Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

The scrying mirror flickered, losing its hold on the darkening, red-streaked sky. Meralda patted the mirror’s frame. The image steadied, and Meralda fought back a yawn and rose to her feet.

“Ah,” said Mug. “A bit of mage-like pacing.”

Meralda ignored him and began to pace, hands clasped behind her back, mouth set in a frown. She paced to Phillitrep’s Calculating Engine, turned, and returned to her desk before starting again.

“Let’s forget the how of the theft, for a moment,” she said. “Let’s talk about the why.”

“Why, what?”

“Why steal the Tears? Really. What do you do with them, after you magic them out of the safe room?”

“The Tears are worth a fortune, are they not?” asked Mug, with a rustling of fronds.

“As long as they are the crown jewels of Alonya, yes, they are,” said Meralda. “But steal them from the queen’s person, and what do you have?”

Mug pretended to whistle. “A hundred thousand furious Alons bearing down on you with swords,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Meralda. “You couldn’t sell the Tears to anyone who could afford them.”

“So remove the jewels, and melt down the settings,” replied Mug.

“And you have a few pennyweights of gold, a bit less silver, and a sack of gems known to every jeweler in the Realms,” said Meralda. “As a theft, stealing the Tears just doesn’t seem worth the trouble.”

“But as a political maneuver, it works beautifully,” said Mug. “Anger the Alons. Break up the Accords. Cast suspicion on the Hang. Sully the good name of Tirlin.” His eyes all converged on Meralda. “Forget the Hang,” said Mug. “Let’s start blaming the Vonats.”

“They aren’t even here,” said Meralda.

“They haven’t paraded through town, no,” said Mug. “But I’ll bet they’re here, all the same.”

Meralda halted, hands on the back of her chair.

“Well,” she said. “If I’m forbidden to consider the Hang, I suppose a Vonat will do,” she said. “Though, of course, the who and why is not nearly so important at the moment as the where.”

“Agreed,” said Mug. He tossed his leaves. “Let’s assume the guard and the Watch are pursuing every mundane means at the kingdom’s disposal,” he said. “What can we do that they can’t?”

Meralda frowned. “My Sight won’t be of any use for a day or two,” she said. “And what I saw in the safe room told me nothing.”

Mug considered this. “You saw no trace of recent spellworks,” he said.

“I saw the coronal discharges from the metal of the safe,” she said. “And the room showed the usual arcane buildup any old structure displays.”

“Hmm.” Mug brought eyes to bear on Meralda. “Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd?” he asked. “After all, didn’t the Alon wizards lay some sort of wards on their own crown jewels?”

“I asked,” she said. “According to the captain, the Alons laid no wards. It’s all that clan feuding they’re so fond of. Red Mawb and Dorn Mukirk’s clans have been at it for fifty years, with neither side having the courtesy to surrender or die. Because of the feud, the Alon queen forbade them to enter the safe room, for fear they’d ensorcel the place to dust in a show of inept one-upmanship. Imbeciles.”

“I see.” Mug imitated the sound of fingers drumming on a tabletop. “And they have the smashed jewel box, arguably the best clue left at the scene. How convenient for the thieves.”

Meralda nodded and sighed. She recalled the picture of Tim the Horsehead that covered the safe, and wondered if the thief felt even a hint of fear as he swung back the portrait to reveal the locked safe.

Probably not, she decided. After all, Tim the Horsehead was long dead and long gone, and the current mage in Tirlin was Meralda Ovis. Daughter of a prominent family of swine herders and sausage makers. First in her class of bespectacled, serious young men who were more banker than mage.

She halted in her pacing, facing Mug and looking past him and the mirror into the ranks and rows of magics stored and twinkling in the shadows. Was each glittering trinket perhaps the life’s work of a mage?

Mage. I wonder, she thought. Has the title lost all meaning? Since Tim’s time, how many names had risen above the rest, to be remembered forever as mighty wielders of magic?

None, thought Meralda. None, and neither shall my name be remembered, unless it is as a footnote on first year midterms. She could almost see the question written, almost see the frowns it raised. Who was the first woman to wear the robe? And some would know and scribble “Meralda Ovis” and some would shrug and guess and that would be the end of it, the end of her, the end of Mage Meralda.

She thought back to college, remembered how many of those somber young faces were bound for the guilds, and happy to be so. “Forget that court nonsense,” she’d heard one of them snicker at her back during commencement. “Let her have mage. I’ll take a Master’s robe from a guild, any day, and be glad of it, too.”

Meralda looked away from the ranks of cabinets.

“Now just you wait a moment, Miss Ovis,” said Mug. “I see those big moon-eyes getting all misty because you didn’t conjure up the Tears and throw them at the copperheads,” he said. “It’s just like college all over again. You set impossible goals, and then act surprised when you can’t achieve them.”

Meralda sighed. “Mug,” she said.

“Don’t ‘Mug’ me,” replied Mug. “I’m right, and you know it. I’ll tell you something, mistress,” he said. “I studied history right along with you. I’ve heard all the stories. I’ve read all the old books. I believe your hero Tim the Horsehead made things up as he went along, took a lot of wild chances, and had a lot of wild strokes of wholly undeserved, utterly blind, plain dumb luck. I think you are already his equal, if not his superior, in spell shaping and use of Sight, and I know you’re a lot better at mathematics, because Tim’s staff did all his math and his writings are full of errors after the staff was broken at Romare.” Mug paused, rolled a long leaf into a finger-like tube, and shook it gently at Meralda. “So stop berating yourself for not being Tim, Mage Ovis. We don’t need Tim anymore. We need Meralda.”

The faint sound of applause rose up behind Mug, and he made a mocking bow toward the sound.

Meralda realized her fists were clenched at her sides. She took a breath, relaxed her hands and her jaw, and forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said.

Mug blinked at her. “You’re welcome,” he said. His voice softened. “I meant all that, by the way.”

“I know you did,” said Meralda. She walked to her chair, pulled it back, and sat. “So,” she said, licking her lips and pausing a bit when she realized her voice was shaking. “When our history is written, what will it claim we did next?”

Mug considered this. “Well,” he said, slowly. “When confronted by knotty dilemmas, most wizards turn to relics and whatnots,” he said. He turned his eyes upon Goboy’s scrying mirror, through which the last rays of the sun still streamed. “Shall I?”

Meralda sighed in exasperation. “You know full well it’s a waste of time,” she said, patting the mirror frame when the glass flashed at her words. “Not that our friend here isn’t a wondrous and useful work,” she added, hastily, “but the glass can only display images of actions taking place in the present.” And since all of those tend to be images of bedrooms or bathhouses, she thought, the mirror tells us more about Mage Goboy’s favored entertainments than it ever has about anything else.

“Well, then, let’s ask it about the present,” said Mug.