Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

The Bellringers came trundling to her door precisely on time, bearing coffee and pastries. Meralda seated them at her tiny kitchen table and ate while they traded ‘how many Vonat’ jokes with Mug.

Meralda wiped pastry crumbs off her chin and drained the last sip of coffee from her cup. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, rising. The Bellringers leaped to their feet. “We should be on our way.”

“I’m going too,” said Mug, mournfully. “Pray prepare my carriage.”

“At once, Your Highness.” Kervis fetched Mug’s cage, while Meralda pulled a folded sheet from her linen closet.

“Cheeky little devils, aren’t they?”

“Hush, Mug,” said Meralda. She gently put Mug in his cage and draped the sheet over it before handing it to Kervis.

“To the Tower, court, or the laboratory, ma’am?”

“The lab,” replied Meralda. She forced herself to smile. “I have a lot to do.”

Angis deftly maneuvered the carriage through the press of morning traffic. Meralda had called for him to stop at Flayne’s for one more cup of coffee, which she held carefully aloft as the carriage bumped and wobbled. The coffee steamed, fresh out of the pot and blazing hot.

Meralda was glad Tervis sat with her, because his presence certainly kept Mug from questioning her choice of destination. I’m sure he’s wondering why I’m not immediately going to the king with news of the Tower, and the curseworks.

And I’m not sure I have a good answer for him, just yet.

On one hand, if doom truly is about to befall Tirlin, the king should be the first to be told. There might be time to abandon the city.

Outside the carriage, traffic flowed past. Voices were raised in greetings and laughter. Shopkeeps struggled to remove their window shutters as they opened for another day of business. Dirigibles soared past overhead, casting long fast shadows over storefronts and crowded sidewalks.

Abandon Tirlin?

How?

She shook her head. No. That we cannot do.

Even if I somehow convinced the king of Tirlin to flee the crown city and drag the entire populace with him at sword point, where would we all go? Cappas is a third the size of Tirlin. Romin not even that.

I refuse to live in a tent, vowed Meralda. There must be another way.

If I tell Yvin before I’m sure, she decided, he would only complicate matters by involving the army or the guilds. He might even decide to mount another attempt to knock the Tower down.

Meralda shivered at the thought.

“Something wrong, Mage?”

“Nothing. Just a chill.”

Mug snorted from beneath his bed sheet.

Also, thought Meralda, if what the captain said yesterday was correct, the Vonats started bribing court functionaries a year or more ago, all with the aim of wreaking havoc at the Accords. They may have even installed Hang eavesdropping spells in the Gold Room itself, and if so, discussing the Tower’s story of the doom bound for Tirlin would be nothing short of disastrous.

So no. Not the king. At least not today.

“Penny for your thoughts,” quipped Mug.

Meralda closed her eyes and tried to blow her coffee cool.

The castle was awash in uniformed soldiers, court members arrayed in all their finery, and a roving mob of penswifts which swept from place to place shouting questions and trying with little success to elbow their way past a dozen bemused guardsmen armed with short, stout lengths of oak.

Meralda was halfway to the doors when the penswifts spotted her and charged with two dozen strident cries of “Mage Ovis! Mage Ovis!”

The Bellringers stepped ahead of her, hands raised. “Don’t crowd, don’t crowd,” cried Kervis, above the din. “Back off, I say! Back off or else!”

Meralda frowned and marched ahead. If I let them stop me, she thought, I’ll be half an hour elbowing my way through them.

Penswifts and court functionaries and Bellringers all met in a mob. Mug shouted something, but Meralda couldn’t make out his words.

“Mage Ovis,” bellowed the closest penswift. His words were instantly repeated by a dozen of his fellows, and Meralda was quickly surrounded by a press of arms and chests and faces.

The Bellringers shoved and shouted. Penswifts yelled back. A paperboy caught in the press squealed and managed to slip past a sea of legs.

A splash of red and green moving through the crowd caught Meralda’s eye, as she shoved and sidled her way through the penswifts. Looks a bit like an Alon kilt.

“Mistress!” cried Mug. “Something isn’t right!”

The crowd shifted, just for an instant, and in that instant Meralda caught of glimpse of a tall, bearded, red-haired Alon, clad in kilt and sash, shoving his way through the mob toward her.

Mug shouted again. The only word Meralda made out was ‘knife’.

The Alon marched steadily forward, shoving penswifts to the pavement, pushing court staff roughly aside.

Meralda looked for his hands, and saw a brief glimmer of steel.

She tried to run. She tried to force her way past the ring of penswifts who shouted questions at her face, at her back. She didn’t dare put Mug’s cage down for fear he’d be trampled and her other hand still gripped the oversized paper mug of hot coffee and though she shouted for the Bellringers she could see neither of them.

The Alon charged. Penswifts went flying. Meralda tried to hurl herself backwards, but the tightly packed bodies at her back kept her pinned to the spot, and the bearded Alon shoved his way to her, knife uplifted.

Meralda hurled her hot coffee square in his face. The Alon howled and stabbed, missing Meralda’s chest by a hand’s breadth and allowing her to land a single solid kick somewhere in the region of his ornate clan belt buckle. The man folded at the waist, cursing and spitting.

Meralda tried to dash away, but again the crowd held her fast. As the Alon straightened and lifted his knife again, Meralda snatched Mug’s sheet away and hurled it at his face.

He batted it away.

Blurs rushed past Meralda on both sides. The Bellringers flung themselves at the Alon, both striking him at his knees. Alon and Bellringers and half a dozen bystanders went down in a tangle, grappling and punching, rolling and shouting.

Whistles blew. A column of guardsmen charged into the fray, swords drawn, and the crowd evaporated as quickly as it had formed.

Three burly guards in full plate encircled Meralda. The rest grabbed combatants and fallen penswifts and Bellringers alike, hauling each to their feet and warning them to stillness and silence with gruff shakes and glares.

The Alon was gone.

“There was an Alon!” said Kervis, wiping blood from his lip. “I tackled him!”

Meralda whirled, but the people hurrying away from the guards were Tirlish or Phendelits or Eryans. Not a scrap of Alon plaid could be seen anywhere on the street.

The captain, himself, came charging out of the castle, sword drawn, eyes ablaze. He saw Meralda and ran for her. More boots sounded from just beyond the doors.

“Thaumaturge!” he shouted. “What happened here?”

“Nothing at all happened here, Captain,” she said, forcing a smile. “Nothing at all. Why don’t you see us inside?”

The captain frowned. His men exchanged confused glances. Kervis kicked Tervis in the shins when the younger Bellringer made as if to protest.

“Someone get my bloody sheet,” muttered Mug. “It’s going to be that kind of day.”

Meralda nodded a quick thanks to her trio of perplexed guards, gently hefted Mug’s cage, and bade the Bellringers follow her into the dubious safety of the castle.

“He tried to kill you, mistress,” said Mug, quivering with fury. “How can you be so calm about it?”