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.
She took a deep breath, pushed the old iron key into the worn old lock, and turned it.
The lock clicked. Meralda put her hand on the latch and pulled the door open. She saw only the shelves of artifacts through the open door.
She took the key from the lock, put it in her pocket, and stepped through the door and onto Hopping Way.
Blinking, Meralda stepped down the three worn stone steps that led from the weather-beaten door at her back. A tabby cat looked up at her with impassive green eyes and then padded away, tail flicking.
Pedestrians hurried past. None stared or drew back or even paused for a second glance. Whatever spells Finch employed, thought Meralda, they were subtle.
Meralda remained on the last step, looking for landmarks or any sign of Donchen or the three wizards. There, just four buildings down, she recognized the whipping flag of the Royal Post Office, and she realized she was perhaps a full city block ahead of Donchen and his erstwhile entourage.
Which puts me practically next door to the Vonats, she thought. The silver letter opener felt very small and dull in her hand. What if Finch’s Door revealed my presence?
The Hang pointer in her pocket made a soft clicking sound. Meralda withdrew it, opened the case, and watched as the needle swung to face a point toward the Vonat compound.
The numbers in the dials whirled and finally settled. Meralda recalled Donchen’s voice as he had counted aloud in Hang, pointing to each character as he spoke.
Five hundred and forty feet. The spell caster was only five hundred and forty feet from where she stood. Which meant Fromarch and Shingvere were only five hundred and forty feet from rushing headlong into the fringes of a Vonat spell.
Meralda darted off the step, nimbly fell in step behind a Phendelit flower girl, and headed toward Donchen.
As she walked, a pair of shadows fluttered past. Crows?
Meralda put her head down and hurried past the flower girl.
Donchen was indeed concealing his almond-shaped eyes and inky black hair behind a charm. The spell lent him the appearance of a weary Eryan dock worker, complete with battered felt cap and sooty, calloused hands from handling dirigible mooring ropes.
But the spell failed to extend to his soft-soled shoes. Meralda spotted them instantly, gliding down the sidewalk, and she put herself square in his path.
He stopped, his bearded Eryan face breaking into a wide grin.
“You’re being followed,” said Meralda, before he could speak. She caught his elbow and guided him off the sidewalk and into the doorway of a cigar shop.
“Really? What an amazing day I’m having. By whom?”
“Loman. And mages Shingvere and Fromarch. They’re even sharing a cab.”
Donchen sighed and rubbed his face. His hand passed through the specter of his beard. “Marvelous. Do you think our spell casting friend has spotted them yet? He’s trying to transport a rather large spell, by the way. Where to, I have no idea.”
“I know.” Meralda wished Donchen was wearing his own face. “It’s aimed at the Tower. I’ll know more once it’s latched. But for now, I need to keep Fromarch and Shingvere as far away from the Vonats as possible. They’ll detect it, too, and there’s no telling what they might do.”
“Something involving a massive explosion, I surmise.” Donchen put a finger to his chin. “I don’t think anyone has seen me. Shall I go on ahead, see what I can see?”
Meralda nodded. “Go. I’ll turn the mages around. But do be careful, won’t you?”
“I am a ghost,” said Donchen, with a smile. “As such, I have little to fear.”
And he sauntered out of the doorway, and vanished into the crowd.
Meralda resisted an urge to watch him go. “Your shoes,” she called, not knowing if he heard, or understood.
Then she whirled and made her way up the street in the opposite direction, darting to the edge of the sidewalk so she could see oncoming cabs well before they passed.
“We almost ran you over,” growled Fromarch.
“What you almost did was ride headlong into a Vonat spell,” said Meralda, forcing herself to keep her voice lowered to whisper. “And you waving the Infinite Latch around! What do you think might have happened if the Vonat had decided to hurl something your way?”
“We’d have ruined a room or two, what with all those stinking Vonat ashes,” said Shingvere, waggling a finger at Meralda. “We’re hardly first years, you know. I have done a bit of magic in my time.”
Meralda hushed him with a furious gesture. All around them, bemused diners looked on, forks paused in mid-raise, ears turned and listening.
Loman, the elderly Hang wizard, laughed to himself as he tried to wrap Phendelit noodles around his fork.