by Frank Tuttle
Fromarch stomped grumbling toward the door. He flung it open and snatched the bundle of letters and documents away from Tervis. “No more interruptions unless it’s supper or beer,” grumped the old wizard. “Shoo.”
He shut the door and dumped the mail on the floor beside Meralda’s desk. She sat, silently urging the Marvelous Pens to move faster.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” said Fromarch, pulling up a chair. “Like as not it’s page after page of things we already know. Like the mathematics in the first section of the Song.”
“That’s not the point,” snapped Mug. “It’s communication. From something or someone which may very well originate from beyond our world.”
Fromarch snorted. “You’ve got quite an imagination for a houseplant. From whence might this something or someone hail, if not from here?”
Mug tossed his leaves briefly. “Up there,” he said, turning a pair of green eyes skyward. “Tell him, Mistress. What you told me about the stars.”
Meralda groaned. Fromarch grinned and leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Yes, Mage, tell us. I’m so eager to hear another crackpot theory about life sneaking about in the airless void above.”
“I will not be baited,” Meralda replied.
Shingvere hooted in glee. His shout was followed by the rattle of the Pens resetting themselves after finishing the first page of the drawing.
“You are going to want to see this, Mages,” shouted Shingvere as he trotted smiling back to Meralda’s desk.
“Indeed,” said Meralda, taking a deep breath as the old Mage spread the full sheet out before her.
“Oh look,” muttered Fromarch, glaring at the paper. “We can now calculate the circumference of a circle from its radius. I’ll organize a parade at once.”
“Quiet, you old goat,” Shingvere said. “Of course, it starts off simple. Mage Meralda, how many pages of drawings do you estimate are in this section of the Song alone?”
Meralda barely heard the question. Instead, her gaze followed the diagrams, which began by depicting a simple point in space, and then a line, and then more complex shapes, with stops along the way to establish well-known geometric relationships. Yes, she thought. This is all very simple, very basic. But it has only just begun.
“I estimate three hundred and seventy pages of drawings. At a minimum,” she heard herself say. “And we were nearly to the end of this Song interval.”
Shingvere rubbed his hands together in glee. “The Pens can only draw so fast. What else might we employ?”
“Drover’s Accurate Artist,” muttered Fromarch. “Speak firmly to it, though, or it will draw in bloody flowers everywhere.”
“Mickum’s Dedicated Scribbler is faster,” Meralda said.
“Broken, isn’t it?” asked Fromarch.
“I fixed it last May,” Meralda said, rising. “I’ll get a cart for it. Will you gentlemen handle Drover’s?”
“Glad to,” Shingvere said. The old wizards headed for the shelves, already arguing. Mug remained by Meralda’s side while she lingered, smiling down at the page.
“Well, I say it’s from out there,” Mug said, keeping his voice low. “You and I both know the Hang didn’t build it, or the Realms, or the Vonats.”
“I agree,” Meralda replied. She looked up, up and over the ranks of instruments and devices, over the centuries of tools and implements hanging on wall pegs, to the dusty, faded portrait of Tim the Horsehead that adorned the west wall.
“Even Tim never saw anything quite like this,” Mug said, following Meralda’s gaze. “Of course, Tim didn’t have me around to guess the solutions to ancient secrets.”
Meralda laughed. She carefully drew Mug’s cage to her face and gave the bars a quick kiss. “True. Now let’s get the scribbler.”
“Only if you agree never to do that again, Mistress,” Mug said, his flying coils humming as Meralda made for the shelves. “Ick.”
Meralda laughed and hurried into the shadows.
By midnight, Meralda’s desk was covered by page after page of carefully drawn diagrams.
She slept upon them, her face resting on her arm, snoring softly. Mug watched from her side. A few steps away, both the old Mages also snored, sunk deep in the cushioned depths of their new armchairs.
Restless, Mug moved the drawings not pinned beneath Meralda’s arm. He ran numerous eyes over each, muttering softly to himself.
“I don’t much like this, Mistress,” he whispered, giving one particularly complex diagram a good hard glare with all his blue eyes. “It makes just enough sense to be terrifying.”
Mug dropped the pages in disgust. His gaze wandered about the room, finally coming to rest on the stack of mail that lay untouched on the floor beside Meralda’s desk. He floated over to it and began to rifle through the envelopes with delicate tendrils. “Mine, hers, mine, mine, hers, hers,” he said, sorting the mail into stacks.
The last envelope, a heavy white one, lay face down. Mug flipped it over. Every one of his eyes snapped into focus on the letter.
Mug wilted. His leaves shivered and folded. His vines withdrew, as though touched by a sudden deadly frost.
“No,” he said, at last.
He turned three brown eyes to Meralda. She still snored softly, not stirring.
Mug extended a dozen tendrils. He curled them carefully around the envelope and lifted his cage, pulling the letter up and away.
Meralda stirred at the sudden buzzing of his flying coils but soon began to snore again.
“I won’t have this,” Mug whispered, rising slowly. “Not now. Not ever. Leave her alone, you old witch.”
At that very moment, Phillitrep’s Thinking Engine rang its loud silver bell, signaling the completion of its pondering.
Meralda stirred, then woke. Mug shoved his levers forward, determined to flee with the envelope and contrive a convenient lie later.
Before he had gone a foot, Meralda’s long fingers snatched the envelope from his vines. “What is this?” she asked, bleary-eyed. “Another of your pranks? Is this from Donchen?”
“Mistress, no—” as Mug watched Meralda’s smile vanish he knew he was too late.
Fromarch and Shingvere roused from their naps. Both came lumbering over.
“What’s that?” Fromarch asked. “I heard the bell.”
Meralda nodded slowly, still holding the envelope as though it were an active curse.
The old mages exchanged wary glances.
“Mage Fromarch,” Mug said softly. “Mage Shingvere. This would be an excellent time to go home. Without preamble, or any comment at all, really.”
Fromarch opened his mouth but was silenced by a fierce glare from Shingvere. “We’ll be in the second-floor commissary,” he said, a hand on Fromarch’s shoulder. “Good night, Mage. Mug.”
The bewildered wizards shuffled out.
Mug settled his cage down on Meralda’s desk.
“You’re not going to read that, are you?” he asked.
Meralda sat frozen. The Laboratory clicked and whirred. Somewhere in the shadows of the stacks, a crow’s wings beat gently.
“Just burn it,” Mug said. “You know it’s nothing but trouble.”
Meralda took in a deep breath. “I’m so happy you’re here, Mug. Thank you for that.”
Then Meralda tore open the envelope with shaking hands and began to read. When she was done, she folded the letter, folded it again, and then methodically tore it to shreds.
“We will never speak of this,” she said. She crumpled the torn letter into a ball and dropped it onto the floor. “Ever. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Mug said. “But—”
Meralda was already standing. “Ever,” she said. “We are going home. Quietly.”
Mug’s coils buzzed as he maneuvered his cage to Meralda’s side.
Neither said a word, the whole of the long walk home.
7
Meralda pushed her goggles onto her forehead while panes of slow glass popped.
&nb
sp; One shattered, then another. Fromarch lumbered toward the sounds, wielding the cold-air blower he’d contrived after the day fifteen panes went up in smoke at once. His machine hissed, but no other glasses broke, and after a moment Shingvere hooted in triumph.
“Thirty-eight more seconds of the song!” he shouted. “I’ll get it sent to Phillitrep’s right away.”
Mug flew to Meralda’s ear. “Good to see you smile, Mistress,” he said, softly. “And well done. You’ll have the whole thing yet.”
“We’re a long way from that,” she replied. She marched to the new compiler console, which she had cobbled together the day before. The machine’s dials and lamps moved and blinked as the Song’s new content joined with the rest.
The drawing machines, by now familiar with their tasks, picked up pens and drew.
Meralda’s stomach grumbled. She glanced at the Laboratory clock, realized she’d missed lunch entirely, felt a pang of guilt that neither Fromarch nor Shingvere had said a word.
“Let’s eat,” she announced, removing her goggles. “The data is loading.”
“We can have something sent up,” Fromarch offered.
“No,” Meralda said. “We’ve been cooped up too long.” She brightened. “Is your motor-car operable, today?”
Shingvere grinned. “Better than ever. But I thought you swore never to ride with us again.”
“Go fetch it, please. I should like to try it once more.”
“As you wish, Mage,” Shingvere said. “Come on, grumpy. The lady wants a ride.”
Fromarch stowed his machine. “I’d better not hear any complaints about my driving.”
“You won’t,” Shingvere said. “Because it’s my day to drive.”
The old wizards hurried for the door, arguing.
Mug chuckled as the Laboratory doors shut with a boom.
“Not to dampen your spirits, Mistress,” Mug said, “but King Yvin sent word while you were busy. His Royal Obstinacy wishes a status update, at your earliest convenience.”
“Then he shall receive one when it is convenient. Right now I need to feel the wind on my face and enjoy a meal in peace.”
“Any idea where you’d like to dine? I can go ahead, reserve a table, and apologize in advance for the disturbance the elder Mages will likely cause.”
Meralda laughed and headed for the Laboratory’s cramped bathroom. “That new place. Singleton’s, on the Square.”
“Well aren’t we fancy.” Mug sailed toward the doors, which opened for him at a gesture from Meralda. “I’ll tell them our party will arrive in about an hour, shall I?”
“You shall,” Meralda replied.
Mug flew off humming.
Meralda was blotting her face with a damp, cold cloth when she heard the knock at the Laboratory door. She hurried toward it as one of the Bellringers spoke.
“The Mages are here, Mage,” he said. “They asked us to tell you.”
“I’ll be right down,” Meralda replied, hurrying into her coat. “Did they run anyone over getting here?”
“Not that we saw,” said the other Bellringer, from further away. “But there is a lot of shouting.”
“I’m not surprised,” Meralda said. She hurried out and down the stairs. Already, she could hear the shrill blasts of a traffic master’s whistle from outside, and she grinned.
Once outside, the cause for the traffic master’s ire became obvious. Shingvere had pulled the roaring motorcar off the road, onto the sidewalk, and right up to the steps of the Burnt Door. He remained behind the wheel of the vehicle, racing the engine roar every time the red-faced traffic master tried to speak.
Fromarch glowered from the back seat. Shingvere leaned over and opened the front passenger door for Meralda as she approached.
She hopped in and barely had the door shut before Shingvere gave his wheel a savage turn and sped away, sending the small crowd and the traffic master fleeing from his path.
“Too fast for you, Mage?” he shouted, over the din of his machine.
Meralda laughed as her hair began to whip and come undone from her bun. “Let’s make the papers,” she shouted in reply.
The old wizard smiled, adjusted his goggles, and sent the motorcar hurtling ahead.
Meralda gripped the dash and hung on as the car hopped the curb and sped off into traffic.
The crowd sent scrambling by Shingvere’s departure gathered around the traffic master. They shouted and gestured at the man, who dutifully produced his note-pad and wrote down each complaint.
A few yards away, in the shadows of an archway, a tall, thin woman in a dark walking dress watched. She waited until the motorcar was out of sight and even the roar of its engine was swallowed up by the sounds of early evening traffic.
Only then did she step out of the shadow and stroll away, a small tight smile lingering briefly on her lips.
When she too was gone, lost in the idling crowds that surrounded the Palace, Donchen emerged from the alley next to the arch. He stood watching, his hands in his pockets, his foreign features all but obscured by his shapeless, ragged workman’s cap.
After a moment, he set off after the thin woman, his ambling gait suggesting nothing more than an idle man wandering. He whistled tunelessly as he made his way through the crowds, and soon he too was gone from sight.
A pair of soft caws sounded from atop a street sign by the mouth of the alley. The pair of crows perched on it took flight, one following the speeding motorcar, the other flapping toward Donchen.
“Well, wasn’t that fascinating,” Mrs. Primsbite said, from inside her parked cab. “Driver,” she shouted. “Downtown. The offices of the Times, if you please.”
The driver barked an affirmative, snapped his reins, and the ponies pulled the cab away.
* * *
Her head pounded. Meralda groaned and stirred, her feet still in her boots, her long dress wrapped around her legs. She lay on her bed, atop the covers, every pillow knocked to the floor.
Her apartment was silent, save for the ticking of the hall clock.
She lay there until she heard the clock chime. It kept on striking, twelve times, as Meralda dreaded each new chime.
“Mug?” she muttered, when silence fell. “Are you here?”
Silence was her only reply. Oh, he’s already at work, she recalled. As I should be.
She rose, wincing at the light before pulling the curtains shut.
First time in five days I slept at home, she thought. Even then I didn’t manage to sleep properly in my bed.
She bathed, dressed, hurried as she combed and arranged her hair. She started her coffee and took a muffin into the living room, and then she saw the note slipped under her door.
She froze for a moment, but then her bleary eyes spied Donchen’s precise rendition of her name on the envelope. She snatched it up, her headache fading, and tore it open as she crossed the room to her small sofa.
“The stables,” it read, without preamble. “Lunch with Surprise and I, if you can spare the time. If not, I shall bring you a sandwich this evening. Love, D.”
The hall clock chimed once, on the half-hour.
She wolfed down the muffin, pulled on her new black boots, and was out the door before the coffee was brewed.
She sat perched on the edge of the cab’s seat the whole ride to the Park, and then the half-block west to the stables. “Don’t leave, don’t go,” she muttered, glaring at the traffic that choked the midday streets. “Can you go any faster?” she called up, to the cabman.
“Not and stay out of court,” shouted the driver. “Sorry, Mage, but unless I take to the sidewalks, this is the best I can do.”
Meralda fumed. Finally, two blocks from the Park, she leaped from the stalled cab, tossed the driver double his fare, and set off for the Stables at a determined, relentless pace.
Her new boots, which were quickly revealed to be half a size too small and certainly not broken in, rubbed blisters on the backs of both heels. By the time she reached the ti
dy white fence that bordered Park View Stables, she was still marching, though with a slight limp.
“Go right on in,” suggested Finley, the grey-haired oldster from his rocking chair by the front office. “Your fellow is cookin’ up quite the picnic back there.” He raised a half-eaten egg roll to her and winked.
Blisters forgotten, Meralda hurried past. She darted through the stables, nimbly dodging piles of this and that. Finally, she stepped back out into the sun.
Donchen juggled in the shade of a gnarled old oak. A mob of children shouted and clapped as they watched. Behind him, a rolling cooking cart steamed and smoked.
Surprise, who wore a bedraggled pink day hat and a matching bow that was almost wholly unraveled, broke from amid the crowd and trotted toward her.
Donchen waved without ever pausing his juggling. “That’s enough for today, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, catching all six of his knives before bowing with a flourish. “I have a meal to serve. Go on, go on – I’m sure you have mischief to perpetrate.”
Surprise nuzzled Meralda, his nose searching her right jacket pocket for the apple she had completely forgotten to bring. Donchen saw, plucked a bright red apple from his cart, and strode toward her as the children dispersed.
They met in the sun. “I’m sorry I’m so late,” Meralda began, but Donchen swept her up in his arms. A long, deep kiss silenced the rest of her words.
Youngsters giggled, and Meralda blushed, finally pulling away.
“We have an audience,” she whispered.
Donchen’s eyes twinkled. “What better lesson to teach them, dearest, than that of love?”
Meralda’s face reddened even more until Donchen laughed and took her right hand in his. “Forgive my unseemly ardor, Mage,” he said, his impish grin betraying his somber tone. “May I offer you a rather excellent meal, as recompense?”
Surprise began to munch on the apple in Donchen’s other hand.
Meralda laughed. “Well, I suppose that would suffice. Unless you plan to feed me unpeeled apples as well.”
Donchen pulled Meralda toward the cart. The aromas wafting from it reached her, and her stomach grumbled so loudly that Surprise cast an inquisitive glance at her middle.
