Yvin won’t even let you quit. But cheer up, Mistress. If he doesn’t let you quit, he certainly won’t fire you. You’ve got more freedom as Mage than anyone since Tim the Horsehead!”

  “Freedom to do exactly as I’m told,” Meralda said, gloomily. “Again.”

  Mug tossed his fronds in a shrug. “Figure out how to make the Arc either go away or behave itself. Then you can spend the next twenty years fiddling with this and poking at that and King Yvin won’t dare say boo.”

  “I could spend the next twenty years staring at the Arc and get nowhere. It’s more a force of nature than anything else. It’s as if I’m being asked to alter the tides, or still the winds.”

  “He did double your salary.”

  Meralda laughed. “So. Something has the Vonats and the Hang rushing about in a panic. What aspect of the Arc could provoke such a reaction?”

  “We’ve got half a dozen airships watching it from the calm spot. They haven’t reported anything unusual?”

  “Nothing,” Meralda said. “Nothing at all.”

  “Got to be the song then,” Mug said. “Maybe the Hang deciphered it. Or maybe the Vonats dug up another old book of gibberish and loaned a copy to their good friends, the Hang because you know how much Vonats love sharing.”

  “I doubt the latter. But the song is as good a place as any to start.”

  “See? You’ve already formulated a plan of action. Go to bed, Mistress. Then you can rise refreshed in the morning, get to the Laboratory early, and have the Arc stored safely in a jar by lunch.”

  “Somehow I doubt it will be that easy.”

  “Aha,” Mug said. “The game is afoot. I just spied the chickens, hiding in that oak at the corner. Mind leaving the window open, Mistress? Time to teach them a few things about flying.”

  Meralda smiled. “Go ahead, Mug. Just don’t come back covered in flour again.”

  Mug’s coils buzzed to life, and his birdcage rose. “Not tonight,” he said. “Sleep well, Mistress! You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  Mug soared out the window and into the night.

  Meralda watched as Mug and the crows engaged in a wild chase up and down the street. She could not quite make out Mug’s shouted taunts, but she could hear the playful derision in the crows’ cawed responses.

  Lights flared in nearby windows. Voices rose up, indignant and calling for quiet. Finally, Mug led the crows away, and the avenue fell silent once again.

  Meralda switched her gaze to the moon, wondering if Donchen looked upon it as well.

  “Goodnight, my love,” she said after a time. “I wonder what you’re truly up to. And I wonder if I’ll ever know.”

  4

  Before Meralda could open the doors to the Laboratory, both Bellringers came spilling out, faces flushed, red Palace Guard uniforms askew.

  “Mage!” Kervis said, wild-eyed.

  “We didn’t expect you so early,” finished Tervis.

  “I see that,” replied Meralda, stepping between them. “Mages!” she shouted, as she flung open the doors. “What are you –?”

  Meralda stopped a single step inside, her mouth still open.

  Shingvere waved from the back. Fromarch looked up from his work and grunted.

  The Laboratory gleamed. Mortmop’s Articulate Handler still wielded a broom, while Dern’s Able Servitor pushed a mop across the just-swept floor. Cornbed’s Agile Insect crawled along the wall just below the ceiling, waving an enormous feather duster through the cobwebs. All the burnt-out spark-lamps had been replaced. Gone too were the battered old trashcans, the dented icebox, and the old sofa that used to lurk in the west corner.

  The new icebox gleamed, all copper and glass. The trash cans were silver. Three new chairs replaced the threadbare old sofa.

  “– doing?” Meralda finished, at last. “Coffee? Do I smell fresh coffee?”

  “Coming right up,” Shingvere said. He hurried across the Laboratory. Meralda turned and found herself face-to-face with the very same kind of towering coffee machine preferred by most of the downtown coffee shops. “You take one sugar, as I recall.”

  “This must have cost a fortune!” Meralda said. “It all has to go back, at once!”

  “It did cost a fortune, but it doesn’t need to go anywhere at all,” Fromarch said. “You heard King Yvin. Tirlin is on a war footing now, and we’re on the front lines. Nothing too good for the troops, isn’t that right, Mage Shingvere?”

  “Just so, Mage Fromarch,” Shingvere replied, as he grinned and shoved a hot cup of coffee at Meralda. “Good morning, love. You look radiant, as always.”

  “She looks furious, as usual,” Fromarch said. “I signed the disbursement papers, Mage. If Old Grumpy gets a bee in his beard, he can take it up with me. Now then.” He gestured toward a chair so new the price tag still hung from the back. “That one’s yours. Your capable assistants await your first orders. We took the liberty of making workstations for ourselves so that we wouldn’t be in your way.”

  Meralda sipped her coffee, which was just as good as anything she had ever bought from any of the coffee houses that lined downtown. “It seems you’ve taken several liberties.”

  Fromarch just shrugged. “King Yvin wants results. We want coffee and comfortable chairs. So. What do we do about this terrible thing in the sky?”

  Meralda made her way to her new chair and sat. This cost at least a thousand crowns, she thought.

  “Worth every penny,” she muttered.

  “We might have a few ideas concerning the Arc, Mage Meralda,” Shingvere said. “But we’d like to hear yours first, of course.”

  “You needn’t overdo it,” growled Fromarch. “She sat in the new chair and is drinking the good coffee. I don’t think she’s liable to call the Guards and have us ejected.”

  “We start with the song,” Meralda said. Her new chair did not squeak as she moved. “I assume you’ve read my notes on the structure of it?”

  Both old wizards nodded. “We’re up to speed. Clever of you, sending Verth’s Multispectral Recorder to the Arc. Any idea when it might be returned?”

  “By the end of the week, perhaps. At last report, it was aboard the Stalwart, delayed a day for weather.” Meralda put her coffee cup down on her desk. “Until it arrives with a more detailed version of the song, we�
�ll have to make do with the original recording.” Meralda raised her voice. “Tower. Play the Arc’s song, from the start until the five-second mark, if you please.”

  “As you wish,” Tower said, his voice sounding from Goboy’s Glass. A slight hint of annoyance in Tower’s tone told Meralda the old wizards had been teasing him again.

  After Tower spoke, the laboratory filled with sound, like wind through leaves, or water tumbling over rocks in a wild, rushing river.

  As the song progressed, the roaring intensified, increasing in pitch until it became a breathless, warbling wail, which hung in the air until it abruptly ceased.

  “I’m amazed anyone recognized that as a signal at all,” Shingvere said. “It sounds very much like static, at least at first.”

  Meralda nodded. “Tower, play the section labeled Counting 1.”

  “Playing,” Tower replied. The same rush of noise began, lower in pitch this time, and softer. There came a brief whistle, a pause, then two whistles, then three, all the way to twelve.

  Fromarch rifled through his papers. “That’s slowed by what, Meralda? One hundred and forty-four times?”

  Meralda nodded. “I played with it for a week before I found it. It counts from one to twelve. Then it starts doing math. Simple addition, at first. One whistle, a pause, another whistle. Then that complicated burst of noise, and two short whistles. Same thing next, but with threes, then fours, and so on.”

  Meralda rose and began to pace. “The noise. I want you two to pick it apart. Slow it down, speed it up, do whatever you want with it. We need to know what it means because right after this segment of the song I lose all sense of what it might be trying to say.”

  The bearded mages nodded. “That’s what I’d do,” Fromarch said.

  “He means it’s a good idea,” Shingvere added. “We’ll get started right away.”

  Meralda kept pacing. “Keep in mind the song’s authors favor twelves over tens. That much I have learned.”

  “Probably some great ungainly squid,” Fromarch muttered.

  “They have eight tentacles, not twelve,” Shingvere corrected.