Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

Meralda stared down into her coffee cup. “Leave the Vonats out of this,” she said. “They arrive soon, and I’ll have to greet their mage.”

Mug snorted. “Who is the Vonat mage, nowadays?” he asked. “Let me guess. He’ll have a name like Dreadvault of the Black Hand or Wrackruin of Doom, and he’ll be tall, lean, and possessed of a piercing, malignant gaze.”

Meralda laughed. “I hear his name is Nam,” she said.

Mug frowned. “Isn’t Nam the Vonat word for lifetaker?”

Meralda rolled her eyes. “I never taught you Vonat,” she said.

“I know lots of things you never taught me,” said Mug, airily.

“That, I do not doubt,” said Meralda. She looked down at her cup and sighed.

“Oh, finish your coffee,” said Mug. “And talk. I’m lonely, you know. Some of us don’t get to dash about all day having adventures with soldiers and kings.”

Meralda walked to stand before the sink, put her cup down, and stroked Mug’s top leaves. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you understand I have work to do. And you know how you hate the laboratory.”

“No windows,” said Mug. “No sun, no air.” The dandyleaf plant shivered. “Forgive me, mistress. I know it’s quite cozy by human standards, but it’s just a mushroom cave to me.”

A thin vine-like frond wound loosely about Meralda’s wrist. “Oh, go on,” said Mug. “But before you go, tell me one odd feature all your mystery spells share.”

Meralda smiled. “Aside from the first one,” she said, “all of them were laid in places the king was never likely to go.”

Mug nodded with a bobbing of eyes. “Exactly,” he said. “West wing hallways, fifth-floor stair landings, eighth-floor wash rooms. Yvin’s never seen those places. Probably never will.” Mug gave Meralda’s hand a squeeze and unreeled his tendril. “It might mean nothing, mistress, but keep it in mind.”

A knock sounded at the door. Meralda emptied her cup into the sink, rinsed the cup out with a spray of hot water, and placed it in the drying rack with a dozen of its brothers.

“Pardon, ma’am,” said Tervis, from the hall. “Letter for you. From the palace.”

“Of course it is,” said Meralda. “He said letter, but what he meant was urgent summons.”

Mug sighed. “Seventeen more days, mistress,” he said. “Seventeen more days, and you can skip court sessions for weeks at a time and ignore Yvin’s summons and surround yourself with spark coils and magelamps from sunrise to sunset.”

Meralda took a deep breath and marched toward her front door.

“There you are, lass,” said Shingvere, who leaned against the wall by the Royal Laboratory doors.

Meralda halted at the top of the west stair. The Bellringers, behind her, halted as well. Meralda noted with mild amusement that Tervis remained facing the top of the stair, while Kervis turned and faced the foot.

Shingvere saw, and chuckled. “I’ve been waiting for you, Thaumaturge,” he said, capping a small silver flask and slipping it into a pocket within his overlarge Eryan robe. He looked toward the Bellringers and waved. “Hello, lads.”

Tervis nodded to the Eryan. “Sir,” he said.

Shingvere chuckled and winked at Meralda. “Got manners, anyway,” he said. “Ought to have been born Phendelits.”

Meralda left the stair. “Mage,” she said, smiling. “Have you been waiting long? I’ve been with the king.”

“Aye, I know all about that,” said Shingvere. “His Majesty made a big show out of your shadow moving project with Ambassador Elkins and my queen after you left this morning. ‘Moving out of the shadow of the past,’ he called it. I haven’t heard such drivel since I retired.”

Meralda winced. Yvin had used the same words with her, when she arrived back at court. “Tell me what you need, Thaumaturge,” he’d said. “I want you to make moving the Tower’s shadow a priority. Whatever you need, you shall have.”

Time, Meralda had wanted to shout. Time is what I need. But with his next breath Yvin had casually swatted away a handful of days by reminding Meralda that as Thaumaturge she would need to officially greet and tour the visiting mages. And then the audience had been over. Meralda remembered walking dumbfounded through the Gallery, nearly in tears. Not since Last Readings at college had she felt so stretched, so overwhelmed. And at that moment she’d looked up to see a thousand painted kings staring down upon her, and she’d nearly fled the gallery at a run.

Shingvere levered himself away from the wall and moved to stand beside Meralda. “Might I step inside for a wee bit?” he asked, gesturing with a nod at the laboratory doors. “We’ve got things to discuss, and it wouldn’t do for any invisible wizards who might be passing by to hear.”

“You’re as bad as Mug,” muttered Meralda, as she found her key and walked to the doors.

Shingvere followed. “How is the animated salad, these days?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Meralda, turning the lock. “He’ll want to see you, when you can.”

The doors opened, and while the Bellringers took up their stations Meralda calmed the wards with a word. Shingvere peeped inside, casting his gaze about appreciatively. “You’ve done a bit of tidying up, you have,” he said, as the wards collapsed with rustlings and a high-pitched whine.

Meralda stepped inside. “Lights,” she said.

Her glass lamps flared to life. Shingvere whistled and followed her inside. “Amazing,” he said. “Bloody amazing.” He moved to stand beneath the nearest ring of fat glass and bent his head back, squinting. “And you say those aren’t magelamps?”

Meralda found a smile. “Merely hollow tubes, filled with a peculiar gas,” she said. She pointed to a spark coil, humming in the corner. “The coils excite the gasses, even at a distance. That’s what creates the light. There isn’t a spell involved, except within the spark coils.”

Shingvere smiled. “Lass, you’re smarter than Fromarch and I put together, and that’s not Eryan flattery.”

Meralda flushed. The big old scrying mirror flashed red behind its blanket. Shingvere ambled toward it, gazing about and touching things as he went. “Go on about your business, lass.” said Shingvere, over his shoulder. “I’ll talk. You can listen.”

“I always do,” said Meralda. She walked past Phillitrep’s Engine, patted its brass gear case, and straightened the drawings on her desk before pulling out her chair and sitting.

The Eryan’s voice rose up from behind the ranks of glittering mageworks. “I’ve met the other mages,” he said. “You’ve got Red Mawb, Mage of the Isles, and Dorn Mukirk, Mage of Clan Mukirk coming to see you today. Mawb hates Clan Mukirk in general and Dorn Mukirk specifically and Mukirk feels much the same about his counterpart from the Isles. Both claim the other is an upstart conjurer with no right to take the title Mage to Alonya, and that’s about the nicest thing they’ve said so far.” Something flashed and popped, and the Eryan yelped, but before Meralda could rise he was speaking again.

“The Phendelits are sending-oh, what is his name?”

“Erdrath Yonk,” said Meralda. “I met him at college.” She put down her pencil and smiled. “He turned his hair green in First Year, and it was nearly Third before he turned it back again,” she said.

Shingvere snorted. “Aye, he’s Mage to Phendeli now.” Another flash cast brief shadows against the walls, and Shingvere made a pair of sprinting steps before speaking again.

“’Tis the Vonat I want to speak to you about, Thaumaturge,” said Shingvere. “Humindorus Nam.”

Meralda frowned. “I’ve heard the stories,” she said. “They’re the same tired old tales told about every Vonat mage, and we both know they can’t all be true.”