All the Paths of Shadow (17 page)

Kervis sighed. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “Half of ’em are penswifts. We’d like to have knocked a few heads when they decided they could just shove on past,” he said. “The other half are aldermen and civilian Street Watch volunteers,” he said, lowering his voice. “They want to talk about the haint.”

“The haunt,” corrected Meralda, automatically.

Kervis tilted his head. “I told them they wouldn’t be allowed to waste your time talking about such nonsense. I hope that was the right thing to say.”

“Keep saying it. Maybe they’ll listen, sooner or later.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kervis glanced down. Tervis had been forced by the press of the crowd to retreat a step up the stair.

“I’d better get back,” said Kervis. “Don’t worry about leaving. We sent for help, to get you through the crowd.”

“Thank you,” said Meralda. Kervis nodded and darted down the stair, bellowing.

When Meralda turned, she found Mug’s eyes upon her. “Did you hear?”

“I heard,” he said. “The
Post
will just make up whatever it is they think you aren’t telling them.”

Meralda tore the paper wrapping from her biscuit. “Do you suppose,” she asked, wearily, “that, before the Accords are done, every storied childhood boogie from every one of the Five Realms will put in an appearance?”

“Sooner or later,” said Mug, cheerfully. “It’s the dragon I’m looking forward to the most.”

Meralda took a bite, marched back to her worktable, and set about hanging the last few threads of the latch.

Meralda lifted her hands, touched the ice-rimed ends of two fat copper wands together, and unleashed the latching spell with a long, loud word.

The spell leaped. Meralda watched it go. To her second sight, it appeared as though an enormous blob composed of tangled, luminous spider’s webs wobbled and darted through the air, rising up against the Tower’s bulk to seek out the Wizard’s Flat.

Meralda looked up and up, craning her head as the latch ascended. Mug’s eyes followed as well, and he began to count aloud.

“One, two, three, four…”

The spell reached the top of the Tower, surrounding the flat. The glowing threads lashed about, flattening into a fat circular disk centered on the top of the flat like the brim of a hat.

“…five, six…”

The hat brim spun, faster and faster, threads straightening and elongating at right angles to the Tower’s axis until the spell was a flat, red-edged blur. Then, with a flash, it vanished.

“…seven.”

The wands in Meralda’s hand went icy cold.

“And done,” said Meralda. She watched for a moment, but the spell remained latched. At last she lowered her face, and met Mug’s gaze.

“Not just done, but well done,” said Mug. “You do realize that you’re the first mage to latch a work to the Tower in the last four hundred years.”

Meralda yawned. She couldn’t stop herself. Weariness fell hard upon her as the latch sailed skyward. Weariness, and a sudden urgent longing for a water closet.

Mug chuckled. “I see,” he said. “I suppose you’re open to my suggestion that we pack up and go home. Even if you hung a refractor tonight, you’d not know if it worked until the morning.”

“Home it is,” said Meralda. She leaned over the rail, cast a despairing eye upon the close-packed crowds still gathered at the foot of the Tower.
Waiting for the lights,
she thought. Waiting for the shade of dread Otrinvion.

“At least the captain can blame any lights tonight on me,” she said, dreading the walk through the mob.

“I’ve kept a pair of eyes on the flat, but haven’t seen any yet,” said Mug. “But, if our spook sticks to strict ghostly custom, they won’t start until midnight or after. He’s a traditionalist, our Otrinvion. None of these contemporary early evening haunting practices for him, no, ma’am.”

Meralda looked up from the shadowed crowds below, and sought out the flat again. The Tower sulked against a sky gone nearly dark. No stars were out yet, but they would be, and soon.

Meralda thought about the empty space within the Tower, and the darkness on the stair, and she shivered and looked away.

“Let’s go home,” she said, briskly. “Reasonable people don’t stand in the dark and gawk at empty rooms.”

“Indeed not,” said Mug, as Meralda folded papers. “They go home, and read about it the next morning.”

Meralda wrapped her wands with thick cotton pads and shoved them in the bag, well away from the holdstones. “Only if one takes the
Post
,” she said. The spent Riggin bottles, which still glowed faintly, went in next. “One wonders what they’ll print when the lights stop and the Hang go home.”

Mug tossed his leaves. “The haunted Tower ought to be good through First Snow.”

Meralda grabbed and shoved and packed until the guild work table was bare. She slung the bag over her shoulder and prepared Mug’s cage and sheet.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” replied Mug. Meralda gently lifted him from the table and made for the stair. “Tervis,” she called, at the first tread. “A hand, please.”

Tervis clambered up the stair. “Coming, ma’am,” he called.

“Take Mug, if you will,” said Meralda.

Tervis reached the top, and carefully took the bird cage handle from Meralda. “There’s a man waiting to see you at the bottom,” said Tervis, in a whisper. “He won’t say who he is, but we think he’s a penswift.”

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.

Chapter Eight

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.”

Meralda took the
Post
, but didn’t unroll it. “Save me some time,” she said to Angis as Mug sent a half-dozen eyes weaving toward the paper. “Just the high points, please.”

Angis shrugged. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “The Hang are buying up bookstores. Not the bricks and the doors. Just the books. All of them. They pay in gold, and I gather more than one or two booksellers just got rich, because the Hang don’t haggle. They just pile up gold until someone says yes.”

“Tell her about the haint,” said Kervis.

Angis chuckled. “Right lot of hogwash, that,” he said. “A street minstrel claims something grabbed him in an alley off Newbrick,” he said. “Just after dark, last night. Claimed it took three of his fellows to beat it back. Street minstrels,” spat Angis. “They’d claim they climbed the Tower if there was a penny in the tale.”

Kervis chimed in. “We heard some of the boys in the barracks talking, ma’am,” he said. “The Watch called the guard out last night, after the attack.” Kervis glanced about. “A couple of them claim they saw a gaunt. Right here in Tirlin!”