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 said so far.” Something flashed and popped, and the Eryan yelped, but before Meralda could rise he was speaking again.
“The Phendelits are sending-oh, what is his name?”
“Erdrath Yonk,” said Meralda. “I met him at college.” She put down her pencil and smiled. “He turned his hair green in First Year, and it was nearly Third before he turned it back again,” she said.
Shingvere snorted. “Aye, he’s Mage to Phendeli now.” Another flash cast brief shadows against the walls, and Shingvere made a pair of sprinting steps before speaking again.
“’Tis the Vonat I want to speak to you about, Thaumaturge,” said Shingvere. “Humindorus Nam.”
Meralda frowned. “I’ve heard the stories,” she said. “They’re the same tired old tales told about every Vonat mage, and we both know they can’t all be true.”
“You’re right,” said Shingvere. “Most of what you’ve heard about the other Vonat mages wasn’t true. But everything you’ve heard about this one is.” Shingvere paused. “And believe me, Thaumaturge, you haven’t heard the worst.”
Meralda looked up from her page of Tower calculations and sought out Shingvere.
“You’ll be wanting to be careful around him, Thaumaturge,” said Shingvere, from well behind the silvery ball of ice-cold water that hung suspended above Allabat’s Flying Plates. “Especially when he’s smiling. Aye. Especially then.”
The water blurred, and Shingvere’s form appeared within it. Small and upside down at first, but growing quickly larger until his distorted face filled the barrel-sized sphere. “Boo,” he said, with a grin.
Meralda shook her head. “Shingvere,” she began.
The Eryan raised a hand and darted from behind the Flying Plates. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve wasted quite enough of your time, lass. Just wanted to pass on a bit of friendly advice, and poke about the old place a bit before court.” He ambled back to Meralda’s desk, hands in his pockets.
“I’ll be careful,” said Meralda, when Shingvere was near. “I know enough about this Nam to leave him be,” she said. “Not that I can’t knock him flat, if the need arises.”
Shingvere nodded gravely, and laid his hand lightly on Meralda’s shoulder. “Oh, it will,” he said, no hint of humor in his tone. “And when the time comes, Meralda, my dear, remember this. Right after you knock Nam flat you’ll need to kill him. Quickly.”
Meralda blinked. “Shingvere?”
“You heard me, lass. It’s a hard thing to say, and a hard thing to hear, but hear it you must, and heed it you must. Kill him. Mercy would be wasted. Hesitation will be fatal. Kill him quick. You won’t get two chances.” And then the fat Eryan turned and was through the doors and gone. Meralda barely had time to utter the word of leaving, and then the doors were shut.
Meralda stared after him, and it was a long time before she was able to pick up her pencil and resume work on her shadow moving spell.
Shingvere sauntered past the Bellringers with a quick word and the offer of a penny-stick to each. Both declined, and both kept their eyes alert and on the Hall, which meant neither saw the bulge under the front of the Eryan wizard’s robe or noticed the odd gait he took down the stairs.
At the foot of the west stair, Shingvere stopped, looked furtively about, and hitched at his robes when the Red Guards at the Burnt Door looked away. “That’s better,” he muttered. Then he found a grin and managed to walk without hopping all the way through the west wing, out the west doors, and half a block down Palace Way to Fromarch’s plain black carriage.
The curbside carriage door opened, and Shingvere darted inside.
Fromarch scowled at him through a thick fog of purple pipe smoke. “Well,” he said, knocking twice on the carriage with his knuckles. “Did you get it?”
Shingvere grinned. “You know I did,” he said, unfastening the front of his robe and reaching inside. “Walked right up to it and stuck it in my britches. Walked right out, too. No wonder you Tirls have got Hang in your palace. You wouldn’t amble out so easily at Cloudcrown.”
Fromarch grunted. The carriage wheeled into the street just as Shingvere pulled a solid brass cylinder out of his robe and held it up with a flourish.
“Mage Prolep’s Infinite Latch,” he said. Then he lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
Fromarch spoke a word. The cylinder, which was nearly long enough to stretch from fingertip to elbow and about as thick as a big man’s wrist, made three sharp clicking noises
On the third click it doubled its length. Shingvere yelped, but kept his grip.
“That’s it, all right,” said Fromarch. He whispered another word, and the cylinder noiselessly and instantly resumed its original size. Fromarch nodded approvingly. “That’s old, dark Tirlish magic,” he said, wistfully. “Mage Ovis has no use for it. But perhaps you and I do.”
Shingvere shut his mouth. “This Prolep,” he said. “Knew his business, did he?”
Fromarch shrugged. “He knew latches,” he said. “Otherwise, he was quite mad.” Fromarch tapped the latch with the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a bit unpredictable, but we can latch spells to it all day and never run out of latching mass.” The lean mage laughed without smiling. “Certain ugly Vonats might find this surprising in a brief, unpleasant way.”
“’Ere, hold on,” said Shingvere. “You just used the word unpredictable. Odd that you didn’t mention it earlier, when you talked me into pilfering a foreign king’s palace. So, unpredictable to what extent?” The Eryan frowned. “And why have I never heard of this Prolep?”
Fromarch shrugged. “Sometimes it unlatches all its spells at once,” he said. “And that’s why you’ve never heard of Prolep.”