Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

Meralda groaned. “I’ve been standing on this bloody scaffold for six hours,” she said, to Tervis’ back. “Unless he’s prepared to follow me into a water closet, I don’t have time for this.”

Tervis had turned his back, but his ear lobes went suddenly red, and Meralda rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, Guardsman,” she said. “We mages are a grumpy lot.”

Tervis sped wordlessly down the stairs. Mug groaned softly.

“The thaumaturge has, um, pressing business elsewhere,” said Tervis, to someone at the bottom of the stairs. “Go away.”

Meralda smiled.

More words were spoken, but were inaudible over the din of the crowd.

Three-quarters of the way down the stair, she slowed. The crowd pressed close against the Bellringers, who had to take a step ahead every few moments to hold their ground against the press.

Meralda felt her chest tighten at the thought of forcing her way through such a press. At sight of her, the murmuring redoubled, and a tall man in a light tan overcoat, staring up at the sorceress, snatched a pencil from behind his ear.

Meralda lifted her hand and spoke a word. A magelight flared noiselessly to life, hovering above her right shoulder, bright in the darkness of the stairwell.

“I have no comments,” said Meralda, in a near shout. “Other than to point out that I’m tired, and I’m going home.”

“Then you wouldn’t care to dispute allegations that your work here today was intended to bind the shade of Otrinvion to the Tower,” shouted the man.

“Guardsman Kervis,” said Meralda. “Which is more annoying, street minstrels, or penswifts?”

“Penswifts, ma’am,” shouted Kervis, without turning. Meralda left the stair, and met the penswift’s eyes.

“My work here today concerned moving the Tower’s shadow for the King’s Accord Commencement speech,” she said, eyeing the crowd with growing dismay. Even with the Bellringers at the fore, they’d never make it to the walk through that.

If the help Kervis mentioned doesn’t get here soon, she thought, I swear I’ll part them myself.

“What of the lights in the flat, Thaumaturge?” said the penswift, scribbling away. Meralda realized the man was not only writing, but sketching her likeness as well. “They were seen by at least a hundred people. Are you willing to dismiss all these reports?”

“I deny the Tower is haunted,” snapped Meralda. “The lights could be anything. Except ghosts.” Out in the dark the crowd began to move. And were those horsemen, bobbing above the shoulders of the rest?

Hooves clopped on stone, and in the darkening distance Meralda saw riders drawing nearer. “They’re here,” said Kervis. “You’ll be leaving now,” he added, to the penswift.

“Thank you for your time, Thaumaturge,” he said, closing his pad before Meralda could get a look at his notes or her sketch.

“You’re welcome,” said Meralda gruffly.

The crowd withdrew, and a half-dozen mounted City Guards trotted up to the base of the stand.

“Let’s go home,” said Meralda, stepping onto the dew damp grass.

“Mind the wobbling,” said Mug.

Meralda hefted Mug’s cage and hurried for Angis’ cab, and home.

Meralda slept, and dreamed.

She saw Hang ships sail into Tirlin. Their masts rose up taller than the Tower, so tall the crow’s nests trailed shreds of clouds and shoved the sun aside. Meralda watched the streets fill with terrified crowds, and heard the Big Bell peal out alarms, and smelled smoke from distant fires. Still the masts came nearer, riding over and grinding down the palace, sailing inexorably toward Meralda.

Thick black smoke rose and spread behind the ships, until it blotted out the sky. Unable to move away from her window, unable to close her eyes or look away or even scream, Meralda watched the smoke swirl and billow and swell until it became a monstrous, mad-eyed face, eyes full of glowing red sparks.

The mouth moved and grumbled thunder, and the eyes turned full upon Meralda, and with a wrench and a start she awoke.

The five-twenty trolley rattled past, and then Fairlane was silent. Meralda lay gasping beneath her tangled, sweat-streaked covers and waited for the pounding of her heart to slow.

“Mistress?” came Mug’s sleepy voice from the kitchen. “Are you dreaming?”

“It’s all right, Mug,” she replied. “Go back to sleep.”

“You cried out,” he said.

Meralda poked her head out of the covers and took a breath of cool air. “Nightmare,” she said. She remembered Hang masts in the clouds, threw back the bedclothes, and sat up wearily.

Might as well get an early start, she thought. I certainly won’t go back to sleep after that.

She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and arose. What was it Grandmother always said, when we children had nightmares?

“Hot baths banish boogeymen,” she muttered.

“Then take a long one,” chirped Mug. Meralda heard his leaves rustle as he stretched. “It’s still dark,” he announced. “Where’s that lazy sun?”

Meralda headed for her water closet, kicking slippers out of her way as she went. She passed her bedroom window. It was dark, and the curtains were drawn, and yet Meralda hurried past, a small part of her sure that a face in the sky was still trying to peer in at her, still trying to open its mouth and speak horrors to her in a voice as loud and harsh as thunder.

“Nonsense,” she said, and she reached her bathroom, called up a light, and shut the door behind her.

“We’re a sight,” said Meralda, smiling into a soft, chill breeze. “A mage and her bird cage, out for a lark.”

She stood alone on the sidewalk in front of her building, waiting for Angis and the Bellringers. Traffic on Fairlane hurried past, turning sleepy-eyed but questioning faces toward the thaumaturge and her drape-covered birdcage, from which a trio of blue eyes on vines protruded and looked about.

Mug chuckled. “You’re being recognized, mistress. Must be the papers.” he said. “Ah, fame. Better drag out the hats with the veils again.”

Meralda shrugged. The bright sun beamed down, its rays slanting out of a deep blue sky. The wind that sailed past was cold, but dry. Tirlin awoke, safe and secure, bustling about her as if the Hang and the Tower and the Vonats were all on the other side of the sea.

Mug spoke. “Here comes Angis,” he said, and Meralda followed the aim of his eyes up the street.

Fairlane was full. Carriages and lumber wagons and cabs and road barges thundered past, but Meralda saw no sign of Angis. “He’s coming, just around the corner,” said Mug. “Listen.”

Clop-clop, multiplied by a hundred sets of hooves, blurred by the rattles and roll of as many tires. Meralda lifted an eyebrow, marveling at Mug’s hearing as Angis wheeled around the corner at Kemp.

Before her, a black army troop cab braked with a screech, rolled to the curb, and disgorged the Bellringers.

“Good morning, Thaumaturge,” said Kervis, with a small bow. “You’re up early.”

Meralda smiled. The troop cab rattled away. “Up before the guardsmen. I hope you gentlemen have had breakfast.”

“Some of us have had it twice,” said Tervis, nudging his brother.

Angis brought his cab to a halt. “Well, well,” he said, to Meralda and her guards. “Good morning, Thaumaturge. Lads,” he added setting his brake and clambering down. “Good to see you all out and ready.”

Meralda spied a rolled-up newspaper peeking from beneath Angis’ vest.

“Oh, no,” groaned Meralda. “That’s for me, isn’t it?”

Angis withdrew the Post .

“Got a good likeness of you on page two,” said Angis, with no hint of a grin. “Kind of winsome-like. I think the lad was a bit sweet on you.”