Every Wind of Change

by Frank Tuttle

  “Lots of concealing foliage there, I’m told,” Fromarch noted. “Various private nooks.”

  “Numerous hidden crannies,” Shingvere added.

  “Oh, shut up, both of you,” Meralda said. “Behave.” Then she marched to the doors, mainly so the guffawing Mages would not see her sudden expression of panic.

  Donchen, who, much to her surprise, looked a bit disheveled.

  His straight black hair, always so neat, was unkempt, though he’d obviously made a hasty effort to comb it. The top button of his coat was missing, and unless Meralda was quite mistaken, his face bore the faint red imprint of having suffered a recent blow to his right cheek.

  But his smile was broad and effortless, and his bow fluid and deep.

  “Mage.” A single red rose appeared in his right hand. “I wonder if I might impose upon you for a bit? The matter is one of some little urgency.”

  “Urgency,” muttered Fromarch, as the old wizards snorted and chuckled.

  “Of course. I was just leaving. Let me fetch my coat. Will I need an umbrella?”

  “Perhaps, if it is a sturdy one, suitable for light combat,” Donchen replied.

  “Oh? Is it stormy?”

  “Not yet. But I suspect it will be soon.” He smiled, crooked his arm, and offered Meralda his elbow. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” Meralda said, retrieving her stout oak-handled parasol. Then she took Donchen’s elbow.

  “Back by ten!” Fromarch boomed, as the doors swung closed.

  “Reprobate,” Meralda said. She marched away with Donchen, already preparing her confession concerning her mother’s letter.

  The Palace bustled. Meralda merely smiled and maneuvered her way through the evening crowd, grateful at least that the press of people made intimate conversation impossible – at least for the moment. She and Donchen signed out with the door guard, and she was surprised to step out into an entirely pleasant early evening.

  The sun was nearly set, touching the few clouds above with highlights of crimson, but no hint of rain showed in the sky.

  Meralda eyed Donchen warily, poking his shin with the tip of her folded parasol. “Where is this storm of yours?”

  A shiny black cab, pulled by two eager black ponies, rolled to the curb before them. The cabman leaped from his seat and snatched open the door, doffing his hat and bowing slightly. “All’s well,” he said, to Donchen, as Meralda clambered into the cab’s dark interior.

  “Why are the shades drawn?” she asked, as Donchen followed her in. Her eyes adjusted to find a sweating Kervis seated across from her. Kervis glanced her way briefly but did not speak. Instead, he kept his attention full on the large burlap sack beside him.

  Donchen slammed the door. He knocked twice on the ceiling, and the cab sped away.

  The sack moved.

  “Donchen,” Meralda turned to glare at him. “I have a cat. And a horse. I have no further need of pets.”

  Donchen chuckled. “This specimen’s temper is ill-suited for service as a pet.”

  Something in the bag mumbled, and its stirrings became more agitated.

  “What have you done?” Meralda asked.

  The cab turned, raced ahead, and turned again. Soon the cab came to an abrupt halt, and only then did Donchen begin to explain.

  “I came to realize, some little time ago, that you were being followed.” Donchen poked the bag’s midsection with Meralda’s parasol. “At first, I thought perhaps you had attracted the interest of a particularly determined penswift. But after observing your spy for a few days, I realized something far more sinister was afoot. This evening, I decided to inquire as to your follower’s motives. They were reluctant to engage in civil discourse.”

  The bag twisted furiously.

  “So you stuffed him in a sack?”

  “It seemed the most expedient measure, at the time,” Donchen replied. “Now, this will seem most unlikely, but this person—”

  The tip of a small knife protruded from the sack’s midsection and raced upward, slicing through the coarse fabric quickly until a woman’s head emerged.

  She was gagged. Her pillbox hat was askew. Her eyes blazed as she parted the sack before reaching up and snatching the gag from her mouth.

  “Is this…burlap?” she demanded, her small but gleaming knife aimed squarely at Donchen. “How dare you envelop me in burlap.” She turned to Meralda. “Good evening, daughter.”

  Meralda’s heart skipped two beats.

  “—claims to be your mother,” finished Donchen, coolly, his hands remaining in his lap while his eyes were fixed on the woman’s knife. “Is she?”

  Meralda realized her hand had found the cab’s door handle. It was half turned, and Meralda wanted nothing more than to fling open the door and dive from the cab.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said the woman. Her knife vanished. “Give her a moment. She hasn’t seen me in years. But it is me, Meralda. Did you have a role in planning this? If so, I am duly impressed.”

  “Mother?”

  “You’re skinnier than you ought to be,” her mother replied. “And your hair is still a mess.”

  Donchen caught Meralda’s hand before the stinging slap she didn’t plan landed on her mother’s cheek.

  “I deserve that. I won’t deny it. But might I be rid of this odious sack, before the recriminations commence?” She turned to Donchen. “I hope you at least did me the courtesy of selecting a clean bag.”

  Donchen slowly released Meralda’s hand. She sank back into her seat.

  “I assure you, madam, I employ only the best accoutrements for my kidnappings.” He raised the shades beside him, revealing a quiet alley. “If you are indeed Mage Meralda’s mother, I offer my most profound apologies for my rudeness. If you wish to summon the Watch and file charges, I will of course cooperate.”

  “You may address me as Miss Bekin.” The woman finished her struggle to free herself. “My maiden name. And I am willing to forgo formal charges on three conditions.” She wadded up the bag and tossed it to the floor.

  She was dressed entirely in black. Long black skirt, black blouse, black sleeves. A string of black pearls adorned her neck. The only splash of color was in her crumpled hat, which sported a bedraggled spray of tiny white pin flowers along the crest.

  She’d worn black the day she sent me away, thought Meralda. That has not changed.

  But her face – always long and angular, now it was drawn, pale, weary. Her nose was still prominent, giving her a stern hawkish look, and her dark gray eyes were cold, as if she was sizing up a cut of meat.

  “A knife with eyes,” remembered Meralda.

  “Your conditions?” prompted Donchen.

  “My knives,” replied the woman. “Oh, come now, I have no intention of stabbing you. At the moment.”

  Donchen shrugged, reached inside his coat, and produced a pair of plain but wicked daggers. He handed them, pommels first, to the woman.

  Without any hint of shame, she hiked her skirts to mid-thigh and replaced the daggers in their sheaths. Donchen glanced away, causing Miss Bekin to chuckle.

  “You’re polite, for a kidnapper,” she said. “Second, those techniques you used to disarm me. I would know them. You will teach them to me until I am satisfied with my proficiency.”

  “As you wish,” replied Donchen.

  She nodded, and then removed her hat, inspecting it with a frown. “Finally, you will replace this. I bought it just today. You will join my daughter and me for supper.”

  “We will not be dining with you,” Meralda snapped. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

  “In that case, pray summon the Watch,” replied Miss Bekin. “What is the usual sentence for assaults on innocent women, here in bustling, enlightened Tirlin, I wonder? Six months? A year?” She placed her hat in her lap. “Shall it be a disappointing and awkward meal, or a lengthy and very public trial, dear?”

  The silence lingered until Meralda sagged. “I am not a terrified little girl. Not any long
er.” She forced herself to look into those cold dark eyes. “A meal. Nothing more. And never again.”

  “We shall have roast beef,” replied her mother. “I have vowed never to taste pork again. Goodwin, my cook, is an indifferent chef, you know. But he is quiet and demands little in the way of instruction.” She turned to Kervis, who was seated next to her but inching away as much as the cab’s cramped space allowed. “Young man. You have nice teeth but pray close your mouth now. The entertainment is concluded, and I am sure you have official duties to conduct.”

  Kervis looked at Meralda. She nodded, and Kervis bolted.

  Miss Bekin latched the door. She looked to Donchen. “You know my address, do you not? We should be off. Goodwin will need time to set extra places at my table.”

  Donchen nodded, poked his head through the window, and shouted an address to the cabman.

  As the cab lurched ahead, Meralda’s stomach sank.

  “Now isn’t this nice?” asked her mother, offering a tight-lipped smile.

  Meralda never touched her fork.

  Donchen managed a few bites, just enough to compliment the meal, and no more. Goodwin, Miss Bekin’s taciturn, gray-haired man, served the wine, then the meal, without uttering more than half a dozen words.

  Miss Bekin’s non-stop narration refused the descent of an awkward silence. She spoke of her business back in Stilton, of her favorite bookstores in Tirlin, of everything from the vagaries of Tirlish traffic to the variation in the qualities of Tirlish newspapers. Slowly but surely, Donchen was drawn into the conversation, hesitantly at first, but with more enthusiasm as the evening wore on.

  Meralda refused to say a word. Instead, she fumed, watching her mother entice Donchen word by word into engaging with her.

  He squeezed her hand once, beneath the table, as though guessing her thoughts. Jenkins took away the plates and returned to pour the after-dinner coffee.

  “None for me, thank you,” Meralda said, covering her gleaming china cup with her hand. She took in a breath, steeling herself. “Have we met your obligation concerning dining?”

  Goodwin poured Donchen a cup as she spoke, and then moved on to serve Miss Bekin.

  Her mother sipped before replying. “No meal is complete without coffee.”

  “Then why don’t you say whatever it is you have to say while you drink yours,” Meralda snapped. “I have work to do.”

  Her mother nodded. “Indeed, you do. Royal Mage, to the Crown of Tirlin. You have accomplished so much, daughter. All on your own. You must be very proud.”

  “She is a woman of unmatched intelligence and tireless diligence,” put in Donchen, quickly.

  “Obviously,” her mother said. She lowered her cup. “The meal is finished. Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

  Meralda stood. “Thank you, mother, for your time. Which I know is precious to you, as you’ve had so little to spare in the last ten years.” She threw her napkin on the table. “We shall show ourselves out.”

  “As you wish. I would offer the customary wish that you dine with me again, but I surmise such would be unwelcome, and therefore superfluous.”

  “Quite,” Meralda said.

  Donchen bowed to Meralda’s mother. “Again, my apologies for my brusqueness earlier.”

  She merely laughed. “You at least shall be returning, to teach me that knife trick. You did promise.”

  “I did. And I shall.” Donchen moved to Meralda’s side. “Good evening, Miss Bekin.”

  Goodwin saw them outside. Donchen’s cab waited at the curb. His driver snored in his seat until Donchen woke him with a rap on the cab’s door. “The Palace,” he called up. “Slowly.”

  Meralda did not stop shaking until her mother’s dark house was well out of sight.

  * * *

  The cab circled the Palace for the third time. Meralda and Donchen rode in silence.

  Meralda finally spoke. “You stuffed my mother in a sack.”

  “Yes, I did. Although at the time I did not even entertain the possibility that she might be telling the truth.” His face fell. “I am deeply regretful of handling your kin in such a manner.”

  “Was it a burlap sack?”

  Donchen flinched. “I fear so,” he replied. “Lightly soiled.”

  Meralda hugged him fiercely. “Just another reason to love you.”

  When she released him, Donchen took her hand. “You’ve never spoken of your mother, except in reference to the death of your father,” he said, gently. “I assumed she left, after that. Remarried, perhaps.”

  Haltingly at first, she told her story. It all came spilling out in a flood mixed with tears. The years of silence. Her determination to erase her mother from her heart and her life.

  Then, of course, the letter.

  Donchen listened to it all. When she was done, he was silent for a long time.

  “Had I known, I might have simply dropped her, bag and all, in the Lamp.”

  “She’d have wiggled free,” Meralda said. “One cannot drown a snake.”

  “Indeed,” Donchen said. “You could have told me, you know. But I understand why you found it so difficult. If one learns early they cannot trust their own mother, trust will never be easy.”

  “You see what’s she’s doing, don’t you? Insisting you visit her again? Blackmailing you?” Her eyes blazed. “She turned the whole situation to her benefit. That’s what she does, Donchen. Please, please, don’t be deceived. She is not your friend. She is no one’s friend.”

  “I am not so easily hoodwinked,” Donchen reassured her. “And know this, my love. Come what may, my loyalty, and my heart, are yours and yours alone.”

  “Well if that isn’t a tear-jerker,” Mug said, who appeared, hovering in his flying cage, at the cab’s open window. “Hello, Mistress. What have you two been up to tonight?”

  Meralda chuckled. Donchen looked at her in surprise, and then he laughed, and within a moment both were laughing hysterically.

  Mug exchanged glances between six of his own eyes.

  “Forget I asked,” he muttered, before flying quickly away.

  9

  Mister Mug’s Musings, Thursday, December 25th, 1970

  This article originally appeared in the Tirlin Times

  Exciting events are afoot in the Royal Laboratory.

  Mage Meralda, renowned for her Ovis Flying Coil, the spark lamp, and a host of other technological innovations, has decoded six minutes of the mysterious Arc’s telesonde song.

  This reporter was in attendance when the last effort at collecting and deciphering the alien message was made. Though the Mage’s wondrous decoding machine was destroyed in the attempt, she has recovered enough of the song to delight and confound scientists, Mages, and mathematicians for many years to come.

  What deep mysteries will the Arc’s song solve? Will it raise more questions than it answers?

  Only Mage Meralda can say – and rest assured, gentle readers, she will tell these things first to this writer, and this writer exclusively.

  I have read, with considerable amusement, the sundry spurious and ignorant theories concerning the Arc expressed by what I shall charitably call lesser minds. Specifically, the City Crier, whose pages have been filled, as is their custom, with the worst sort of superstitious rubbish.

  The Arc as a weapon?

  Ludicrous. What manner of weapon just hangs in the sky, singing to itself?

  The Arc as some magical relic, a leaving of Otrinvion the Black?

  Poppycock. Even the Black was not capable of such a feat, and in any case, many of his journals and records survived the Great War. Odd how none mention a construction the size of the Arc, while they do go on at length about breakfast preferences and even the size of the man’s favorite boots.

  No, the Arc is something new.

  Need Tirlin panic, because we have encountered an artifact we do not understand?

  Some would have you think so. And yet I spend my evenings side-by-side with a Mage who shows
not one hint of fear as she delves deep at the very heart of what the Daily Report prefers to call the ‘Arc of Doom.’

  The Mage’s effort this last month has put us very close to unraveling what may be the central mystery of our time. While I am undoubtedly privy to secrets, I have chosen to remain silent, until I can present them in their entirety. The scribblers at the Examiner should take note. This is how a reputable paper engages in journalism. Let others take the path of the penny-daily tabloid.

  When shall I reveal the nature and purpose of the ancient Arc?

  Very soon, dear readers. This I promise.

  Until that time, I remain,

  Mugglesworth Ovis

  10

  “You’ve been to see her, haven’t you?” Meralda stared glumly at the supper she’d barely touched.

  “I did promise.” Donchen motioned for a waiter. When the man came darting over Donchen ordered a slice of apple pie for himself, and a bowl of ice cream for Meralda.

  “One might think,” Meralda said, as the waiter turned away, “that you enjoy her company.”

  Donchen laughed softly. “She goes to elaborate lengths to see that I do enjoy our time together. The perfect snacks. Pleasant conversation. Elson’s Old Field coffee, brewed just so. She replaced the rug in her foyer with one from my homeland, though it barely shows beneath the furniture. I would suspect Miss Bekin might have designs on my person, was I not aware of her true motive.”

  The desserts arrived. Donchen dived in, but Meralda merely poked hers with her spoon. “Which is?” she asked, at last.

  Donchen wiped his chin. “The crust is perfect,” he noted. “Although the cinnamon is perhaps too generous. She means to insinuate herself back into your life, of course. Using me as a tool.”

  Meralda put down her spoon. “I will not have it.”

  “You won’t? Then if I may?” Donchen picked up her bowl and dropped the ice cream atop his pie. “Delicious.”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “I do. I am no infant, dearest. I know what your mother is doing. Surprisingly, she knows I know. Makes jest of it. Shows no hint of shame, which I do confess I find refreshing. There is quite enough for two here. Pray take a bite.” He spoke some phrase in his native tongue, his fork poised over the saucer.