All the Paths of Shadow

leaped to their feet, and Mug even turned all his eyes toward the north, where the docks lay hidden behind the sprawling, twinkling heart of northwest Tirlin.

The first trumpet was joined by another, and then both began to play “Tirlin, Tirlin.” The faint sounds of cheering and the thump-thump of a Royal Guard kettle drum joined the song of welcome.

Meralda sat. The Bellringers moved to stand at the window.

“That’s a welcome to our shores, not a call to battle bloody,” said Mug. “Looks like the Hang are guests after all.”

“For tonight,” said Meralda. Hang and ghosts and Vonats tomorrow, she thought, but at least tonight we can sleep in peace.

“That’s the sound of history being made, lads,” said Mug. “Something I hoped never to hear.”

The Bellringers nodded, as one, and watched late at the window while the faint music played.

Chapter Seven

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