Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

“I’m sure we will, Mr. Donchen,” she said.

“Please. I am sohata . Call me Donchen. No one will hear.”

“Only if you call me Meralda.” Meralda blushed, for no reason she could determine.

Mug groaned and pretended to suffer a sudden attack of blight.

“You’re going to trust him? Just like that?”

“Did I tell him about the Tower? Did I tell him anything he didn’t already know?” Meralda stood, glared, and began to pace. “Perhaps you failed to notice he’s been more than forthcoming, Mug. Far more than I.”

“I think you’re succumbing to his otherworldly charms,” said Mug. “I think-”

“I found no evidence of dissembling on the part of the young man,” said the Tower.

“Oh, what do you know? You yourself admitted you hadn’t had a simple conversation in a thousand years. Now you’re an expert at sizing up strangers?”

The Tower had no reply.

Meralda shook her head. I wonder if Mug is right. I do like Donchen. There’s something genuine under that self-deprecating humor.

“Oh, he’s a smooth talker, all right,” muttered Mug. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we know nothing about him other than what he tells us. Which he could be making up on the spot, for all we know.”

“I don’t think so, Mug. He’s offered to help, which I need. So until he gives me a reason to distrust him, I’m not going to start.”

“Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when he turns out to be a Vonat in disguise.”

Meralda glared. Mug tossed his leaves and glared back.

“Tower. Can you follow Donchen, watch what he does?”

“With ease.” The scene in the mirror flashed, became a crow’s eye view of the Hang as he pushed his serving cart back toward the kitchen.

Donchen smiled at the people he met in the halls, spoke to some, laughed with some. The image in the glass was silent, and Meralda found herself wishing she could hear what was said.

“Good thinking, mistress,” said Mug. “I’ll keep eyes on him while you work.”

The image of Donchen shrank until it occupied only half the glass. In the other, a drawing appeared, depicting the Tower and the damaged curseworks which spun atop it.

Meralda sank back into her chair.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s start with the very first spell your master latched when he laid the curseworks. I need to know everything I can about the core of it, please.”

The image in the glass shimmered. Some of it fell away, leaving only a whirling, tangled mass of fine lines spinning slowly against the dark.

“Observe,” said the Tower. “There are four thousand, nine hundred, and fourteen elements. Each is independent of the other…”

The Tower droned on. Mug watched Donchen leave the palace. Meralda covered three pages of drawing paper with notes and sketches. Donchen ambled down crowded city streets, his hands in his pockets, his lips pursed in a carefree whistle.

Meralda called for coffee. Mug watched Donchen idle in front of stores, chat with strangers, wait and move with crowds as they were waved across streets by traffic masters.

“He’s using magic of some sort,” muttered Mug. “No one seems to notice he’s Hang.”

Meralda nodded, her pencil scratching across the page.

“It is a minor charm of concealment,” said the Tower. “Phendelit in nature.”

Mug imitated a derisive snort. “Stolen, then.”

“Are you talking, Mug, or watching?”

“Both, mistress.” Mug fell silent, his eyes intent on the glass.

Donchen stopped to speak with a skirted Eryan flower girl. He spoke. She laughed. He produced a coin, and she produced a yellow rose. Donchen took it and walked away smiling.

“Bet that’s for you,” whispered Mug.

And then Donchen rounded a corner. The image in the glass shifted, moving to keep the Hang centered in the glass.

As Donchen rounded the corner, he vanished.

Mug whistled and aimed a dozen suddenly rigid vines at the glass.

“Mistress!” he shouted. “He’s gone!”

Meralda looked up, frowning.

The street scene in the glass turned back and forth, as though searching. Passers-by walked past, but Donchen was nowhere to be seen.

“Impressive,” said the Tower.

“Impossible,” sputtered Mug. “Mistress, he’s made himself invisible!”

Meralda put her pencil down. “That’s not possible, Mug.”

“Then where is he?”

“He is precisely where he should be,” said the Tower. “Observe.”

The image shimmered. Meralda watched as pedestrians walked the sidewalk, and then she smiled.

“The people on the street can still see him, Mug,” she said, pointing at the glass. “Watch. They’re stepping aside. Slowing or speeding up to let him pass. It’s just us who can’t see him, because we’re using a spell.”

“Indeed. But see here.” The Tower paused, and the glass flickered, and Donchen was once again walking down a crowded sidewalk. “I have adjusted for his spell.”

Mug turned eyes toward Meralda. “That’s no Phendelit spell he’s using, is it, Tower?”

“It is not. I have not seen the like of it before. I surmise it is Hang.”

“I’ll bet a donut Mr. Fancy Pants knew you’d try to watch him, mistress,” said Mug. “A bit out of character, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s the Vonats he’s hiding from, Mug, and you know it. He has no idea we’re watching him too.”

“I agree with the mage,” said the Tower. “What a fascinating method of spell construction he employed.”

“I’ll want to see it too, when we’re done here.” Meralda rubbed her eyes. “If we’re ever done here.”

Mug groaned suddenly. “Oh, no,” he said.

Meralda looked to the glass again.

Shingvere darted out of a shop, watched Donchen for a moment, and waved to someone inside. An instant later, Fromarch appeared and joined the other wizard before both began to march down the street behind Donchen.

Mug shook his leaves. “This will not end well,” he said, as the two elderly wizards struggled to keep up with Donchen’s leisurely pace. “A pair of trumpet sounding trolls would be less conspicuous.”

The Tower spoke. “Another attempt is being made to latch a spell to my structure. I believe Donchen has detected its origin. He appears to be heading directly for it.”

“Can you deflect this one too?”

“Easily. I believe it best if I allow it to latch, though. Doing so will prevent further, possibly more damaging, attempts.”

A cab pulled to the curb beside Shingvere and Fromarch. A frail arm, clad in a loose white sleeve, beckoned to the wizards from the cab’s suddenly opened door.

The image in the glass shifted, revealing a brief image of the side of the cab.

Loman, the Hang mage, grinned from inside. He spoke briefly, and Shingvere and Fromarch exchanged shrugs and then heaved themselves into the cab, which pulled back into traffic, pacing Donchen.

Meralda bit back an Angis word. The retired mages were known to most of Tirlin and all of Vonath. Donchen might be wearing a Tirlish face, but anyone looking for curious eyes on the street will certainly see the mages, and probably wonder about the man they seem to be following.

“Well, that does it,” said Mug. “Nothing good ever came of that many wizards sneaking about.”

“Tower,” said Meralda. “Can you communicate with either Donchen or that bunch of meddlesome wizards?”

The Tower was silent for a moment.

“Doing so now will risk alerting any hostile practitioners in the area. Might I suggest an alternative?”

“Please.”

“Finch’s Movable Door.”

Meralda shook her head. “We only have one of the pair. The other was burned in the palace fire.”