All the Paths of Shadow

“Make it appear as if your shadow moving spell goes wrong?”

Meralda nodded, her jaw clamped too tight to speak. They mean to kill a great many people as Yvin gives his speech, she thought. The Hang delegation among them. Ruin the Accords, infuriate the Hang, leave the Realms divided and weak. And all of it blamed squarely on her. On the female Tirlish mage, who had no business ever donning the robes in the first place.

Mug rolled a dozen eyes. “They don’t know about the curseworks, though.”

“No. Otherwise they’d simply have attacked them directly, and in secret.”

Mug shivered. He looked toward the mirror, watched as Donchen released another yellow butterfly, and muttered an Angis word.

“Mistress, what are we going to do?”

Meralda’s pencil lead broke. She rose.

“Nameless. Faceless. Right here, right now.”

Mug went wide-eyed.

From the rear of the laboratory, amid the shadows and glittering and whirring and hissing, came the sound of fluttering wings. A pair of dark shapes darted down from the ceiling, and came to rest on either side of Meralda before assuming the forms of two rough hewn lengths of ironwood.

“I am not, nor will I ever be, your master, or his equal.” Meralda swallowed, searching for her next words. They’re as likely to strike me down as they are to agree, she thought. But if I’m going up against the entire Vonat nation and who knows how much of the Hang, I need them.

“Tower believes your master would not want this place laid waste by his hand,” she said. “You either agree, or you do not. If you do, I ask for your help now. Not for me. Not even for Tirlin. But in deference to your master, who is fallen, but whose wishes nevertheless remain unfulfilled.” She raised her hands, not quite touching the staves, but only a hand’s breadth from them.

“What say you, Nameless, Faceless?”

“Mistress, I wouldn’t…”

Meralda took each staff in her hand.

The laboratory fell silent, save for the gentle clicking of Phillitrep’s Engine.

The staves were cool and unmoving in Meralda’s grasp.

“Well, I’ll be mowed and pruned,” said Mug, after a while. “Congratulations, mistress. Tim the Horsehead just turned green with envy.”

Meralda took a deep breath, and hoped the staves couldn’t feel her shiver.

“Find the Vonat mage Humindorus Nam,” she said. “I want one of you watching him at all times. See that you aren’t observed yourselves. Can you project images into the mirror?”

The mirror flashed, showing a brief reflection of Meralda holding the staves.

“Good. I want to know where he is and what he’s doing, starting right now. Show him when I ask. Show him even when I don’t if he does anything interesting. Go.”

The staves became blurs. With the sound of flapping wings, they vanished into the Mirror.

Meralda let out her breath in a long exhalation.

“That was brave,” said the Tower. “Very brave indeed.”

Meralda mopped sweat from her forehead and grinned. “Is the spell latched?”

“It is. I am now attempting to determine its nature. Part of the structure is Vonat in nature. Part is unknown to me.”

“Hang.”

“Most likely. I overheard your conversation with the construct. You believe this spell is offensive in nature.”

“The construct’s name is Mug,” said the dandyleaf plant.

“I do,” said Meralda. “Designed to release in tandem with my shadow spell.”

“Ingenious.”

“Is it doing further damage to the curseworks?”

“No. I was able to adjust the latching point. That, at least, is not a concern.”

“Hurrah for small miracles,” said Meralda. She sighed, glared at her empty coffee cup, and looked wearily toward the door.

“Mug, please watch the glass. Tower, I need a way to speak to you beyond this room. I assume there are other artifacts you have trifled with, over the years?”

“Fourteen, to be exact. All designed for observation, but two will suffice for communication. Tulip’s Talking Jewel, and Montrop’s Singing Flame.”

“You’re a nosy old barn, aren’t you?” said Mug.

“The jewel, then. It should fit in my pocket. Aisle four, isn’t it? Shelf, um, sixteen?”

“Just so.”

Meralda marched off to fetch the jewel, and Mug turned his worried eyes back toward the glass.

“The sticks just sent word about Nam,” said Mug, his voice squeaky and barely audible from the Jewel. “He’s using some kind of fancy concealment spell. Tower thinks it might be Hang. The sticks think they can break it, but he’ll probably notice if they do.”

Meralda frowned and lifted the jewel close to her lips, covering it with her hand and pretending to stifle a sneeze.

“Tell them to wait,” she said. “Tell them to stay close to the Vonat rooms. See if they can get a count of the people inside. But only if they can do so without being seen.”

Meralda could hear Mug relaying the instructions to the Tower.

Her open topped cab pitched and bounced. Her cabman glanced back over his shoulder and smiled at her before quickly turning his attention back toward the busy street.

“Done,” said Mug. “Donchen is gone, by the way. Heading back to the palace, on foot. If he shows up here, what do I tell the Bellringers to tell him?”

“Ask him to meet me for a late supper,” said Meralda. “In the lab.”

“Ooooo,” replied Mug. “Shall I order flowers and violins?”

Meralda rolled her eyes and shoved the jewel deep into her pocket.

My feet ache, she thought. She’d used Finch’s Door again to sneak out of the laboratory, hailing the first cab she saw after stepping onto Hopping Way. If the Vonats could sense the door opening, she knew she was undone. But old Finch’s handiwork was nothing if not subtle. Even the Tower had marveled at its silence, in strictly magical terms.

And if the Vonats are watching me, it’s best they see the Bellringers by my doors and think I’m still inside. Especially given where I’m heading, and what I’m about to do, she thought.

What I’m about to do. Is this the right thing? Am I saving Tirlin, or dooming it?

I wonder if Tim the Horsehead ever wondered that very thing.

Probably, Meralda decided. After all, Tim’s exploits were rather more desperate than mine.He was lucky, more often than not.

I wonder if someday, some mage will say the same about me.

“We’re here, ma’am,” said the cabman, urging his ponies to a halt.

Meralda stepped out of the cab, placed a handful of coins into the man’s palm, and hurried up the steps and into the shade of Fromarch’s red brick house.

Fromarch himself met her at his door. “Took you long enough.” He shoved a bottle of Nolbit’s in her hand. “We’re all here, Mage. I reckon you’ve got things to tell us.”

Meralda took a long draught of the beer. “That I do, she said. “And you’d best lock the door.”

“So the Tower is haunted after all,” said Shingvere.

In the middle of the room, a single candle burned. Fromarch’s tiny sitting room was midnight dark, and with all the windows shuttered and bolted the air was hot and stale. Meralda could barely make out the three wizards who faced her, and could read nothing in their faces.

Beside the candle sat a crude contrivance of wood and glass, which hummed and buzzed and sometimes spat