All the Paths of Shadow (18 page)

Mug lifted a corner of his bed sheet. “Do you even know what a gaunt is, lad?” he asked.

“It’s somebody dead who died in a marsh, and comes back to get their vengeance,” said Tervis. “It’s just an old story from Phendeli. Isn’t that right, ma’am?”

Meralda nodded, stuffed the rolled-up paper under her arm, and lifted Mug’s cage. “That’s right, Guardsman Tervis,” she said. “It’s just an old story. In any case, the nearest marsh is a good four hundred miles from here.”

“Long walk for a dead man,” said Mug. “Unless, of course, our Phendelit friends packed him in their luggage.”

“Would you get my bag, Tervis?” asked Meralda.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tervis.

Angis held the door, and Meralda found her seat. Tervis clambered in behind her, smiling and smelling of a rather strong army soap.

“Why do you suppose the Hang would buy whole bookstores?” he asked, as the cab rolled into traffic.

Meralda shrugged. “I imagine they’ll take the books home to study,” she said.

“That’s what I decided,” said Tervis. “Going home, I mean. After all, if they were planning to stay, or invade, why would they bother to buy anything? They could just wait and take what they want after the war.”

Meralda tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t think they came to invade us,” she said. “Five ships is hardly an invasion fleet, even if they are Great Sea five-masters,” she added.

Tervis looked about, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “Ma’am,” he said, in a ragged whisper. “I heard something. They said not to tell it again, but…” His brow furrowed, and he took a breath. “I hear there might be other ships on the way.”

Mug whistled softly. The cab rolled into a pothole, and Meralda had to steady herself with the door latch.

“Are there?” asked Tervis. “Other ships, I mean. I know it’s a secret and all, but are there?”

“Guardsman,” said Meralda. “I have heard no news of any additional Hang ships, of any sort, anywhere. I say this as a member in full of the Court of Tirlin, and I spoke to the king just yesterday. Can the person who told you about this new Hang fleet say the same?”

Kervis let out his breath in a whoosh. “No, they can’t,” he said, with a relieved grin. “I’m pretty sure they spent yesterday cleaning latrines.”

“Ah,” said Mug. “That alone should tell you something about their sources,” he added.

Tervis’ grin vanished.

“Don’t worry, lad,” said Mug. “I rather like you, and your brother what’s-his-name. I won’t tell the captain you were discussing state secrets in a public cab.”

“That’s right,” said Meralda, nudging the cage with her boot toe. “He won’t.”

Tervis sat back in his seat. “I don’t mind telling you I was worried,” he said.

“I’ll bet most of the army is still worried,” said Mug, lifting a red eye up toward Meralda. “Wonder where such a tale came from?”

Yes,
thought Meralda.
I wonder
. It was, after all, just a story.

Wasn’t it?

Meralda dismissed the thought with a shrug. “Well,” she said, unrolling the paper and rifling through it. “Let’s see what that miserable penswift did to my hair.”

Meralda stared in horror at her picture. “I don’t own a blouse with a neckline that low,” she fumed.

Mug sneaked an eye up and snickered at the drawing.

“He fancies you a cabaret dancer, seems like.”

Meralda quickly turned the page.

“More soldiers,” said Mug, sweeping the park with a dozen of his eyes. From his perch on the platform’s rail, he commanded a good view of the entire southern park. “And another dozen mounted guards. Something’s up, mistress,” he said.

Meralda nodded. In her hand she held a cold retaining wand. The holdstone it drew from was nearly depleted, and the first refractor was only half cast.

“Hold,” she spoke, biting back one of Angis’ words. Mug waved his eyes her way.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Blasted holdstone went warm,” she said. The half-cast refractor whirled and twisted in her second sight as she groped on the work bench for a fresh holdstone.

A trumpet blew, loud and close and shrill, and Meralda started and dropped the refractor.

The spell whipped away, tangling and coiling and writhing, grounding itself in the park halfway to the Tower amid a single brief dance of shadows.

Meralda leaned glaring over the rail. Down in the crowd at the base of the half-completed speaking platform, a child hooted in glee and raised his battered trumpet to his lips in preparation for another blast.

“Shall I have him shot?” asked Mug. “Kervis is dying to shoot someone.”

Meralda turned from the rail, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. Mug waited silently.

“It’s early, yet,” said Meralda at last. “I have plenty of time.”

“Of course you do,” said Mug. “Still, perhaps a minor wound?”

“Mug,” said Meralda.

“Silent meditation, I understand,” said Mug. His eyes resumed their sweep of the park. “Take a deep breath, won’t you?”

Meralda found a fresh holdstone and a new retaining wand. “Begin,” she said, and extended her second sight. “Refract.”

“The Hang,” said Mug. “Coming this way.” He paused, then brought more eyes to bear on the Wizard’s Walk. “Sorry, mistress,” he said. “Looks like we’ll be entertaining, this morning. Better conjure up a couch, and some drinks.”

“Finish,” spat Meralda. Her wand buzzed angrily, but soon fell quiet, and Meralda wrapped it in a cloth and put it down on her worktable. “I really should come early and set wards at all the bloody gates and leave them there until the Accords,” she said. “It’s the only way I’ll ever get any work done.”

She watched as a half-dozen Hang, led by six mounted palace guards and surrounded by several dozen of the Watch, ambled down the walk. Meralda recognized Que-long, his red-robed Chezin, and Loman, the elderly Hang wizard. Loman was being pushed down the walk in a plain infirmary-issue wheelchair, by a lad whose head barely peeped over the back. Fromarch and Shingvere flanked Loman’s wheelchair, and all three wizards seemed lost in hand waving and animated conversation.

As the party drew near, Meralda tried to make out the faces or the names of the other Hang, but the press of the crowd and the mounted guards prevented her from seeing them more clearly.

“Marvelous,” she muttered, under her breath.

Tervis came clambering up the stair, halting when his head was just above the floor. “The Hang are coming to see you, ma’am,” he said. “We just got word from a runner.”

“Thank you, Guardsman,” said Meralda. “Allow them up. And remind Kervis to keep that crossbow of his on the ground.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tervis turned and descended.

Meralda pushed back her hair. “What time is it, Mug?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Mug. He reached out with a long, thin tendril and patted Meralda’s shoulder. “They won’t stay long, mistress,” he said. “There’s nowhere to sit. They’ll make polite noises, and you’ll be polite back, and they’ll go away. Nothing to it.” Meralda watched Mug swing more eyes toward her. “Is something wrong, mistress?” he asked. “You seem a bit distracted, today.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“It was a very bad dream, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” said Meralda.

Voices rose up from the stair. “They’re here,” said Mug. “Smile a lot.”

Meralda turned to face the stair, clasped her hands before her waist, and found a smile just as Que-long’s red-clad Chezin came smoothly up the stair.

“The House of Chentze bids you good morning,” said Chezin. He did not smile, but his voice was level and, while lacking in warmth, his tone held no threat, either. “The House would impose but briefly on your hospitality, if you would grant us an audience.”

“Your house is welcome here,” said Meralda. “Please, join me.”

Chezin made a small, fast nod and took the last two steps onto the platform.

Meralda watched, marveling at the way he moved. Smooth, like a cat.
No, like a tiger,
she decided.
His black eyes dart this way and that, never still, and if his ears could move they’d always be swiveling, listening for danger from every direction.
Meralda had the uncomfortable impression that when Chezin looked at her he was deciding how best to strike her down.

Next up the stair came Que-long. Meralda made a small bow as his eyes met hers, and the old man halted and returned her bow before taking his last small steps.

He looks even older up close,
thought Meralda, as Que-long stepped onto the platform.
Old, but hardly frail.

Que-long was nearly bald. Only a fringe of short white hair remained, ringing his scalp just above his ears. He had narrow brown eyes, eyebrows so light and sparse they were barely visible at all, a small straight nose, and tiny ears set close to his head. When he smiled, his teeth were straight and whole and white.

He was attired as he had been at the breakfast two days ago. Loose white robe, black trousers woven of some sheer, shiny material, and soft, laceless black shoes.

He bowed again, still smiling.

Que-long spoke a soft, faint word, which Meralda didn’t understand. Chezin nodded, and spoke.

“The dragon apologizes for interrupting your work,” he said. “He hopes you will overlook an old man’s eagerness to see wondrous foreign magics wrought by the hand of a master.”

Mug emitted a barely audible snort of derision, and Meralda felt the blood drain from her face.

“The House of Chentze is an honored guest here,” she said, quickly. “I am delighted that Chentze finds my work interesting, but I fear that the task at hand is rather, um, mundane. Still, I shall—”

A new head popped up from the stair. “Terribly sorry,” he said, halting. “A thousand contrite apologies for my intolerably rude intrusion. May I approach?”

Meralda nodded, and swallowed. The newcomer was the Hang man who’d bidden her good morning at court two days ago. Meralda had never learned his name.

The man came swiftly up the last few steps, his soft shoes silent on the treads. He leaped past the last step and landed just beyond the stair, his hands suddenly clasped behind his back, his slight frame relaxed and still.

I’ve already been caught staring once,
thought Meralda. Still, she allowed herself a good look before she looked away and made a small bow of her own.

In that brief moment, she saw he had grey eyes. Light, bright grey, the exact color of fresh-poured lead. Like all the Hang, his eyes were more almond-shaped than round, from a downturned fold of skin at the inner corners. His nose was small, his hair was straight and black, and his frame was angular and compact.

The newcomer wore a plain white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Meralda could see that his arms were smooth and hairless. She tried and failed to guess his age, deciding he might be twenty or twenty-five or neither.

Meralda bowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chezin grimace slightly, and she couldn’t tell if he was troubled by her response or the newcomer’s sudden easy smile.

“Hello,” said the man. “I’m Donchen.” He glanced about, crooked his finger at Meralda, and leaned slightly forward before speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I think that I might be a foreigner.”

Mug laughed out loud. Meralda blinked. Que-long stared in wonder at Mug, who shrugged and lifted more eyes toward Que-long.

Chezin’s jaw muscles tightened, and he stared for a moment at Mug, but then his eyes resumed their patrol of the platform and the stair.

Donchen regarded Mug and then Meralda with a hint of wonder. “I have heard the Tirlish thaumaturge enjoyed the company of a most uncommon helpmate,” he said. “I see the tales were understated.”

Que-long whispered something. Chezin nodded, then stepped toward Meralda.

“The Mighty Dragon wishes to better know your familiar,” he said. “We were told it has the power of speech.”

Meralda felt herself nodding. “Of course,” she said. What better way to start war than with Mug’s candid social observations?

Mug moved his leaves, and bunched his eyes together in clumps, according to color. “Hello,” he said, as Que-long and a reluctant Chezin approached. “I have twenty-nine eyes.”

Meralda frowned. Mug’s voice had changed. He was bright and cheery, all traces of his usual mocking tone gone.

“Marvelous,” said Donchen, who watched with Meralda as Que-long put his face close to Mug. “And you created him as a child?”

Meralda nodded. Donchen had somehow come within a single pace of her.

“It was, um, unintentional,” she said. “It’s a fairly common occurrence among young mages. Mage Fromarch, for instance, has a staff he crafted from his father’s walking stick.”

“No one knew I had any talent until this stick started singing, one day on the trolley,” gruffed Fromarch.

Donchen laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said to Meralda, after a moment. “I was rude to you the other morning, at breakfast.” He shrugged. “Chezin once said I have the spirit of a lotash trapped inside me.”

Meralda fought away a blush. “If anyone owes anyone an apology, it is I,” she said. “I was gawking. Forgive me.” She took a quick breath. “What, may I ask, is a lotash?”

“A mischievous supernatural being, which of course does not exist,” said Donchen. “And you weren’t gawking. It is only natural to be curious about new things. We, for instance, are curious about you.” His smile widened. “I do hope the dragon isn’t upsetting your familiar.”

Meralda glanced toward Que-long, and saw that he was moving his finger back and forth in front of Mug, who was following the fingertip with clumps of moving eyes. Chezin stood by, motionless.

“On the contrary,” she said. “Mug loves attention, more than water or mulch.”

Donchen watched Mug for a moment, and then he looked away, turning his gaze upon the Tower. Meralda watched him follow it all the way up, until his head was tilted back and he squinted at the sunlight.

“So this is the Tower,” he said. “Immortal, eternal, legacy of an age, enduring remnant of a mighty sorcerer’s grim reign.” He glanced sideways at Meralda and grinned. “So says the marker in the park.”