All the Paths of Shadow (45 page)

Meralda kept her face carefully blank. “I’m sure the king will launch a formal investigation,” she said. “Such mischief cannot be tolerated.”

The captain nodded. “Student pranks, I’m thinking.”

“Precisely.”

The Tower still loomed, dark and brooding against the clear blue sky, but the park, itself, was transformed.

The stands that Meralda had last seen as skeletons of lumber were complete, making a half-circle around the Tower that rose up and up and up, nearly as tall as the Old Oaks themselves. Fresh white paint gleamed in the sun, and atop the tallest ranks of seats a hundred pennants waved and snapped in the cool midday breeze.

The King’s Rise faced the stands, engulfed in the shadow of the Tower. Painters still worked furiously about it, hanging from ropes and racing across scaffolds as they hurried to complete the rise’s red, blue, and gold color scheme in time for the Accords.

Standing, hands on hips, at the base of the rise was King Yvin himself. Even from a distance, Meralda could make out the tapping of the royal foot and the glower of the royal face.

“I’m not late,” she said.

“Pardon?” asked the captain.

“Nothing.” Meralda forced a smile. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

“So that’s clear, then,” said the king. He leaned on an unpainted stretch of the rise’s upmost rail and stared at the Tower’s black bulk. “You accompany me up here. I sit. You move the shadows. I thank you, you take to the stairs, the band strikes up, and I stand up and start when they finish. That about it?”

Meralda nodded. Something in the king’s weary tone and wary eyes troubled her far more than usual.

I suppose I’m not the only member of the court with a burden, these days.

“And you’ve taken steps to solve our other little problem.”

Meralda realized she’d been wondering all day just how she’d reply to that very question.

“I have, Your Majesty.”

The king grunted. “Finally. Brevity. The rest of the court could take lessons from you, Mage.” He stared for a moment longer. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Mage Ovis?”

“Sire?”

“You heard me.”

Meralda’s mind raced. “I hardly even know you, Sire. As a person.”

The king nodded. “That’s true enough.” He flicked a scrap of wood off the rail. “Did you know old Fromarch threatened to renounce the robes if I didn’t approve your appointment?”

“He did what?”

The king chuckled. “I’ve never seen the man so angry. He was ready to throw away a lifetime of hard work for you.” The king shrugged. “I had an epiphany, right there in the Gold Room. I don’t think anyone ever felt that passionate about His Majesty King Yvin the Sixth.”

“I don’t know what to say, Your Majesty. Except that I’m glad you’re wearing the crown right now. I can’t think of a better head to go beneath it.”

“Same thing my wife said. Must be a bit of truth to it, then?” He managed a weary grin. “I want you to know, Mage, that however the Accords go, I’m glad Fromarch fought so hard to put you in those robes. He was right. For once.”

Meralda put her hand on the king’s where he gripped the railing.

“I want you and the queen to come down to the laboratory, after the Accords,” she said. “Mug can play us some music. I can show you the relics.”

“The queen plays a mean hand of whist,” said the king.

“So does Mug. But I warn you, he cheats.”

The king laughed. Meralda moved her hand.

Yvin marched away, bellowing at his personal guard, who quickly surrounded him as he tramped down the steps.

Meralda watched him go, then she reached into her bag for her implements and pretended to inspect her shadow moving spell while her own guards idled far below.

I need to enter the Tower and work from the flat to install the new tether spells,
she thought.

But how can I possibly make half a dozen trips to the flat when my every trip to the park will be accompanied by half the army and at least one dirigible?

The Vonat wizards will know I’m not doing anything to the shadow spell. They’ll suspect I’m meddling with theirs, which I’m not even supposed to know about.

Donchen had suggested removing Finch’s Door from the house on Hopping Way and sneaking it under cover of night directly into the flat. Mug had even grudgingly agreed this was the best possible solution, although sneaking anything the size of a door into the Tower was going to prove difficult.

A shadow flitted across Meralda, and with it came the faint fluttering of wings.

Of course there is another way,
she thought.
I’d hoped I wouldn’t be forced to try it.
But standing there on the rise and seeing the crowds gathered about the Tower, Meralda knew with a sinking in her heart there was only one way to enter the Tower in secret.

Two shadows flew past, as if hearing her thoughts.
Which they might well do, since I dared to take them in hand.

My life is filled with dares these days.

“Tower reports that the Vonats are watching their spell carefully, mistress,” said Mug’s tiny voice from Meralda’s pocket. “He’s impressed they can do that at a distance.”

Meralda reached into her own pocket and pressed the copper stud while covering her mouth as if from a cough.

“I’m all done here,” she said. “Coming home.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mug paused. “Mind you don’t trip on any Vonats.”

“Mistress,” said Mug. “Respectfully, that’s the single least appealing idea you’ve ever espoused.” Mug waved his leaves at Donchen, who stood frowning by Meralda’s desk. “Mr. Ghost. Help me here. Tell the mage why holding ancient evil staves while they fly through Goboy’s brittle old mirror is a monumentally bad idea.”

“I find nothing fundamentally at fault with the supposition,” said the Tower. “They move their own masses easily across the spectral threshold with no observable discontinuity.”

“Was I asking you? Was I?” Mug swiveled his eyes back to Donchen. “Well?”

Donchen’s frown deepened. “I cannot lay claim to understanding the process by which the staves use the mirror as a portal,” he began.

Mug groaned. “I retract the question.”

Donchen shrugged. “I see no reason why a person would suffer, if the staves do not. Even so, I volunteer to try a crossing first. Tirlin can do without a moderately skilled chef, Mage Ovis. But it cannot do without you.”

He means that,
thought Meralda.
He’d take up the staves and step into the glass and not show an inkling of fear.

She smiled, but shook her head no. “Thank you, Donchen. From the bottom of my heart. But taking the staves is very much up to the staves, and in any case I don’t believe they’ll let me come to any harm.”

Yet,
thought Meralda.
No harm just yet.

“Still, we could perhaps test passing an inanimate object back and forth through the glass,” said Donchen, eyeing Meralda speculatively. “Something of your approximate mass and composition?”

“Careful,” grumbled Mug.

Meralda rose and brushed back her hair. “No. I’m sorry, Donchen, but the staves can either be trusted, or they cannot, and without them, we are already undone.” She held out her hands and took a deep breath. “Nameless, Faceless. To me, please.”

The air about Meralda snapped, as if a solid door was slammed shut, and the staves appeared in her hands.

“Mistress!” cried Mug.

“Your mistress is a brave woman,” said Donchen. “Know that if she comes to harm I will set about finding a very sharp axe and a very hot fire.”

Meralda smiled.

“Did you hear?”

“One heard
,
”
came a voice Meralda knew only she could hear.

“As did this one,”
said the other.
“Neither mages nor mirrors will suffer harm.”

“To the Wizard’s Flat,” she said.

The staves leaped in her hand. The laboratory simply vanished. She felt the slightest, most subtle sensation of being lifted, and then—

Then, the Wizard’s Flat.

Bright sun streamed through the windows. Silence gripped the air. With the door still shut, not a single sound penetrated the Tower’s thick walls.

Meralda let go of the staves. They flew to their indentations in the floor and stood there, still and quiet in the sunlight.

“Thank you,” said Meralda.

“Mistress! Mistress, we can see you,” cried Mug’s voice, from Meralda’s pocket. “Are you all right? Are you all there? Donchen is pacing, mistress. Muttering about kindling wood.”

Meralda raised Tam’s speaking device to her lips and smiled. “I’m perfectly intact, Mug,” she said. “It wasn’t even unpleasant.”

She heard Mug sigh in relief.

“Well, what now, mistress?”

“I’m here, Mug. I might as well get to work. I’ll be busy for a bit. Watch, but please don’t speak.”

Meralda dropped the speaking device back in her pocket, closed her eyes, and raised her Sight.

“I may need some assistance here,” she said. She felt the staves place themselves in her hands, felt the first rush of power flow from them and toward her.

“Sight,” she said aloud.

The hidden spaces that filled the flat revealed themselves, one by one, wonder by wonder.

Chapter Eighteen

“The
Times
is predicting rain for the commencement ceremony, mistress,” said Mug, shuffling quickly through the newspapers scattered on a workbench with quick motions of his vines. “The
Post
is promising sun.”

Meralda shrugged, her attention focused on the delicate mesh of steel she struggled to solder in place between two curved lengths of springy copper. Smoke rose up and tickled her nose, and she bit back a sneeze as she secured the last bit of steel and held it fast to let the molten solder cool.

The Accords begin tomorrow,
she thought.
And if I am unable to restore the tethers, rain will be the least of anyone’s problems.

“Done,” she said, frowning at her handiwork. “That should speed things up in the flat.”

Mug swiveled half his eyes toward her latest creation.

“You’re getting very good at metal-working, you know.”

“Thank you, Mug.”

A soft knock, one-two-three, one-two-three, one, sounded at the door.

“That would be supper,” observed Mug. “He’s certainly punctual, your Donchen. That’s a fine quality in a man, you know.”

Meralda turned so Mug wouldn’t see her blush. “He’s hardly my Donchen,” she said, before walking for the door.

Mug chuckled at her back.

Donchen and his cart trundled into the room, filling the laboratory with the smell of the Hang dishes Meralda was coming to love. Donchen smiled above his cart and greeted Meralda with a sweeping bow.

“Your dinner is served,” he said, in a perfect rendition of a refined Eryan accent. “I took the liberty of providing the Bellringers with egg rolls and fried rice.”

Meralda laughed and executed a curtsey. “Why thank you, kind sir. I do hope you’ll join me?”

Donchen smiled. “After I see us served, of course,” he said. “Pray be seated, while I prepare the table.”

Mug groaned from across the room. “I’m still trying to heal over here, you two,” he cried. “This isn’t helping.”

Donchen pushed the cart to Meralda’s desk, covered it with a stark white linen tablecloth, and began dispensing the meal. “I brought you a decanter of spring water, all the way from my homeland,” he said, to Mug. “This particular spring is said to both heal the wounded and grant them one wish.”

“I wish my new eye to be yellow, then,” said Mug. He waved a small, but growing eye bud toward Donchen. “See? The one I lost is budding back out.”

Donchen leaned down and inspected the bloom critically. “You heal quickly, Mr. Mug. I am glad to see that.”

Meralda found chopsticks and glasses and poured cold tea from a silver pitcher.

“He’s doing remarkably well.” Donchen reached into the cart and produced a crystal flask capped by a delicate filigree of silver worked into the shape of a grinning dragon’s head.

“The spring water,” he said.

Meralda took the flask and watched it glitter in the light as it turned. “Do all the springs in Hang grant wishes?”

Donchen grinned. “According to some. I am of a more skeptical bent. But the healing qualities of this spring are at least supported by some evidence.”

“You are certainly free with the treasures of the House of Chentze,” said Meralda.

Donchen shrugged. “The waters of healing are best drunk by the wounded.”

“That has the sound of a proverb.”

Donchen straightened the napkins, nudged an errant piece of rice back into its bowl, and brought his hands together.

“It is just that. Part of a legend, actually. Would you care to hear the rest?”

Meralda pulled back his chair and motioned him to sit. He laughed and sat.

Meralda pulled her own chair close to his.

“I’m starved. You talk. I’ll eat.”

Donchen handed her an egg roll, and began his story.

“He’s twenty-two, by the way.”

“Who?”

Mug rolled his remaining twenty-eight eyes. “Your friendly Hang ghost. Donchen. He’s twenty-two years old. Not really so much older than you.”

Meralda frowned. “And just how do you suddenly know his age?”

“I said ‘Tell me how old you are.’ He said ‘twenty-two’. I asked him if those were the same as Tirlish years, and he went into a wholly unnecessary explanation of planetary rotation, but the upshot is that yes, Hang years and Realm years are the same thing. So he’s twenty-two and now you know and you are very welcome.”

Meralda felt her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t ask you to ask the man his age!”

“No, and that would have been another very simple question.” Mug brought a wobbling cluster of blue eyes toward Meralda. “Mistress, I may be a bit vegetative, but I’ve lived with you mobile folk long enough to know a few things. About gentlemen and ladies…”

“Mugglewort Ovis. That is quite enough.” Meralda rose and stalked away. “The very existence of Tirlin hangs by a thread. The Vonats are aiming spells who knows where this very moment. The Accords may see an epic disaster born. Do you really think I have time to behave like some…” she fought for words “…moon-eyed schoolgirl?”