All The Turns of Light (26 page)

“I doubt that,” He tapped the image in Goboy’s Glass, which showed the towering mass of blue-black clouds swelling and growing as the
Intrepid
sped toward them. “We’re flying right into that, aren’t we?”

“Show me the view aft,” Meralda said, to the Glass. “Find the dark smudge on the sky.”

The image whirled. Blue sky swapped with storm clouds, calm seas for whitecaps. The Glass searched the sky, the image moving to and fro, until it found the spot of darkness well above the horizon and the trail of dark vapor left in its wake.

“Get as close as you can,” Meralda said.

The black smudge grew until it was the size of Meralda’s balled fist.

Vapor clung to the dark mass. Whip-like growths covered the thing, each lashing and grasping at the air within the vapor cloud. The swollen bulk pulsated and heaved, as though hurling itself bodily through the air.

Meralda’s cabin went suddenly dark, as the
Intrepid
plunged inside the vast bank of clouds.

“Let it be known I do not like this one bit,” Mug said.

“Let’s hope they like it less,” Meralda said. “Tower? We’re under attack. If Amorp hid anything in that crate, I need to know about it right now.”

The Glass went black. Words crawled across, some of the letters missing or repeated, but the message from Tower was clear enough.

“Inscribed on bottom of cup:

Bright but not light

Roar but no throat

Strikes but no fists

Burns but no flame

Flies but no wings

What is my name?

Advise?” wrote Tower.

“Do you know where Amorp is buried, Mistress?” asked Mug.

“On Memorial Hill, I imagine. Why does that matter?”

“Because if we make it home I want to dig up his shinbone and hit him on the head with it,” replied Mug. “Riddles? We don’t have time for riddles!”

“What we don’t have is a choice. Bright but not light. Roar but no throat.”

“Strikes but no fists,” Mug said, some of his eyes turning to stare into the others. “Mistress, that was too easy.”

“Lightning,” Meralda said. “What else can it be?”

She tapped Goboy’s Glass. “Tower. The answer to the riddle is the word lightning. Can you have the word spoken aloud over the crate?”

Words crawled across the glass. “Will report immediately after.”

Mug spoke. “Mistress, do you have any idea what he hid in that crate?”

“No idea at all,” she said. “But he was determined I find it. It must be something useful.”

Mug’s eyes boggled. “You’re not even going to tell me how you knew about the crate in the first place, are you?”

She shivered thinking of the walk through Shadow. “Perhaps someday.”

“Done,” wrote Tower upon the glass. “To no effect.”

“Are you sure?” Meralda rubbed her head. The riddle ran through her mind, but she saw no hidden meanings, no veiled secret twists. “Lightning fits perfectly. What else could it be?”

“Why hide things at all?” demanded Mug. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Meralda said. “I read it in his notebooks. Amorp refused to build weapons. He hid research that he knew would be turned against people.”

“If that’s true, why bother with this riddle business? We need a weapon, Mistress. An improved self-folding pillowcase isn’t going to scare the black death off.”

“Perhaps he did create a weapon,” Meralda said. “Created it, then hid it, against some dark day.”

The
Intrepid
pitched as the ship slipped from one wall of wind into another. Lightning arced nearby, followed an instant later by a peal of thunder that Meralda felt deep in her chest.

“Days don’t get much darker,” muttered Mug. “Mistress, I hate to mention this, but even if we figure out what the crate is hiding, it’ll still be in Tirlin and we’ll still be —”

Lightning flashed again, and thunder roared again.

“—here,” finished Mug.

Mug’s leaves whipped and waved. He swung all his eyes toward Meralda.

“We’re both donkeys,” he said. “Donkeys, I tell you. It wasn’t a riddle at all. Just a bit of Mage humor. The last line, Mistress. That’s the only one that matters.”

Meralda stared at the words on the glass.

What is my name?

Meralda groaned. “Of course it’s his name! He told me where to look. Anyone else finding the crate could try and solve the riddle forever, if they pleased. Without knowing who stored the crate, they’d never discover its secrets! You’re right,” she said. “I should have seen it too. Tower. Speak the name Amorp over the crate, and report.”

“As you wish,” wrote Tower, the letters shaking and jumbled.

“You would have figured it out in a moment,” Mug said. “Keep in mind I’ve got more experience being around Mages, while you have experience
being
a Mage. I know how Mages think. The man simply couldn’t resist the urge to have his name spoken one last time.”

“Am I that bad, Mug?”

“Oh, it’ll take years, but you’ll get there,” Mug said, cheerily.

“Done,” wrote Tower. “There is activity.”

“Activity?” Meralda asked.

“Various devices and artifacts are mobilizing,” wrote Tower. “Scores of them. Barfet’s Capable Mender. Alaford’s Deft Hands. Carp’s Meticulous Assembler.”

“Never mind the guest list,” Mug said. “Tell us what they’re doing.”

“That is unclear,” wrote Tower. “Some are converging near the Mage’s work table. Some are rummaging through the Shelves. Two are pulling the crate—”

The words vanished, and the Glass showed only the many-eyed gaze of Mug and Meralda’s glowing red eyes.

“No,” Mug said, rapping on the glass with the curled end of a vine. “No, you don’t! Tower, come back here!”

The glass remained reflective.

Meralda closed her eyes briefly, hating the shadows they caused to appear on her desk. After a moment, she touched the Glass lightly. “Tower,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

“We’ve flown too far from Tirlin,” Mug said. “Get the Captain to turn us around!”

“And face the black death? No. We’re not helpless, Mug. We can hide in the storm.”

“Yes, hide among the lightning bolts in our huge bag of lifting gas,” Mug said.

“Glass, show me the black mass, as before.”

Meralda’s reflection vanished, replaced with sky. In the midst of that sky, the black death hurtled toward the Glass.

“Rotate,” Meralda said. “Show me the view from above.”

The Glass obliged. “Higher,” Meralda said, and the view shifted. Bruise-colored clouds filled half the Glass and the troubled Sea the rest, as the bulbous black death raced toward the cloud bank in the center.

“Hold,” Meralda said. The image stilled.

“Mistress, it’s nearly inside our clouds,” Mug said. “It’s as fast as us. Faster, even. We’ll never outrun it.”

“We may not have to,” Meralda said. “If Nameless and Faceless managed to hide a dozen or more latched air masses, and if they catch in the monstrous thing’s spellworks, it might go down, right here and now.”

A crow flapped down beside Meralda. The crow tilted its head and regarded the image in the glass with a cold black eye.

‘
Tis done,
it said.
Nameless remained nearby, to attend.

“What’s done?” asked Mug.

“Wait,” Meralda said. “It won’t be long.”

The air around the black death exploded, blossoming into a rapidly expanding ball of fire that filled the mirror’s face with blinding white light before the Glass hastily moved its focus toward the boiling heart of the storm.

Beyond the
Intrepid’s
hull, a long, rolling boom rose, briefly louder than thunder, leaving a persistent rumbling in its wake.

“Did you do that?” Mug waved his leaves. “You did that! You burned them up!” He blew a fanfare of trumpets and clapped his fronds. “Mistress, how
did
you do that?”

“Glass,” Meralda said. “Try to find the object again. Failing that, look to the waves below for wreckage.” The view turned and tilted, speeding back and forth, its images dizzying.

The glass found clouds and rain and Sea and sky, but nothing more.

“They’re gone,” Mug said. “Ashes and sticks! Ha!”

“We have no proof yet.” She stood, and took in a deep breath. “I’ll need to raise my Sight.”

A knock sounded softly at her door. Meralda frowned.

“It’s Line Cook Jeffrey, Mage,” said Donchen. He lowered his voice. “There’s no one in the corridor to see me at the moment.”

Meralda’s heart raced. The light from her eyes was sufficient to illuminate her entire cabin, and her dark glasses did nothing to hide it.

“Let him in,” whispered Mug. “He’ll find out sooner or later. It’s actually quite attractive. I wish mine glowed.”

Meralda stalked around her cabin, snatching up hats and scarves and items which had appeared and still lay where they landed. Her eye-lights fell across a veiled beekeeper’s helmet, and she raised it to put over her head.

“Meralda Ovis,” Mug said, as Meralda made frantic shushing motions. “You will not hide your face under that ridiculous contraption.”

“I can’t let him see me like this,” Meralda said. She flung the helmet aside and dashed into her water closet. “Tell him I am bathing,” she said. “Tell him I am not feeling well.”

“You are the most intelligent, bravest, best person I know,” Mug said, as the water closet door slammed. “One day soon I hope you’ll forgive me.”

He flew his cage to the door and spoke. “Come in quickly.”

Donchen, in his Line Cook form, slipped inside and closed the door quickly behind him. “Where is she?” he asked. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Mug said. “Donchen. I love Meralda. Do you also love Meralda?”

Line Cook Jeffrey shimmered, and in his place stood Donchen, his grey eyes touched with mild confusion.

“That is not a question to ask in jest, friend Mug,” he said.

“I don’t ask in jest. I know she’s listening, so say it loud. Do you love Meralda?”

“I love Meralda,” said Donchen. “Now and forever.”

Mug’s cage bobbed. “So, hypothetically speaking, if Meralda’s eyes started glowing suddenly, you’d still love her, would you not?”

“Now and forever,” repeated Donchen.

Meralda emerged from the water closet, her eyes blazing like fresh-latched mage-lamps.

“I have a poker game to attend,” Mug said quickly. “Donchen, if you’d be so kind as to open yonder door, with a modicum of haste, that’s a good lad—”

Mug sailed through the door, which Donchen closed. A rain of Benton’s Medium Fine Pencils (With Gum Eraser) fell from the ceiling, rolling and scattering across the deck. “I’m changing. I can’t stop it. I don’t understand it. I called Mug a construct,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I wanted to pull that awful Vonat thing out of the air, and I think I could have done it, but I don’t know how much would be left of me if I did. Or the world for that matter. I’m afraid, Donchen. Terrified.”

Donchen rushed to her. She put up a hand, but he wrapped her in his arms anyway. He held her while she cried, and after a time he began to hum a Hang tune, and after another time he began to sway, moving her with him.

Meralda found her voice. “What are you doing?”

Donchen’s right hand slipped down to the small of Meralda’s back. He took her right hand in his left, and extended it, and as he hummed he began to dance, crunching pencils and various small objects beneath his shoes.

Meralda followed, clumsily at first and laughing through her tears at her own missteps. Donchen’s humming grew, and soon he was singing, his words Hang, but melodious and lovely.

Meralda danced. At times she laughed. Others, she cried. Lightning flashed beyond the hull and thunder roared, and the
Intrepid’s
deck tilted and pitched. But Donchen’s arm was tight around her, and his taut body was pressed close, and soon Meralda forgot her tears and her glowing eyes and the occasional brief fall of rose petals went entirely unnoticed.

Finally, Donchen met her gaze.

“The song is called
Now and Forever
,” he said. “When we return home, we shall have it translated, and we will dance to it at the Opera House, you in the finest of gowns. We will dance and have a glass of wine and watch the Moon rise over the Palace.”

“I shall terrify cab-men and cause dogs to bark,” Meralda said.

“You are beautiful,” said Donchen. “Red eyes or brown. Two eyes or three.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“Oh, but it is,” said Donchen. “It is true now, and it will be true tomorrow, and it will be true when we are both old and grey. Now and forever, my love.”