All the Paths of Shadow by Frank Tuttle

into a pocket within his overlarge Eryan robe. He looked toward the Bellringers and waved. “Hello, lads.”
    Tervis nodded to the Eryan. “Sir,” he said.
    Shingvere chuckled and winked at Meralda. “Got manners, anyway,” he said. “Ought to have been born Phendelits.”
    Meralda left the stair. “Mage,” she said, smiling. “Have you been waiting long? I’ve been with the king.”
    “Aye, I know all about that,” said Shingvere. “His Majesty made a big show out of your shadow moving project with Ambassador Elkins and my queen after you left this morning. ‘Moving out of the shadow of the past,’ he called it. I haven’t heard such drivel since I retired.”
    Meralda winced. Yvin had used the same words with her, when she arrived back at court. “Tell me what you need, Thaumaturge,” he’d said. “I want you to make moving the Tower’s shadow a priority. Whatever you need, you shall have.”
    Time, Meralda had wanted to shout. Time is what I need. But with his next breath Yvin had casually swatted away a handful of days by reminding Meralda that as Thaumaturge she would need to officially greet and tour the visiting mages. And then the audience had been over. Meralda remembered walking dumbfounded through the Gallery, nearly in tears. Not since Last Readings at college had she felt so stretched, so overwhelmed. And at that moment she’d looked up to see a thousand painted kings staring down upon her, and she’d nearly fled the gallery at a run.
    Shingvere levered himself away from the wall and moved to stand beside Meralda. “Might I step inside for a wee bit?” he asked, gesturing with a nod at the laboratory doors. “We’ve got things to discuss, and it wouldn’t do for any invisible wizards who might be passing by to hear.”
    “You’re as bad as Mug,” muttered Meralda, as she found her key and walked to the doors.
    Shingvere followed. “How is the animated salad, these days?” he asked.
    “Fine,” said Meralda, turning the lock. “He’ll want to see you, when you can.”
    The doors opened, and while the Bellringers took up their stations Meralda calmed the wards with a word. Shingvere peeped inside, casting his gaze about appreciatively. “You’ve done a bit of tidying up, you have,” he said, as the wards collapsed with rustlings and a high-pitched whine.
    Meralda stepped inside. “Lights,” she said.
    Her glass lamps flared to life. Shingvere whistled and followed her inside. “Amazing,” he said. “Bloody amazing.” He moved to stand beneath the nearest ring of fat glass and bent his head back, squinting. “And you say those aren’t magelamps?”
    Meralda found a smile. “Merely hollow tubes, filled with a peculiar gas,” she said. She pointed to a spark coil, humming in the corner. “The coils excite the gasses, even at a distance. That’s what creates the light. There isn’t a spell involved, except within the spark coils.”
    Shingvere smiled. “Lass, you’re smarter than Fromarch and I put together, and that’s not Eryan flattery.”
    Meralda flushed. The big old scrying mirror flashed red behind its blanket. Shingvere ambled toward it, gazing about and touching things as he went. “Go on about your business, lass.” said Shingvere, over his shoulder. “I’ll talk. You can listen.”
    “I always do,” said Meralda. She walked past Phillitrep’s Engine, patted its brass gear case, and straightened the drawings on her desk before pulling out her chair and sitting.
    The Eryan’s voice rose up from behind the ranks of glittering mageworks. “I’ve met the other mages,” he said. “You’ve got Red Mawb, Mage of the Isles, and Dorn Mukirk, Mage of Clan Mukirk coming to see you today. Mawb hates Clan Mukirk in general and Dorn Mukirk specifically and Mukirk feels much the same about his counterpart from the Isles. Both claim the other is an upstart conjurer with no right to take the title Mage to Alonya, and that’s about the nicest thing they’ve