All The Turns of Light (14 page)

“Let go of her!” shouted Kervis, raising his sword.

The man’s form blurred, as though he were briefly enveloped in a bubble of hot summer air. When the blur vanished, he was Donchen.

“Oh, Kervis, it’s me,” he said. “Tervis. Mug. It’s me, but what in blazes is wrong with Meralda?”

“It’s going to be all right,” muttered Meralda. She slipped her arms around Donchen’s neck. A trickle of blood ran down from her nose. “You smell like oranges.”

Though her eyes were closed against the light, she sensed vague hints of movement nearby. Someone called for a doctor. She heard Donchen urging her to stay awake, begging her to open her eyes.

She tried to reply, but couldn’t remember how to form words, how to move, even how to smile. The pain grew, pushing all else aside, until it expanded to fill her world, engulfing her at last.

Before she lost all perception but that of pain, she heard a voice, speaking as from a great distance.

Alas, she is proven unworthy,
it said.

Was that a hint of a flapping shadow, amid the blinding light?

Nay,
spoke another.
She is not yet undone.

We shall see,
replied the first.

For the briefest of moments, something stirred inside Meralda. Anger, she realized. This is anger.

She fought. She pushed back against the pain, and squeezed her eyes shut against the inescapable fierce light.

“I’m not done,” she said, forming the words with great effort. “Bugger off, the both of you.”

Before the light came roaring back, brighter than before, Meralda was sure she heard the startled cawing of two ragged black crows.

~~~

From the private journal of Mugglesworth Ovis, Novembre 20, RY 1969

Mistress is still abed.

Abed, but lucid. I don’t know what dark place she went to those first few days, but I’m not ashamed to say I was frightened she wasn’t ever coming back.

We had a time of it, what with things appearing and disappearing and flying about her cabin whenever she’d stirred. I believe she was dreaming, either plucking things from our cabin into her dream or pushing things out of her dream and, in numerous amusing instances, right onto a Bellringer’s head.

Even Donchen took to wearing a helmet after a hat rack came clattering down on him. A brass plate on the hat rack read ‘The Mortimer Arms, 135 Keep Street,’ and two good men’s hats came with it. Tower is still at a loss to explain how a perfectly innocent hotel hat rack was spirited halfway across the world as Meralda slept, but these are strange days.

We’ve kept Meralda’s condition a secret. The Bellringers spread the word that she was ill with a summertime cold, and worried that it might spread quickly throughout the whole crew if she were to walk about in the enclosed confines of the airship. I’ve imitated her voice through her door a number of times, and though that meddling doctor nearly barged in once, we’ve managed to maintain the charade.

Convincing the Bellringers not to reveal Donchen’s presence was the trickiest part of the venture. I was sure they were going to go straight to Captain Fairweather, but they finally agreed to wait and let Meralda come to her senses before we complicated matters further.

Donchen has been aboard all along, of course, posing as a cook, not that I had anything to do with that, speak to my attorney Mr. Hundy of 32 Skeet Street, Suite 16-A, please. Donchen is skilled in disguises anyway, and he has a magic Hang ring that changes his appearance. The man is a genius in the kitchen so he fits right in at the job he chose.

He was quite alarmed to find himself peeling oranges one minute, and falling into Meralda’s bathtub the next.

We ascended to nearly twenty thousand feet for a brief time yesterday. A ferocious storm appeared, boiling black clouds hurling lightning about, and wind whipping the Sea to a frenzy. Poor Mistress must have sensed it somehow, because she moaned and clutched at her sheets and even conjured up a miniature storm cloud right above her bed. We caught the bit of rain on a blanket and Donchen sang some outlandish Hang lullaby. The infant storm faded away, replaced by a stuffed bear and a tin of soggy hard candies.

Meralda remembers nothing, of course. The odd manifestations are less frequent, now that she’s more awake, but they haven’t ceased. Immediately after she woke, cups of hot coffee began appearing all over the cabin, along with the odd sticky bun or grilled cheese sandwich.

So far, Mistress’s conjured objects have included pastries, pens, beverages (hot and cold), toys, measuring instruments, apples (23 so far), a cat, her mother’s hairbrush, a pair of fawn-colored boots (price tags still attached), one Hang gentleman (slightly bruised), a silver teapot, four pairs of socks, a twenty-pound spool of Number 6 copper wire, a hat rack, a child’s bathtub, various books, and a guitar. Oh, and Amorp’s Horn, I suppose, though we’re still not sure it falls into the same category as the other items.

Must close. Mistress is stirring, disturbed by the most recent arrival. It’s a favorite watercolor of hers, ‘Rainy Afternoon,’ done by the late Frengot. Until a few moments ago it was housed in the Museum of Art and Natural History. I wonder if they’ve missed it yet?

This by my hand, etc., etc., Mugglesworth Ovis.

Chapter 8

Meralda sat at her desk and wrote.

A thick blanket covered the porthole, and only a single candle tucked away behind a stack of boxes in the corner burned. Meralda’s eyes were still sensitive to bright light, but she marveled at how curiously adept she’d become at seeing in the dark.

The notes she wrote were plain as day to her, though Mug claimed he was forced to use his six nighttime eyes to read the words plainly.

Meralda paused in her writing, put down her pen, and flexed her aching fingers.

She looked down at the list of objects she was composing. She had arranged the objects in order of appearance, as well as anyone could remember, with times and places carefully noted. She hoped that by writing it all down, by putting events in order and assigning them locations, she might find some pattern in the chaos.

But as she read down the list, that hope died. Plates and socks. Books and forks. Common enough objects, yes, but objects with nothing in common.

She lifted the cup of coffee in her hand to her lips and took a sip before she realized it too had simply appeared, whole and hot and steaming, from thin air.

“That makes forty-three,” Mug said, his eyes and leaves stirring in the shadows. “I know it sounds frivolous, but I have to ask. Is it good coffee?”

Meralda put the cup down beside six of its brethren. She glared at them, and one vanished with a soft pop of displaced air.

“It’s the best coffee I’ve ever tasted,” she replied. “Each and every time.”

“What about the pie?” asked Mug.

Meralda was poised to ask ‘what pie?’ but she glanced down at her page of notes and found a pie resting on the page.

An aroma wafted up. “Apple,” she said.

Something small and metallic clattered to the floor behind her. She saw Mug’s quick eyes swivel and fix on a spot on the floor.

“And there’s your fork,” he said. “Solid silver and from the Royal china cabinet, if I’m any judge.”

Meralda closed her eyes. The stabbing pain in her head was much reduced since she had awakened, but it was never far away, and the appearance of an object was usually followed by a moment of nausea and dizziness.

She waited for both to pass. When she opened her eyes, the apple pie had changed to cherry, with a slice missing.

“As much as I enjoy baked goods,” she said. “It’s impossible. None of this can be happening.”

“Begging your pardon, Mistress, but it is.” A child’s brightly colored ball fell from the vicinity of the ceiling, bounced a few times, and came to rest by Meralda’s feet. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Give yourself and Tower time to work it out. Maybe this is what happens when Mages lose sight of land.”

Meralda shook her head no. “Mug, we are witnessing a dozen violations of physical and magical law every hour.”

A ball of red yarn flew sideways across the cabin before striking the bulkhead and rolling to the floor. The skinny black cat which had appeared earlier emerged from beneath Meralda’s berth and pounced on the yarn, biting and clawing.

“That may be, but what are you going to name the cat?” Mug asked. “If we’re going to have a cat she must have a name.”

“I’m not even sure it’s a real cat,” Meralda said.

“Oh, it’s a real cat,” Mug said. “Look in yonder corner and you’ll find solid proof of that. We’ll need a litter box. How about Catastrophe? Clever play on words, if you ask me. Here, kitty.”

The cat looked up at Mug, sank her teeth into the yarn, and carried it away under the bed.

A brief shower of soap bubbles floated by, followed by the clatter of a trumpet hitting the floor.

Meralda watched the last of the bubbles fall and pop. “Effects without causes,” she said. “The universe might be unraveling around me.”

“Catastrophe didn’t make
that
big of a mess,” Mug said.

Meralda sighed and rubbed her eyes. “You know very well what I mean,” she replied.

“I do. But Mistress. the universe seems intact, and anyway I’m sure it has plenty of cups to go around. Whatever is happening has an explanation.” Mug hesitated. “I might even have one.”

“I shudder to ask.”

Mug mimicked clearing his throat. “It’s so obvious it’s simple, Mistress. At home, you’re surrounded by magical things. Magic here, magic there, magic on every street corner and coat hook.”

“I suppose. And?”

“So what’s changed?” asked Mug.

“We’re a long way from home.”

“Exactly!” Mug said.

Meralda detected the faintest flourish of horns accompanying Mug’s words, and smiled despite herself.

“Nothing but sea monsters and storms for thousands of miles. No magic—except you.” Mug’s leaves waved and stirred. “Mistress, it’s as if your powers are expanding, trying to fill the magical void around you. Sort of like a balloon put in that vacuum chamber back in the Laboratory.” Mug belatedly remembered how that experiment had ended, and amended his words. “Well, nothing like that, actually, I misspoke, but you get the idea.”

“So you believe the further we go from home, the more this will intensify.”

As if in answer, a bicycle sped past Meralda’s desk and slammed into her berth. The cat growled and peeked out briefly, but did not emerge.

“Well, there’s no telling about that,” Mug said quickly. “It could just as likely decline.”

“There’s only one problem with your theory,” Meralda said. “I’m not the only Mage to have ever crossed the Great Sea. The Hang had sorcerers when they sailed to Tirlin last year. And Donchen is something of a thaumaturge himself. He doesn’t seem to be surrounded by pastries and bicycles.”

Mug was silent for a moment. “Yes, well, that’s all true, I suppose. Perhaps only talents of a certain caliber are amplified?”

“I don’t know, Mug. I simply don’t know.”

A sudden soft rain of flowers fell.

“Well, at least it’s not raining sea monsters,” Mug said, batting away rose petals. “Mistress. I have an idea. Conjure up a pillow. A nice soft fluffy pillow.”

“Mug, I am not ‘conjuring’ anything. These are random events, centered about me, yes, but not consciously caused by me.”

“Begging your pardon, Mistress, but that’s nonsense. Look what’s appearing all over the place. Coffee. Pastries. A Hang gentleman named Donchen. It couldn’t be any more obvious if each was accompanied by a receipt reading CONJURED BY MERALDA.”

Meralda counted to ten. In that time, a bolt of bright yellow cotton cloth, neatly wrapped and reasonably priced at 15p, went sailing past to land on her berth.

“Mug. You know as well as I do that every magical reaction requires a physical action. That’s first-year thaumaturgy. I haven’t latched any spells or charged any wands. Which means I may the object of some magic, but I am not doing any magic. Period. I cannot be, by the very laws that underpin creation.”

“Tell that to the bicycle, or Catastrophe.”

“There must be a way to prove it isn’t me,” Meralda said. She pondered that for a moment, then rummaged in her desk drawer for a pair of latching wands. “Of course! Merigold’s First Theorem. If I am somehow conjuring these objects, as you say, I’m expending arcane effort, isn’t that correct?”

Mug tossed his leaves in a vegetative shrug. “I’ll agree with that.”

Meralda smiled. “And if I am expending effort, then this simple latching wand will be drained if I’m holding it when a conjuration occurs, will it not?”

“I see where this is heading,” Mug said. “But go on.”

Meralda placed one of the wands on her desk, and held the other aloft. “We’ll just wait, then.”

Almost immediately, a pair of gold-rimmed opera glasses fell to the deck. Meralda took the wand from her desk and brought the ends of both latching wands slowly together.