Meralda was up and dressed before the summons to the palace arrived, via a breathless Kervis. “I saw the Hang!” he exclaimed, thrusting a thick brown envelope at Meralda before she fully opened her door. “They’re all lined up in the west garden, dancing.”
Meralda took the envelope and bade Kervis and Tervis to enter. The guardsman went on to describe the Hang’s odd morning dance, noting with awe that every one of them stood and moved together, all led by a spry little man in baggy short-legged pants who never spoke a word.
“Like birds, ma’am,” said Kervis, as Tervis rolled his eyes. “Like this!”
Kervis stood on his right foot, attempted to straighten his left leg and extend it away from his body, level with his waist, and fell over on Meralda’s couch when he lifted his arms over his head.
From the kitchen came the sound of applause. “Bravo!” shouted Mug, adding the faint roar of a tiny crowd behind him. “Bravo!”
Kervis reddened and stood. “Well, they didn’t fall,” he said.
Meralda shushed Mug and hid her own smile behind the sheaf of papers stuffed into the envelope. At the top, printed in a hurried court scribe’s neat hand, were the words “A Brief Summary of Our Hang Guests, and a Schedule for Today.”
Meralda sat. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, Tervis,” she said. “Have some, and don’t mind Mug.”
Tervis nodded, and headed for the kitchen.
Meralda flipped through the papers, searching for the schedule. The last page was a list of places and times. Meralda winced and read on.
Eight of the clock. Informal breakfast with the Eryans, the Phendelits, the Alons, and the Hang.
Ten of the clock. Court meeting, closed session.
Noon. Lunch, informal. Not mandatory.
Two of the clock. Tour of the palace. Informal.
The captain had added, in a hasty scrawl, The Hang will be at breakfast, and may join the tour. Forget the court session. Lot of arguing about room assignments and troop postings.
Meralda shrugged. Very well, she thought. Breakfast, skip the lunch, and then the rest of the day is free.
And at last, I’ll see a Hang.
Tervis came out of the kitchen, coffee in hand. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
Meralda looked up from the papers. “Well, sit down,” she said. “You’re not on a parade ground, you know.”
Tervis backed up to the reading chair and sat. “Yes ma’am,” he said.
“Docile, too,” said Mug, from the kitchen. Meralda glared, and flipped back to the first page of the captain’s report, and began to read.
The Hang, wrote the scribe, have sent, as we thought, representatives from the house of Chentze. Chentze, we believe, means “long dragon,” or perhaps “long-lived dragon”.
Chief among these visitors is Que-long. We are as yet unsure whether this is a name or a title, or indeed something of both. Suffice it say that Que-long is the ranking member of the delegation, if not of Chentze itself. We are asked not to address Que-long directly, or to offer directly to him any gifts, documents, or objects of any kind. All interaction with Que-long is to be performed with Chezin. Direct all statements to Chezin. Give all gifts to Chezin. You will know Chezin by his red robes, and the fact that he alone of the Hang bears a weapon.
Note that the king has relaxed the customary ban on weapons in the Gold Room for Chezin. Chezin is to bear his sword wherever he will, and no one shall challenge or attempt todisarm him on pain of the most direct and severe royal displeasure.
The other ranking members of the Hang delegation are:
Donchen — Rank unknown. Introduced himself merely as “Donchen.” Probably an ambassador, or the Hang equivalent thereof.
Loman — Court Mage? Bears a short plain staff, cast a magelight from his hands during last night’s procession to the palace.
Sopan — Wife of Que-long. Attended by three black-clad females introduced as “Sopan’s shings.” The shings may be bodyguards, though they bear no weapons and are slight of build.
Tolong — Captain of Long Dragon flagship. Statesman, perhaps, as well. Chezin defers to him with nearly as much respect as to Que-long.
The captain had added one final note:
Meralda. Que-long has expressed a desire to see firsthand the wondrous magics of this fair and happy land. That means you, so whip up something wondrous, won’t you? We’ll pop around in a day or so.
He’d signed it with a scrawl.
“You scheming old chicken thief,” muttered Meralda.
The Brass Bell rang seven times. Tervis finished his coffee by the sixth peal, and he and Kervis and Meralda were out the door by the seventh.
Alone in the kitchen, Mug spread his leaves to the rising sun and watched the Tower’s shadow swing wide around the park.
Carter, himself, escorted Meralda to her place at the middle King’s Table. “Enjoy your breakfast, milady,” he said, as he pulled back Meralda’s chair and waited for her to take her place.
“Thank you, Carter,” she said, sitting.
Meralda’s tablemates were entirely Tirlish. At her sides sat bankers and scholars. Across from her, Yugo Austin toyed with his fork while to his right, iron magnate Cobblestone sat in barely concealed slumber.
Meralda twisted round in her seat, hoping for a glance of the Hang, and noticed many others were doing the same thing. Meralda even thought opera star Lydia Grace looked a bit annoyed as people looked past her in search of more exotic sights.
The Alon delegation was seated at the north end of the table to Meralda’s right, though the Good Mother’s place at the head of the table was empty. Meralda did recognize the Alon ambassador to Tirlin, who was engaged in a whispered, but agitated conversation with a red-bearded, red-kilted man who wore the diamond-braided shoulder sash of an Alon mage.
Red Mawb, said Meralda, to herself. If so, this Red Mawb looks more like a Spree Isles pirate than a mage. Meralda could see the man was missing an upper incisor, and a thin red scar ran the length of his face, vanishing under hair at his forehead and beard at his jaw.
And if that’s Mawb, Meralda decided, then the fat little bald man glaring at him from across the table must be Dorn Mukirk. The fat man shifted in his seat, and Meralda caught a glimpse of a diamond-worked sash on his shoulder, as well.
Then the north doors opened, and three iron-helmed Alon guards marched in, and every Alon in the Gold Room, mages included, leaped noisily to their feet.
Meralda rose as well, remaining standing until the slight, grey-haired queen of Alonya was seated, and the rumble of conversation began anew.
The king and queen of Erya walked in a few moments later, to no fanfare, even from the Eryans present. Soon after a small army of waiters appeared, pushing silver-worked wheeled serving carts which steamed and sizzled and smelled of scrambled eggs and Westfield sausage and pancakes. But Yvin was absent, and the left-most King’s Table, which was covered in white linens and marked off by red velvet ropes in obvious reserve for the Hang, was empty.
The first trumpet blew, and the waiters busied themselves with coffee urns and serving spoons. Soon after the north door opened again, and a small, black haired man darted through it.
At first, Meralda mistook him for a server. His shirt was plain, long-sleeved, off-white, with a button front and a plain circle collar, not unlike what the waiters wore. But then he turned to speak to someone behind him, and in that instant Meralda saw clearly his tawny skin and the upturned corners of his wide grey eyes.
Conversation in the Gold Room died in that same instant. The Hang in the doorway heard, and turned back to face the crowd while he held the door open.
“I present the House of Chentze,” he said, in perfect, unaccented New Kingdom. “Good is the guesting in the House of Yvin.”
Then he stepped forward, opened wide the north door, and held it open.
An even smaller, much older man stepped into the Gold Room, bright eyes peering around, small mouth growing into a smile. The older man wore a loose white robe belted at the waist with a thin golden braid. Soft black shoes peeked out from under his robes.
The Alon queen rose to her feet. “Let us rise in honor of our guests, who have come so far to grace us with their presence,” she said, in a voice that rang throughout the Gold Room. “Rise, and show them honor.”
People rose. Meralda lost sight of the Hang after that. They are a small people, she thought, amazed. Her last sight of the old man was of him smiling and reaching out to stroke the corner of a battered, time-worn King’s Table.
Three trumpet blasts rang out, and the west doors opened, and Yvin and Pellabine charged through. Yvin took a few hurried steps, saw that the Hang were en route to their seats, and halted, Pellabine at his side. They stood until the last of the Hang were seated.
Yvin motioned the court to sit, and he and Pellabine resumed their own march for their places at the head of the center King’s Table. Yvin seated his queen, and lifted his hands, turning toward the Hang.
“We bid you welcome, honored guests,” he said. “Will you do us the honor of breaking fast with us?”
Now that the court was seated, Meralda could see most of the Hang delegation. There were perhaps two dozen of them, all peering back at the court with smiles and nods.
The slight, almost frail man seated at the head of his table was certainly Que-long. Meralda stared until she realized what she was doing, and turned her gaze away. But, try as she might, she could find no hint of menace in the small man’s merry smile. His hair was close-cropped and white, his face round and smooth, his eyes large and dark, belying his age. When he smiled, his teeth were white, and perfect. Just before Meralda looked away, he poked his fork into a pancake and laughed.
Seated on Que-long’s right was a grim-faced man, clad in a plain red robe, who sat, hands at his side, eyes moving slowly about the room. Chezin, thought Meralda, surprised by the man’s size. He’s no bigger than Kervis.
Que-long’s wife sat to his left, primly regarding her sausages as though they might be something other than food. Her hair, too, was white, though long, and pulled back into a tight bun. Her robes were white and worked with gold fluting at the hems. She laughed at something her husband said, and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and then looked shyly up and about the room.
The Chezin rose. “It is you who do us honor, King of Tirlin,” he said, his voice even and surprisingly deep. “Let the meal begin.”
He sat. Que-long raised his fork high, stabbed a sausage, and brought it to his lips.
The court was suddenly full of clattering silverware and clinking glasses. Meralda ate, all the while stealing looks at the Hang, who seemed both amused and mildly embarrassed by all the attention.
Meralda tried to match faces at the table to names in the captain’s report. Que-long, his Chezin, Sopan, and her shings were easy enough to single out. But what of Tolong the Long Dragon ship captain, and Donchen, the may-be ambassador?
Meralda cut up her sausages and watched. She decided Captain Tolong was seated four places to the left of Que-long. Beardless and small, he was a shade darker and quite a bit more muscular than any of his fellows.
Meralda swallowed, and cast her gaze to the other end of the Hang table.
The man who had been first through the north door met her gaze, and smiled. He was Hang, but while the other Hang sat upright or stood straight or marched with purpose toward their seats, this man lounged with an air of easy grace. That must be Donchen, Meralda thought, mentally checking off all the other names on the list against other members of the Hang party.
Meralda looked away, and when she glanced back he was still regarding her from across the room, his fork loaded with scrambled eggs and halted halfway from his plate to his mouth.
He smiled, and mouthed the words “good morning.”
A waiter pushed a serving cart passed between them, and Meralda turned her gaze away, horrified that she might blush. Gawking like a farm girl, she chided herself. I do hope he’s not really an ambassador.
When Meralda next dared a glance, the man was talking merrily with his fellows, his plate nearly empty. He did not look her way again.
Soon, the serving carts were replaced with clearing carts, and the tables began to empty. Meralda waited until Yvin wasn’t looking, rose, and departed, hoping to reach the laboratory before the king or the captain could waste half of her day.
At the door, she turned for one last look at the Hang, who were being served coffee.
“They don’t look like monsters, do they?” said the captain.
Meralda started. The captain stood beside her, grinning, a cup of coffee in either hand. “Thought you might need this,” he said, handing her a cup. “You did seem to be in a bit of a hurry.”
Meralda glared, but took the cup.
“You’ll not be bothered until late today,” said the captain. “If then.”
Meralda let out her breath in a sigh. “Wonderful,” she said. The captain sipped his coffee and motioned toward the door. “Please, let’s walk,” he said. “Don’t want to slow you down.”
Meralda walked. The captain fell into step beside her. When they were well out of earshot of the guards and halfway down the empty hall, he spoke again, in a whisper.
“There were lights in the flat, last night,” he said, lifting a hand against Meralda’s protests. “I saw them myself, Thaumaturge,” he added, quickly. “Bright flashes. Hundreds of them. Some white, some red. Started at midnight. Exactly at midnight, with the last tolling of the Big Bell. Ended an hour later, to the minute.” The captain fell silent, as a harried trio of waiters bearing sugar bowls and a platter of sausages rushed past. “Any theories, aside from mischievous ghosts?”
Meralda slowed and studied the captain’s face. “Bright flashes,” she said.
“Bright flashes,” agreed the captain. He frowned and waggled a finger at Meralda. “You’re not about to suggest I saw reflections of airship running lights, are you?” he asked. “Because that’s what I told the papers, and a right lot of nonsense it was. Reflections. Bah. These were lights burning within the flat, Thaumaturge. Lights far brighter than any Alon lumber barge lamp, and certainly brighter than any reflection, of which, by the way, there weren’t any.” The captain lowered his hand and his voice. “You’ve said all along the Tower isn’t haunted, Mage,” he said. “Do you still hold to that? Really?”
Meralda frowned. Did she?
“I won’t stand here and tell you I understand what’s causing the disturbances inside the Tower, Captain,” she said. “But keep in mind that we’re seeing flashes of light. Nothing more, and I can think of a hundred things that might cause them, aside from restless spirits.”
“Name four,” said the captain. “I’m running out of things to tell the penswifts.”
Meralda sighed. “You might suggest that the lights are reactions of Tower structural spellworks to modern ward spells,” she said.
“That sounds good,” said the captain. “Quite reasonable.”
Meralda paused at a door. “No one will believe it, of course,” she said.
“No, they’ll go right on blaming Otrinvion,” agreed the captain. He glanced warily about. “The latest popular explanation is that our famous dead wizard is warning us that the Hang are up to no good,” he whispered.
Meralda rolled her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “I see. Otrinvion the Black, champion of the public good.” She shook her head. “Well-known for his selfless altruism.”
The captain shrugged and opened the door, looking back at Meralda with a grin. “Just so,” he said, motioning Meralda through. “I’ve got things to attend,” he said. “The Vonats are due in tonight, and we’ll want to fluff their pillows beforehand.”
Meralda laughed and waved, and the door shut, and she was alone in the brightly lit hall.
She made for the west stair. The palace was oddly deserted, while everyone, even the serving staff and the guards, gathered near the Gold Room for a glimpse of the Hang. Meralda’s footfalls were loud and fast, and she thought of the Tower and the long, winding stair.
Flashes, she thought. Red and white. Bright enough to be seen from the flat. A possible interaction between my failed ward spell and what?
“Structural spellworks,” she whispered, with a small frown. Six centuries of mages had poked and pried at the Tower for traces of just such spells, hoping to glean from them some hint as to how the monstrous structure was erected.
Not one single spell had ever been detected, much less isolated or studied.
Meralda reached the west stair landing, and heard the Bellringers speaking and laughing from their post above.
Meralda banished her frown and mounted the stair. “Good morning, Thaumaturge,” said Kervis, as she clambered up. “What will we be doing today?”
Meralda brushed back a stray lock of hair.
“Chasing shadows,” she said. “What else?”
Meralda put down her pen.
About her, the laboratory whirred and clicked and sparkled. Meralda rubbed her eyes and twisted in her chair, finally lifting her arms high over her head and stretching until her back popped and some of the stiffness fled.
Her desk was covered with architect’s papers, and they were covered with sketches of the Tower and calculations for the latching spell. Meralda sighed and shuffled papers, searching through them for errors or omissions. Finding none, she opened a desk drawer, pulled a fresh page from within it, and set about her final set of calculations.
Done, she stared at the numbers.
“Two hundred and forty-two,” she said aloud. “Two hundred and forty-two unique refractive spellworks. Minimum.”
Let’s see, she thought. Sixteen days remain, which means that even if I started today, I’d need to shape, cast, and latch fifteen refractive volumes each day until the Accords.
Meralda took in a slow, deep breath. She wasn’t sure if it was panic or rage or a mixture of both that welled up in her chest. Fifteen spells a day? More, if either the Tower latch or the refractive spells needed refinement?
A knock sounded at the laboratory door.
“Thaumaturge,” said the king. “Open the doors.”
Meralda sprang to her feet and marched for the doors. She felt the blood drain away from her face. If Yvin is here, she thought, he’s probably got the entire Hang delegation with him, and he’s idly promised them I’ll levitate the palace by lunchtime.
Meralda reached the doors. As she turned the doorknob and pulled, the king spoke again. “Open for your king!” he cried, his voice lifting to a shout. “Open, lest I halve your pay and turn your laboratory into a stable!”
Meralda barely had time to lift an eyebrow and step backward as the doors swung open.
Before her stood a red-faced, open-mouthed palace guard. In his right hand he held a large bird cage, draped over with a white bed sheet. The guard’s expression was one of extreme and sudden horror.
Kervis and Tervis, wide-eyed, flanked the lad, though their own twin faces were masks of barely concealed mirth.
The birdcage spoke. “Good morning, Mistress,” it said, in Mug’s voice. “Take me inside, won’t you? All this swinging about has left me quite ill.”
The guard, a young lad unknown to Meralda, thrust the birdcage out to her. “He asked to be brought here, Thaumaturge. The door guards approved it.”
Meralda took the bird cage. The guard saluted, turned, and fled. Kervis, straight-faced, quietly shut the laboratory door.
“I’m impressed,” said Meralda. “How did you manage this?”
A single red eye poked out beyond the bed sheet. “I sang,” said Mug. “‘La Volta’ from Nights in the Sun. I did all four voices,” he added, proudly. “Friend and music lover Mrs. Whitlonk called for Doorman Smith. I asked him to call for a guard, a bird cage, and a bed sheet, and here I am, ready to serve,” he said. The eye turned away from surveying the laboratory and fixed itself on Meralda. “How do you stand it?” he asked. “The world, spinning and moving about like this-ugh,” he said, retracting his eye.
Meralda bore him to her desk, cleared a space of papers, and set the cage gently down.
“No more spinning, at least for the moment,” she said. “May I remove the sheet?”
“Please do,” said Mug. Meralda lifted the bed sheet, and Mug blinked in the light.
“I see things haven’t changed here,” he said, peering about in all directions at once. Half his eyes fell upon the papers scattered across Meralda’s long desk. “You’re making progress,” he added.
Meralda shrugged. “Some,” she said. She frowned at the bird cage, and tilted her head. “You’ll lose leaves if you sit here all day without the sun,” she said. “Wait a moment.”
Meralda walked quickly to the west wall, where old Goboy’s scrying mirror stood, glowing faintly behind its blanket. Meralda grasped it by both sides and pulled, dragging it carefully across the floor until it rested beside her desk, leaning against a cabinet filled with second century glassworks.
Mug regarded the covered mirror with all of his eyes. “That’s old Goboy’s scrying glass, isn’t it?” he said. “Still have to keep it covered, I see.”
“It is, and I do,” replied Meralda. She reached out, grasped the plain blue blanket that covered the glass, pulled it away, and let it drop to the floor.
For a moment, her reflection looked back at her. Meralda brought her hand to her lips, considering her words. The Meralda in the mirror, hands still at her sides, smiled and took a single step forward, as if she were about to step out of the frame and into the laboratory.
“Spooky,” said Mug.
“Mirror, mirror,” said Meralda, as her reflection winked and put forth its right hand, palm up, beckoning Meralda to take it, and follow. “Show me sky,” said Meralda, forcing herself to meet her reflection’s gaze. “Sky, above the palace, and none of your tricks. I’m not in the mood. Is that clear?”
Meralda’s reflection drew back its hand, blew Meralda a kiss, and vanished. Sudden bright sunlight poured from the glass.
“Ahhh,” said Mug, swiveling his leaves toward the light. “Better. Thank, you, Mage,” he added.
Meralda kicked the blanket aside and pulled back her chair. With a sidelong glance at the mirror, which showed only blue sky and the top half of a slow-moving airship, she sat, and regarded her papers.
“I’m glad you’re here, Mug,” she said, with a sigh. Meralda considered Mug’s aversion to travel and sought out a pair of his blue eyes. “What made you do it?”
“Well, what sort of assistant perches above the kitchen sink all day when his thaumaturge is off casting eldritch spells in the palace?” said Mug. “A poor one, that’s what,” he added, quickly. “So I decided a bit of traveling was in order, until this ordeal is done.” He tossed his leaves dismissively. “It’s not so bad, really, once one gets over the nausea, the vertigo, the feeling of one’s roots falling as the earth plummets away.”
Meralda shook her head. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” said Mug. “Now then. It looks like you’ve got the spellworks roughed out, if nothing else.”
“I do,” said Meralda. “All two hundred and forty-two of them.”
Mug was silent a moment. “One at a time, mistress,” he said. “Just like in college.” Mug poked forth a tendril and pointed at a diagram. “You’ll start here, will you?”
Meralda leaned back, and closed her eyes. It’s only sixteen days, she said, to herself. Sixteen more days.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll start there.” Just like college. One crisis at a time. “The latching spell will be the worst of all. Before I cast the real thing, though, I need to latch a quarter-scale version to the Tower, and hang a pair of refractors to that, and keep everything hung there a day and a night.” She opened her eyes. “If I hurry, I could latch and hang all three today, before sunset.” If, she added silently, that idiot king will leave me alone long enough to work.
Mug tapped the paper. “Spoken like a mage,” he said. “Shall I check over your math, just in case?”
“Please do,” said Meralda. She rose and spread her papers for Mug to see. “I’ll get started on the latch.”
Mug’s eyes poked between the wire bars of his bird cage, and he peered at papers and began to hum. By the time Meralda was at her work bench, Mug was issuing a perfect rendition of Sovett’s Music for the Night, including the hundred-voice chorus and the flute ensemble.
Meralda smiled, spoke a word, clamped a copper cable that ran up from the floor to the metal bench top, and put forth her Sight. Her work bench was suddenly lit with dozens of small glows and hanging traceries of light. The sharp silver tines of the five hundred year old charge dissipater bolted to the far end of the bench began to hiss and spit tiny sparks toward the ceiling.
She picked up a fresh holdstone. Then twisted the top, exposing the silver and gold contacts formed in the shapes of grinning dragon faces, and placed the holdstone down carefully on a sheet of oft-scorched felt. Then she found her favorite brass retaining wand amid the clutter, thought back to her calculations, and began to shape the latch.
At noon, a courier arrived, bearing a note from Yvin. “Be excused from the noon court session,” it read. Meralda smiled. It was already half-past. I excused myself, thank you very much. “But please send word on the status of your shadow spell. The Hang seem fascinated by the idea.”
The courier shuffled nervously from foot to foot, just outside the laboratory doors. Kervis and Tervis, Meralda noted, appeared to take no notice of the flashes and crackles that shone and sounded faintly at her back.
She turned the king’s paper over and pulled a pencil from behind her ear.
“Testing first spellworks today,” she wrote. “Will advise if test is successful.”
Good, she thought. It’s vague and worrisome, but absolutely true.
“Thank you,” she said, handing the message tray and paper back to the courier.
He turned and trotted away.
“Shall one of us fetch you some lunch, Thaumaturge?” Kervis asked.
“Do that,” replied Meralda. “Get some for yourselves, and wrap something up for Angis, too,” she said.
“Are we going to the Tower?” asked Tervis.
Meralda met his eyes. “To the Tower, yes,” she said. “But not up it. We’ll be working from the park today.”
Relief eased the features of both Bellringers’ faces. “Good,” said Tervis. “The night watch saw lights again last night.”
Meralda nodded, as if she knew. I’ve got to get a paper, she thought. Not that a word of it can be believed.
“That won’t concern us today,” she said. “If one of you will fetch us lunch, I’ll be ready to go when you return.”
“I’ll go,” said Tervis. He grinned slightly. “I’m sure the general here can’t carry food and his new siege piece.”
Kervis reddened. Meralda glanced down and to her right, at the crossbow propped against the wall, and realized this weapon was even larger than the monstrous Oldmark the boy had been carrying the day before.
“The armorer said it was the very latest weapon available,” said Kervis, airily. “It’s got twice the stopping power of an Oldmark.”
Meralda lifted her hand. “I’m sure it’s a formidable crossbow,” she said. “And I appreciate your zeal. Both of you.” She smiled. “Now then. Lunch? And then to the Tower?”
“We’ll be ready,” said Tervis. “Back in a bit.”
Meralda nodded, stepped back, and let the doors swing shut.
“What’s he got out there?” asked Mug. “A mule-drawn catapult?”
“Nearly,” said Meralda, softly. She made her way back to her work bench. “The lad seems to expect a surprise attack by armored assassins,” she added.
“He might do better to expect ghosts,” said Mug. Meralda pretended not to hear.
“Let’s see,” she said aloud. “I’ll need the holdstones, both retaining wands, the charger and the Riggin bottles.” She pulled her instrument bag from beneath the work bench and opened it. “What else?”
Mug reeled off more instruments and implements, and Meralda began to pack them carefully in her bag. More lights, she mused, as she worked. Unless news of the Hang overshadows the Tower, the papers will be full of news of the haunting.
Or worse, thought Meralda. Thus far, the papers had been content to play up the lights. But Meralda remembered something else she’d read, more than once, in old books about the Tower. The lights in the flat were also said to precede disaster for Tirlin.
Lights, Meralda recalled, were seen in the summer of 1566. In the autumn of that year, the Red Fever had swept through the Realms, taking half of Tirlin to the grave. The lights in 1714 preceded a great shaking of the ground which toppled two of the palace spires, destroyed half a city block in the Narrows, and sent the Lamp River running backwards for three days.
Dates and calamities raced through Meralda’s mind. She assured herself that many of the stories were no more than just stories, and tales of lights in the flat almost certainly sprang up well after the events.
Still, though, the lights in 1566 and the ones in 1714 were well documented, as were the calamities they were said to presage.
And yet the papers-even the Post-said nothing. Meralda wondered idly if Yvin had some control over the press after all.
“Mistress?” said Mug. “You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?”
Meralda looked up and smiled. “Constantly,” she said.
Mug snorted. “I was saying,” he said, in Mrs. Whitlonk’s voice, “that perhaps you ought to consider rummaging through this wizard’s treasure trove and picking out something small and lethal to carry. Surely some of these wondrous mighty magics have offensive uses.”
Meralda stared. “Have you been talking to Shingvere?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I hailed a cab and searched him out just this morning. We had coffee, and then went bowling.” Mug snorted. “Really, mistress, why would you think such a thing?”
Meralda went back to her packing. “It sounds very Eryan, this notion of walking about with military magics hidden in one’s pockets. Shingvere hasn’t been by to see you?”
“He has not,” said Mug. “And why is the notion of protecting oneself so outlandish? You cannot deny these are unusual times.”
Meralda placed a coil of copper rope in the bag, counted her glass insulating rings, and added another to the bag. “The best weapon is an alert mind.”
Mug moaned. “Fine. Throw that at the Vonats when what’s-his-name attacks with flaming tornadoes.”
Meralda closed her bag and frowned. “You have been talking to Shingvere.”
Mug sighed, long and loud. “I’m merely urging you to a bit of caution, mistress,” he said. “I hardly need the advice of foreign wizards to do that, now do I?”
Meralda hefted her bag. “I suppose not,” she said. “And I appreciate it. I’ll take measures if the need arises. Is that satisfactory?”
Mug tossed his leaves. “It will have to do.” His eyes whirled about the room. “Time to take another journey, I see.”
“You can stay here. Watch the mirror. Check my math.”
Mug gathered in his leaves. “No,” he said. “I go, too.”
Meralda walked to her desk and put down her instrument bag. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” said Mug. “Bed sheet, if you please. I’ll leave my dignity here.”
Meralda covered Mug’s cage and waited for Tervis to knock at her door.
The park was, if anything, more crowded than the day before. Schools had been let out, so in addition to the sightseers and the carpenters and the court officials, children of every age were about, darting past in screaming mobs, a harried, open-mouthed nanny or parent in determined, but futile pursuit.
The Alons, shirtless and bellowing, were also present, and quite a crowd was gathered to watch their football game. Food sellers wandered among the spectators, their calls of “Sausages! Apples! Hot rolls, hot rolls here!” nearly drowned out by the rush and thud of the madly charging Alons struggling on the field.
The stands about the Tower, mere skeletons and scaffolds just a few days ago, were quickly taking shape. Meralda chose to work from Yvin’s half-completed speaking platform, as it afforded a good view of the Tower and the park while keeping the press of the workers and the crowds from wandering too close. After commandeering a work table from the Builder’s Guild and convincing Mug that the barely perceptible breeze was hardly capable of leveling the platform, Meralda set to work.
Before she could latch to the Tower, she first had to raise and shape the spell. Mug helped, reeling off whole sections of her notes from memory while Meralda stored the sections in her wands, but even so the shaping of the latch was no quick task.
As the afternoon wore on, the crowd in the park grew larger. It looks like a sea of hats, Meralda noted, as the throngs milled about beneath her. It’s a good thing Tervis and Kervis are guarding the stair, or I’d be shoulder-to-shoulder up here.
Beyond the Tower, though, the crowds were not nearly so thick. In fact, a stone’s throw on the Tower’s backside, only carriage drivers and particularly naughty children idled in the sun on either side of the Wizard’s Walk. Past them, there was no one, save one lone child, and his bright yellow kite.
Meralda wiped her brow with a handkerchief, muttered a word, and held her retaining wand to a fresh holdstone. The wand crackled and spat as it charged, and as Meralda waited she watched the child.
Back and forth he ran, stout legs pumping. His yellow kite with its slanted red cat eyes and long red tail bumped off the grass behind him.
Meralda felt for any hint of a wind on her skin, but even from atop the king’s platform she felt none. It’s a beautiful day, she thought, but hardly a day for kites.
Still, the child ran on. He would start at the edge of the walk, then dash south, his right arm held high, his body leaning into his charge. He ran as far and as fast as he could, and when he began to falter, he would stop, pant for a moment, then gather his kite, wrap the tail carefully around his arm, and walk slowly back toward the walk. Then he would charge toward the west wall, all over again.
The holdstone emptied with a hiss and a brief blue flash. Inside the glass bottle, the silver and gold elements of the holdstone whirled, moving away from each other in a complex spiral as the spell energies escaped. When the coils were still, Meralda took the wand away, and Mug touched her wrist with a tendril.
“Ready for the next thread?” he asked.
Meralda smiled. It felt good, to be doing magic again. Even if it was magic for a questionable cause. “I’m ready,” she said. “Shall I turn to a fresh page?”
Mug agreed, and she took the sheet of architect’s paper from the top, slid it beneath the others, and replaced the emptied holdstones at the corners of the stack, in case a breeze blew past.
Mug began to read, and Meralda lifted her wand. The child began another mad dash across the grass. Meralda felt again for any hint of a breeze, but the air was still, and the kite darted and spun, but never flew.
The wand buzzed and crackled, holding the untethered spell threads to its mass as Meralda added yet another. To anyone watching with second sight, Meralda knew she would appear to be grasping a handful of glowing, windswept ropes, all writhing and tangling and knotting with their fellows. Only when she spoke the final word would the spell take shape and latch to the Tower. But to the crowds below, she appeared to be standing and muttering, a short brass wand held at eye level before her.
Another spell thread joined the rest. Meralda moved the retaining wand from her left hand to her right, and prepared for the next.
When she cast a glance toward the child and his kite, she saw that he was no longer alone. A man was waiting for him, as the boy marched wearily back to his starting place on the walk.
The man dropped to one knee, and the two spoke for a moment. Then the boy carefully unwrapped the kite’s tail from his arm and presented kite, tail, and ball of string to the man, who took them all before rising to his feet.
Time to go home, thought Meralda. It simply isn’t a day for kites.
Then, to Meralda’s surprise, the man bowed, lofted the kite, and charged onto the grass, following the same path the boy had taken so many times before.
Meralda watched, as did no small number of the cabbies and idlers on the walk. Arms went up, as fingers pointed, and though Meralda heard nothing she could imagine their laughter.
The man ran. No, that isn’t right, Meralda thought. The child ran, legs pumping, arms churning away madly at the air. This man was gliding.
Only his legs seemed to move. His chest barely rose, barely fell. He held his right arm up, playing out the string.
On and on he ran. He reached the point where the child had stopped and turned, and on he went, his gait increasing, his steps long and fast. Meralda nearly lost the latch, and when Mug snapped out “Mistress! Mind the spell!” she had to look away, and calm the wand.
When she cast her glance back toward the man, he was merely a dot against the green grass of the park. But the kite rose above him, the red cat eyes wheeling and darting, the tail coiling and snapping.
The faint sound of cheering rose up, and Meralda saw the cabbies and the idlers had risen to their feet, their laughter turned to cheers and shouts, and their hands uplifted. The boy danced and waved, his voice lifted with the rest.
The kite whirled and swooped, climbing and rising, playing in a wind Meralda still couldn’t feel. Soon, it, too, was merely a dot and a faint streak of tail.
The man turned and began to walk back toward the walk and the child. Meralda watched the far-off kite for a moment, expecting it to plummet at any moment. It remained aloft, straining at the string, snapping faintly from high above.
Meralda hung another thread by the time the man reached the child, who still danced with glee. The cabbies rose to their feet and gave the small man a final round of cheers and hoots. The man halted, bowed to the cabbies, placed the string gravely in the boy’s hand, and patted the child’s head once before the lad darted away, kite string in hand.
After a moment, the man put his hands in his pockets, turned his back to the Tower, and ambled away, alone on the walk.
Meralda watched him go while her wand recharged. Soon he reached the Old Oaks, and vanished beneath them, swallowed up by the distance and the dark beneath the boughs.
“What are you mooning about?” said Mug.
“Nothing,” said Meralda, turning back toward her makeshift work bench and Mug. “Just catching my breath.”
“Hmmph,” said Mug. He strained to lift a pair of green eyes over the rail.
Meralda ignored him, and hung another thread.
“That should be most of the primary latchwork,” said Mug, when she was done. “Good thing, too. Six bells.”
Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “Six o’clock? Already?”
“Time flies,” said Mug. Meralda hadn’t heard the Big Bell ring, but she realized Mug was right. The Tower’s shadow had engulfed the stands, and the air had gone damp and cool. I’ll do well to latch to the Tower today, Meralda realized, with a frown. The refractors will have to wait.
Her stomach growled. She walked to the head of the stair and shouted down to Kervis. “Guardsman,” she said, above the din. “Bring up a biscuit, will you?”
Kervis nodded and darted up. “Here you are,” he said, halting just below the top, a paper-wrapped biscuit held forth. “Nearly done, Thaumaturge?”
Meralda took the biscuit. “Nearly so,” she said. Kervis nodded in relief.
A crowd had gathered at the foot of the stair, and Meralda was surprised at how closely they pressed about Tervis. “Has it been like this long?” she asked, with a nod toward the ground.
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.