by Frank Tuttle
“I’m amazed you don’t simply starve to death, each time I leave,” Donchen said. He stripped out of his chef’s coat as he walked, revealing the plain white workman’s shirt beneath it.
He’s the second son of the second son of an Emperor, Meralda thought, and yet he irons his own shirts.
“I am fed by stalwart Guardsmen,” replied Meralda, “who battle for the task.”
“Indeed,” Donchen said, gravely. He stopped at the cart, pulled away its gleaming cover to reveal a wicker picnic basket. “Whom shall I battle for the honor, Mage?”
Meralda pretended to look about. “I suppose we can dispense with mortal combat, just this once.”
Donchen found a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses in the cart. He slipped them beneath the cloth, hefted the basket, and nodded toward a blanket behind the tree, placed just inside the shade. “Another time,” he said. “Shall we dine?”
The meal was, Meralda reflected, one of Donchen’s finest.
Surprise romped clumsily with a pair of grooms a stone’s throw away. Birds sang, the sun was bright, and the glass of wine Meralda drank left her awake but deliciously relaxed.
She knew the Laboratory waited. She could see Fromarch and Shingvere looking up at the clock and shaking their heads. She could almost hear Fromarch grumble. “Where is that layabout apprentice?” he would say, only to be shushed by Shingvere.
She pushed the thought away and settled back against Donchen. Propriety forbade them to recline on the blanket together in public, so they sat, back to back.
“Something troubles you,” Donchen said, after a while.
“Work,” Meralda replied, quickly. She explained the King’s directive concerning the Arc, and her efforts to decode the song. Donchen listened to it all, and again Meralda soon fell silent.
“Something more than that,” Donchen said, in a near whisper. “There is a fresh sadness in your eyes. Tell me, Meralda. You needn’t bear every burden alone.”
For a moment, she thought it would all come spilling out. She even opened her mouth to blurt out the truth – “I received a letter,” she nearly said.
She nearly told him what it said.
Instead, she heard herself say, “I know about Darden House. About the back door. When were you going to tell me, Donchen? Were you going to tell me at all?”
She felt him jerk and stiffen as though struck.
“I was,” he said, after a moment. “Today.” He moved to face her. “Right before I quit.”
Meralda could not meet his eyes. I hurt him, she thought. Just to avoid telling the truth.
“I give you my word that is true,” Donchen said, his narrow face somber. “I never meant to conceal anything. Will you allow me to explain?”
Meralda nodded, her gaze fixed on her empty plate.
Donchen sighed. “It started a year ago. The Service approached me, hired me to perform – certain delicate tasks. The magic of my homeland – it gives me some small advantages. They were most persuasive,” he added. “I thought it an honor, to assist my adopted home.”
“I understand you couldn’t tell me,” Meralda said.
“It was hardly worth mentioning, at first. I retrieved an item, from a secret place. Then came another task. And another. Soon, I was summoned to Darden House. I arrived a humble scholar, with some small talent for magic. I left there that day an agent of the Secret Service. Concealing that from you, dear, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” He sagged, sighing. “And the worst. It has weighed upon me. I resolved while away to resign, despite any arguments or consequences. I will never lie to you, Meralda. Or deceive you.”
The words cut Meralda as quickly as any of Donchen’s knives.
“Can you forgive me?” he said.
“Of course.” She mopped at the tears she could not stop. She rose quickly. “Think nothing of it. I must go, dear. I have a meeting with the King.”
The lie tasted foul on her kips. Donchen rose with her, his face blank and expressionless, but his eyes filled with hurt.
“Of course,” he said. He bowed. “Thank you for joining me. I trust we shall dine again soon?”
Meralda hugged him tight and clenched her jaw so she wouldn’t sob. “I love you.”
He wrapped his arms hesitantly around her and held her tight.
“That is all that matters.”
Meralda pulled away. “I must go,” she said, and she turned and stomped away, cursing herself all the way back to the Laboratory.
She found the Laboratory empty. “Gone to get supplies,” Fromarch had written, in a note left on her desk. Shingvere had crossed through ‘supplies’ and written ‘beer’ below it in his own barely legible scrawl.
Meralda sat at her desk and cried. The crows flapped up but flew back into the shadows when she wordlessly shooed them away. Dern’s Able Servitor crept near as well, and then Cornbed’s Agile Insect, and soon her desk was surrounded by half a dozen mobile constructs, all idling in confusion.
Finally, Meralda rose. She went to the bathroom, washed her face, and fixed her hair and her eyes. The Mages might be back any moment, she thought, weighing her urge to go home against the mountain of work to be done. Just as she decided to flee the Lab, a knock sounded at the massive doors.
“Mage?” called Mrs. Primsbite. “Are you busy?”
Meralda quickly turned down the lights to hide her puffy eyes. “One moment,” she called out, gathering her nerves and forcing a smile. “I’ll be right there.”
The gathered constructs ambled away, though Meralda noticed they remained nearby. She patted Cornbed’s Agile Insect’s blunt eyeless head as she passed it on the way to the doors.
“Mrs. Primsbite!” she said, as she threw open the door. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Mrs. Primsbite greeted her with a wide, guileless smile and swept inside, her ornate skirts swaying. “It’s a dark as a dungeon in here. You’re going to drive yourself blind, working like this.”
“I was adjusting the optics,” Meralda offered, amazed at how quickly the lie sprang to her lips.
Mrs. Primsbite nodded. Her gaze fell on the new chairs and the gleaming coffee machine. “I see you’ve made some improvements.”
“A few,” Meralda replied. “Shall we sit?”
“We shall indeed,” Mrs. Primsbite said. She found Fromarch’s new chair and settled into it. “I understand you’ve made considerable progress deciphering the Arc’s telesonde song.”
Meralda sat across from the spymaster, sinking back into the shadows as much as she could. “I’ll have my notes copied and sent to you, but we aren’t finished yet.”
Mrs. Primsbite shook her head no. “Not necessary. I understand it’s mostly mathematical thus far and would be of small use to the Service.”
“So far,” agreed Meralda.
Mrs. Primsbite folded her hands in her lap. “I haven’t come to speak of the Arc or the song. I’m afraid, Meralda, it’s a bit more personal than that.”
Meralda’s stomach churned.
“Donchen?” she blurted before she could think. “He’s not –”
“Oh, heavens no!” Mrs. Primsbite exclaimed. “He’s alive and well. I take it you are aware now that he is a fellow agent?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Meralda said. “Mug saw him entering Darden House one evening. I surmised the rest.”
The older woman merely laughed. “Mug just happened to be flying past, is that it? You have the makings of a talented spy yourself. I believe you. No, this is in no way related to Donchen. It’s about you, I’m afraid.” She leaned forward in her chair. “And it won’t be pleasant, for either of us.”
Meralda’s heart began to race.
Mrs. Primsbite softened her tone. “Very little that takes place in Tirlin escapes my attention, Meralda. Especially if it concerns members of the Court. Or their families.”
Meralda’s blood ran cold.
“Six months ago, various realtors began receiving inquiries concerning the availa
bility of stately homes from a banker in a quaint little village called Stinton,” continued Mrs. Primsbite. “You were born there, I believe. Isn’t that right?”
Meralda just nodded an affirmative.
“The inquiries were on behalf of a widow named Sharla Bekin,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “I thought little of it, at the time. Nevertheless, I assigned certain people to monitor the progress of any sales. Just to be thorough, you know. Imagine my surprise when I learned the surname Bekin was a non-de plume, of sorts. Bekin is, in fact, your mother’s maiden name, am I correct?”
Meralda nodded, just once.
“Now, I don’t insert myself in family matters unless it is necessary,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “I understand you and your mother are estranged.” Her tone softened. “I’m afraid I know the whole story. I know you were shipped off to a boarding school within days of your father’s funeral. I know you were sent to the College shortly after that. I know you never received a visit at either place, know you never went home for a visit, know you never received a letter or a package or a gift. Is that why you’ve allowed people to believe you were orphaned?”
Instead of tears, what welled up inside Meralda was anger, growing hotter with each breath.
“She didn’t even tell me where I was going,” she said, through a clenched jaw. “I woke up. My bags were packed. She stuffed Mug in a hatbox and sealed it with string. Threw him on the wagon. Refused to even speak to me, all the way to the stagecoach.” She relaxed her fists before her nails dug into her palms. “I was nine years old.”
Mrs. Primsbite sighed and shook her head. “You must have been devastated.”
For a moment, Meralda was transported back to that awful day, and that torturous ride. Her mother had worn all black, and a black veil, and she’d never even seen her face. Meralda had tried talking, had begged to be told what was happening, but the only sounds aside from her voice were the steady clip-clop of hooves and an uncaring wind blowing through the tall trees.
“I hate her,” she said, surprised at the venom in her tone. “I vowed that day I’d never speak to her again. Told her so, as the wagon pulled away.” She finally lifted her head and met Mrs. Primsbite’s gaze. “My intentions have not changed.”
“I cannot blame you for that,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “The estate agent who showed her the house she eventually bought – well, the agent was one of ours. Now how did she phrase it? ‘Mrs. Ovis, nee Bekin, is a knife with eyes,’ she said. ‘Not cruel. Not kind. Simply and utterly uncaring. Intelligent, yes. But cold. Deathly cold.’ Would that be a fair summation?”
“She never laughed,” Meralda said. “Or cried. When Father died…I knew, somehow, that I’d be sent away. I knew it at the funeral.”
“So you had no idea she sold the swine farm, converted all her assets into cash, and moved to Tirlin?”
“No. Had I known—” Meralda hesitated, unsure of what she intended to say. “No. I didn’t know.”
“Until you received the letter last week.”
Meralda blinked. “Is my mail being opened?”
“No, dear. Not yours. But hers.” She raised a hand. “Standard procedure. In case she planned to make some claim upon your position, or your financial affairs. Such things are not unheard of, especially among members of the Court.”
“Is she destitute?” Meralda was instantly ashamed of the hope in her voice.
“Quite the contrary,” replied Mrs. Primsbite. “She’s quite wealthy. Wealthy enough to live lavishly for several lifetimes. No, I’m satisfied your mother is no threat to your place in the Court or your bank accounts. Which doesn’t mean she isn’t a threat of another kind. Which is why I am here, upsetting you with all this talk.”
“You read the letter,” Meralda said.
Mrs. Primsbite nodded. “I even had our Social Evaluation unit read the letter. You’ll have to become accustomed to such small intrusions, as a member of the Service. Would you care to know what they thought of your mother’s missive?”
“I would not,” Meralda said, quickly.
“They determined, based on her history and use of words, that she is a social maladapt,” Mrs. Primsbite replied. “A person who is, to one degree or another, incapable of relating to other people as people. Manipulative. Deceptive by nature and habit. Accomplished at projecting any number of different personas, based on their needs at the moment.”
“Oh yes,” Meralda said. “Dear old mother.”
“Still, the Social Evaluation staff felt there was a note of genuine remorse present,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “They estimate there is a significant chance that your mother has no ulterior motive, other than to re-connect with her only child in the twilight of her life.”
Something in Mrs. Primsbite’s pronunciation of ‘twilight’ gave Meralda pause.
“She is not elderly,” Meralda said. “Is she ill?”
Mrs. Primsbite nodded. “She is. Do you wish to know the specifics?”
“No,” Meralda stood abruptly. “Let her pick out a plot. Let her choose a nice coffin. Let her breathe her last in an empty house, all alone. See if I care. See if I care!”
Meralda stamped away, Mrs. Primsbite close on her heels.
“If that is your choice, that is your choice.” She rested a hand on Meralda’s shoulder. “She showed you no consideration, all those years ago. You owe her nothing.”
Meralda wrapped her arms around her chest to stop her shaking.
“I lied,” she whispered. “I lied to Donchen.”
“About your mother?”
“I’ve not been myself since the letter. He asked me what was wrong, and I made it seem as if I was angry at him being with the Service. “All because I couldn’t bring myself to speak her name.”
Mrs. Primsbite hugged her. “None of us are perfect. It took half a dozen highly skilled Service agents to uncover a secret you’ve kept locked away most of your life. Don’t you think he’ll understand why you were reluctant to share it?”
“I’m just like her,” Meralda sobbed. “Just like her.”
Mrs. Primsbite’s voice hardened. “You are nothing at all like your mother. Nothing at all. You are surrounded by people who love you. Mug. Donchen. The Mages, the Bellringers, half the Palace staff, and myself. Can your mother claim even one true friend?”
Meralda could not speak. All she could remember was that day and her mother’s unwavering concentration on the road ahead. She couldn’t wait to be rid of me, Meralda thought. She simply couldn’t wait.
“I pity your mother,” Mrs. Primsbite said, letting Meralda go. “Whatever she is or was – I doubt she’s known a moment of happiness in all these years. It’s tragic.” She rummaged through her bag for a folded white handkerchief. “Here, Meralda. Dry your eyes. The Mages will be back soon. And we must decide what to do.”
Meralda dabbed at her eyes. “What is there to do, aside from ignoring her?”
“One of the functions of the Service is the protection of the Court,” replied Mrs. Primsbite. “If she presents a significant distraction during this delicate time, she can be encouraged to leave Tirlin. Gently, I assure you.”
“I don’t want that,” Meralda said. “I won’t give her the satisfaction of being ousted. Let her remain. Aside from a single letter, she has made no attempt to intrude into my private life.” Meralda paused. “Has she?”
“None at all,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “She goes shopping, twice a week. Takes long walks each evening if the weather is suitable. Aside from visiting bookshops and dining, she rarely leaves her home.”
“Then leave her alone, please.” Meralda sniffed and returned the handkerchief. “I suspect she will infer my refusal to reply to her letter precisely as I intended it. I do not believe she will make another attempt.”
Mrs. Primsbite shrugged. “As you wish. I really must be going now. Please don’t hesitate to visit me if the situation changes.” She turned and made for the Laboratory doors, but paused before them, not turning.
“I
recall that when we were aboard the Intrepid last year, and you began to exhibit the unmagic, that you became quite concerned about possessing such power,” she said.
“I was.”
“You were right to be concerned,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “Then and now. Because you have power again. The power to write the ending to the story of you and your mother. Yes, you would be perfectly justified to end it here and now, with silence. But consider this, Meralda. A tragic, awful decision was made all those years ago, by a woman who may, just may, only now realize what a terrible thing she did. Would you condemn her to bear that alone, to her grave? You can, you know. Perhaps you should. I urge you, as a friend, to consider the alternative. Just for an hour. If you can find it in your heart to do so.”
Meralda gestured, and the lab doors swung smoothly open. Mrs. Primsbite left without a goodbye.
Meralda was still staring at her desk when the Mages returned, and together they worked long into the night.
8
On the eve of decompressing nearly three-quarters of the Arc’s intricate song, every pane of glass in Meralda’s device shattered, each wooden frame caught fire, and the copper cables and silver circuits melted into shiny puddles on the pockmarked Laboratory floor.
“That’s it,” Meralda said, after returning to the Laboratory. She wiped her finger on the edge of her desk and glared at the soot marring her fingertip. “Gentlemen, from now on we abandon all efforts to decode the complete song. We concentrate on making sense of what we have. Agreed?”
“You’re the boss.” Fromarch opened the Laboratory doors and set a fan in them to clear the smoke.
Shingvere pushed his goggles to his forehead, but before he could respond, a Bellringer shouted through the open door. “Sorry to interrupt, Mage.” The slight air of apology in his tone identified him as Tervis. “But Mr. Donchen is here.”
The Mages, their budding argument forgotten, elbowed each other in the ribs. “Well, I suppose we can all use a bit of fresh air,” Shingvere said. “What about it, Meralda? Perhaps a relaxing stroll through the gardens on the West Wing.”
