All the Paths of Shadow (36 page)

“But not the dead and buried sort? No rising from the grave or feasting on the blood of the living?” Mug stared hard at Donchen with all twenty-nine of his eyes. “Because we take a dim view of those sorts of goings-on here in Tirlin.”

Donchen laughed. “I assure you, Mug, I neither rise from the grave nor feast on blood. I much prefer feather beds and vegetables.”

“A ghost.” Meralda searched his eyes for any hint of deceit. “So your Mighty Dragon has no idea you’re speaking with me?”

“I am
sohata
, Mage Ovis. I walk unseen. My only voice the wind. The tradition is ancient and much venerated. Even private speculation concerning a ghost is believed to invite a bewildering variety of dooms.”

That actually makes sense,
thought Meralda.
No wonder he seems to do as he pleases. I could certainly use a year or two as a ghost myself.

“You say you followed the Alon?”

“I did,” said Donchen. “Though I suspect he was no more Alon than you or Mug or I. He was using a charm of concealment to alter his appearance. You suspected this too, did you not?”

Meralda nodded. She didn’t glance toward Goboy’s glass, but she knew the Tower was listening.

“I fear the charm employed the magic of my homeland,” said Donchen, frowning. “For that, I apologize.”

Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “Only a person with Sight could even detect magic,” she said. “And only one with talent and training could identify it.”

Donchen laughed and spread his hands. “I make no claims to any great prowess in the arts,” he said. “But I do have some small knowledge. As a
sohata
, I have spent hours looking over Loman’s shoulders. I may even have pocketed a trinket or two.” He grinned and reached into his pockets with both hands.

“Why, look here,” he said, placing two small objects on either side of his empty plate. “I can’t imagine how these came to fall in my pockets.”

Mug immediately aimed a cluster of eyes at each small device.

One appeared to be a small brass compass, the lid flipped open to reveal a needle, tipped in red, pointing steadily at the laboratory doors. But when Meralda looked closer, she saw that the face of the dial lacked any markings for directions. Instead, a pair of brass wheels, each worked with tiny Hang symbols, moved and spun according to workings she couldn’t see.

The other device resembled a perfume bottle, complete with an elegant spray bulb. The glass was crystal, cut with ornate designs and gilded with delicate gold filigree.

“Hang ghosts have sticky fingers,” observed Mug. “I’m beginning to like you after all.”

“What are these?” asked Meralda, resisting the urge to pick them up and inspect them closer. “And why have you brought them to me?”

Donchen smiled. “This,” he said, picking up the compass, “is a very simple device which will point out spellworks. Hang spellworks, I mean. Most of the arcane traditions of the Realms simply won’t register, which is why the needle is ignoring the many wonders housed here and is instead pointing that way. South, isn’t it? Well, our ships are docked south of here, and I’m sure that accounts for some of the indication. But see these dials? This one indicates distance. This one denotes intensity.”

Donchen offered the device to Meralda, and she took it.

The needle pointed toward the door, and the tiny wheels spun and whirled.

“Those characters are numbers,” said Donchen. “I’ll scribble them and their Kingdom counterparts down for you before I go. We measure feet in nearly the same way. I’ll leave figures for that too.”

He picked up the bottle, and placed it carefully in Meralda’s hand.

“This is a more, um, active magic,” he said. “I hope you don’t find a need for it. But, if you should find yourself facing hostile persons again, spray them with this. You’ll find they cannot hide from you afterward, no matter where they run, no matter what spells they employ. If you see them again, you will know.”

Meralda regarded the bottle carefully. It was nearly full of a clear liquid, and though the beveled edges of the cuts and the gold filigree made seeing inside it difficult, it seemed as though something moved deep within it.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a magic sword in a pocket somewhere, do you?” asked Mug. “Something a little more martial than a squirt of water to the nose?”

“Perhaps next time.” Donchen rose and stretched. “I feel the need for a walk, Mage Ovis. I think I’ll amble about your fair city for a bit. Perhaps I’ll take in some new sights. What neighborhood would you suggest I visit, pray tell?”

Meralda rose and smiled. “I hear the area between Dorleigh and Ventham streets is interesting this time of year. You might even see a Vonat or two there, though I understand they try to keep out of sight.”

Donchen nodded. “We’ll just see how talented they are at that, won’t we?” He bowed, tossed Mug a salute, and gathered up empty plates and dirty silverware.

“I’m sure we’ll speak again soon, Mage Ovis,” he said.

Meralda pulled his serving cart by her desk and helped him clear away the remains of the meal.

“I’m sure we will, Mr. Donchen,” she said.

“Please. I am
sohata
. Call me Donchen. No one will hear.”

“Only if you call me Meralda.” Meralda blushed, for no reason she could determine.

Mug groaned and pretended to suffer a sudden attack of blight.

“You’re going to trust him? Just like that?”

“Did I tell him about the Tower? Did I tell him anything he didn’t already know?” Meralda stood, glared, and began to pace. “Perhaps you failed to notice he’s been more than forthcoming, Mug. Far more than I.”

“I think you’re succumbing to his otherworldly charms,” said Mug. “I think—”

“I found no evidence of dissembling on the part of the young man,” said the Tower.

“Oh, what do you know? You yourself admitted you hadn’t had a simple conversation in a thousand years. Now you’re an expert at sizing up strangers?”

The Tower had no reply.

Meralda shook her head.
I wonder if Mug is right. I do like Donchen. There’s something genuine under that self-deprecating humor.

“Oh, he’s a smooth talker, all right,” muttered Mug. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we know nothing about him other than what he tells us. Which he could be making up on the spot, for all we know.”

“I don’t think so, Mug. He’s offered to help, which I need. So until he gives me a reason to distrust him, I’m not going to start.”

“Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when he turns out to be a Vonat in disguise.”

Meralda glared. Mug tossed his leaves and glared back.

“Tower. Can you follow Donchen, watch what he does?”

“With ease.” The scene in the mirror flashed, became a crow’s eye view of the Hang as he pushed his serving cart back toward the kitchen.

Donchen smiled at the people he met in the halls, spoke to some, laughed with some. The image in the glass was silent, and Meralda found herself wishing she could hear what was said.

“Good thinking, mistress,” said Mug. “I’ll keep eyes on him while you work.”

The image of Donchen shrank until it occupied only half the glass. In the other, a drawing appeared, depicting the Tower and the damaged curseworks which spun atop it.

Meralda sank back into her chair.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s start with the very first spell your master latched when he laid the curseworks. I need to know everything I can about the core of it, please.”

The image in the glass shimmered. Some of it fell away, leaving only a whirling, tangled mass of fine lines spinning slowly against the dark.

“Observe,” said the Tower. “There are four thousand, nine hundred, and fourteen elements. Each is independent of the other…”

The Tower droned on. Mug watched Donchen leave the palace. Meralda covered three pages of drawing paper with notes and sketches. Donchen ambled down crowded city streets, his hands in his pockets, his lips pursed in a carefree whistle.

Meralda called for coffee. Mug watched Donchen idle in front of stores, chat with strangers, wait and move with crowds as they were waved across streets by traffic masters.

“He’s using magic of some sort,” muttered Mug. “No one seems to notice he’s Hang.”

Meralda nodded, her pencil scratching across the page.

“It is a minor charm of concealment,” said the Tower. “Phendelit in nature.”

Mug imitated a derisive snort. “Stolen, then.”

“Are you talking, Mug, or watching?”

“Both, mistress.” Mug fell silent, his eyes intent on the glass.

Donchen stopped to speak with a skirted Eryan flower girl. He spoke. She laughed. He produced a coin, and she produced a yellow rose. Donchen took it and walked away smiling.

“Bet that’s for you,” whispered Mug.

And then Donchen rounded a corner. The image in the glass shifted, moving to keep the Hang centered in the glass.

As Donchen rounded the corner, he vanished.

Mug whistled and aimed a dozen suddenly rigid vines at the glass.

“Mistress!” he shouted. “He’s gone!”

Meralda looked up, frowning.

The street scene in the glass turned back and forth, as though searching. Passers-by walked past, but Donchen was nowhere to be seen.

“Impressive,” said the Tower.

“Impossible,” sputtered Mug. “Mistress, he’s made himself invisible!”

Meralda put her pencil down. “That’s not possible, Mug.”

“Then where is he?”

“He is precisely where he should be,” said the Tower. “Observe.”

The image shimmered. Meralda watched as pedestrians walked the sidewalk, and then she smiled.

“The people on the street can still see him, Mug,” she said, pointing at the glass. “Watch. They’re stepping aside. Slowing or speeding up to let him pass. It’s just us who can’t see him, because we’re using a spell.”

“Indeed. But see here.” The Tower paused, and the glass flickered, and Donchen was once again walking down a crowded sidewalk. “I have adjusted for his spell.”

Mug turned eyes toward Meralda. “That’s no Phendelit spell he’s using, is it, Tower?”

“It is not. I have not seen the like of it before. I surmise it is Hang.”

“I’ll bet a donut Mr. Fancy Pants knew you’d try to watch him, mistress,” said Mug. “A bit out of character, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s the Vonats he’s hiding from, Mug, and you know it. He has no idea we’re watching him too.”

“I agree with the mage,” said the Tower. “What a fascinating method of spell construction he employed.”

“I’ll want to see it too, when we’re done here.” Meralda rubbed her eyes. “If we’re ever done here.”

Mug groaned suddenly. “Oh, no,” he said.

Meralda looked to the glass again.

Shingvere darted out of a shop, watched Donchen for a moment, and waved to someone inside. An instant later, Fromarch appeared and joined the other wizard before both began to march down the street behind Donchen.

Mug shook his leaves. “This will not end well,” he said, as the two elderly wizards struggled to keep up with Donchen’s leisurely pace. “A pair of trumpet sounding trolls would be less conspicuous.”

The Tower spoke. “Another attempt is being made to latch a spell to my structure. I believe Donchen has detected its origin. He appears to be heading directly for it.”

“Can you deflect this one too?”

“Easily. I believe it best if I allow it to latch, though. Doing so will prevent further, possibly more damaging, attempts.”

A cab pulled to the curb beside Shingvere and Fromarch. A frail arm, clad in a loose white sleeve, beckoned to the wizards from the cab’s suddenly opened door.

The image in the glass shifted, revealing a brief image of the side of the cab.

Loman, the Hang mage, grinned from inside. He spoke briefly, and Shingvere and Fromarch exchanged shrugs and then heaved themselves into the cab, which pulled back into traffic, pacing Donchen.

Meralda bit back an Angis word. The retired mages were known to most of Tirlin and all of Vonath. Donchen might be wearing a Tirlish face, but anyone looking for curious eyes on the street will certainly see the mages, and probably wonder about the man they seem to be following.

“Well, that does it,” said Mug. “Nothing good ever came of that many wizards sneaking about.”

“Tower,” said Meralda. “Can you communicate with either Donchen or that bunch of meddlesome wizards?”

The Tower was silent for a moment.

“Doing so now will risk alerting any hostile practitioners in the area. Might I suggest an alternative?”

“Please.”

“Finch’s Movable Door.”

Meralda shook her head. “We only have one of the pair. The other was burned in the palace fire.”

“Mage Finch made three. He had a mistress on what is now Hopping Way. The third door still stands, and the third key is hidden beneath Mitter’s Hand of Letters.”

“This is a very bad idea, mistress!”

Meralda rummaged through her desk. Pencils, pens, rulers. But there, in the top drawer, was a silver letter opener she’d received at commencement and hadn’t touched since.

It wasn’t as big as a dagger, but it would have to suffice.

“Oh, at least take the incinerator!”

“And ignite a dozen pedestrians, or burn down the entire block?” Meralda sighed. “Tower. What aisle, what shelf?”

“Aisle five, halfway down, fourth shelf from the bottom. I suggest you take a stool.”

“Wisdom of the ages and the best he can suggest is a bloody stool,” muttered Mug.

“The spell is latching to my structure now,” said the Tower. “I will allow it. The spell caster is now at their most vulnerable. I suggest equal measures of haste and caution. I will be unable to communicate while I observe the latching. Fare thee well, Mage.”

Meralda hiked up her skirts and ran.

Key in hand, Meralda faced Finch’s Movable Door.

It leaned against the shelves. It was scuffed and dusty and the right side of it was charred nearly black. But the keyhole was intact, and the latch above it was whole.

“Mistress!” shouted Mug. “At least take a Bellringer!”

Oh, that won’t attract any attention,
thought Meralda.
No. This I do alone.