“Debris? And it froze your staff solid?” Mug’s fronds tossed as if in a wind. “Mistress, if that’s debris, I’m an oak. Someone meant to hurt you.”

Meralda recalled the blinding flash of the first spell. She’d blocked it, the next seven times. But had her focus been closer in the Gold Room, she might have been blinded, first sight and second.

“What I don’t understand,” said Meralda, “is how anyone managed to unlatch such potent spells in the palace at all. You couldn’t hand cast them, and you certainly couldn’t just latch such spells to a wand, or anything small enough to get past the guards. There isn’t enough latching mass.”

Mug snorted. “Well, it follows that an invisible wizard would have an invisible staff, doesn’t it?” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Meralda. “Even a staff wouldn’t latch any one of the spells I found. You’d need two staves and an oil-insulated Cooping Tall holdstone, at least.” Meralda frowned. “And please, no comments suggesting the presence of invisible pack-mules.”

“Mules,” said Mug. “Ridiculous. A mule wouldn’t do at all. Invisible wizards prefer mad-eyed stallions, which make for more dramatic exits.”

Meralda sighed.

“And what did the king say when you told him his palace was littered with dire Hang sorceries?” said Mug.

“I never said they were Hang,” said Meralda. Then she frowned. “He asked me if they had been dispelled, and I said they had. Then he asked me to set wards at the gates to detect latched spellworks,” she said. “I got the impression that he was neither surprised nor terribly worried.”

“Not worried?” said Mug. “We have a lone Hang, a full day ahead of his fleet. A fleet that is, I assume, under the careful scrutiny of the army, which has agents behind every outhouse and tangle-weed along the Lamp River. Our lone Hang leaves his fleet, strolls unseen cross-country and into the palace, has a brief conversation with the king, and then vanishes like a stage puppet from our midst.” The dandyleaf plant rolled a leaf into a tube, and waved it at Meralda. “Then, the clever Tirlish thaumaturge, hot on the trail of the elusive Hang visitor, discovers eight powerful, mysterious spells cast at various points in the palace.” Mug rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Not worried?” he asked. “Why, toss in a Vonat spy or two and we’ll have the makings of those penny-novel dreadfuls you pretend you never read.”

Meralda stared down into her coffee cup. “Leave the Vonats out of this,” she said. “They arrive soon, and I’ll have to greet their mage.”

Mug snorted. “Who is the Vonat mage, nowadays?” he asked. “Let me guess. He’ll have a name like Dreadvault of the Black Hand or Wrackruin of Doom, and he’ll be tall, lean, and possessed of a piercing, malignant gaze.”

Meralda laughed. “I hear his name is Nam,” she said.

Mug frowned. “Isn’t Nam the Vonat word for lifetaker?”

Meralda rolled her eyes. “I never taught you Vonat,” she said.

“I know lots of things you never taught me,” said Mug, airily.

“That, I do not doubt,” said Meralda. She looked down at her cup and sighed.

“Oh, finish your coffee,” said Mug. “And talk. I’m lonely, you know. Some of us don’t get to dash about all day having adventures with soldiers and kings.”

Meralda walked to stand before the sink, put her cup down, and stroked Mug’s top leaves. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you understand I have work to do. And you know how you hate the laboratory.”

“No windows,” said Mug. “No sun, no air.” The dandyleaf plant shivered. “Forgive me, mistress. I know it’s quite cozy by human standards, but it’s just a mushroom cave to me.”

A thin vine-like frond wound loosely about Meralda’s wrist. “Oh, go on,” said Mug. “But before you go, tell me one odd feature all your mystery spells share.”

Meralda smiled. “Aside from the first one,” she said, “all of them were laid in places the king was never likely to go.”

Mug nodded with a bobbing of eyes. “Exactly,” he said. “West wing hallways, fifth-floor stair landings, eighth-floor wash rooms. Yvin’s never seen those places. Probably never will.” Mug gave Meralda’s hand a squeeze and unreeled his tendril. “It might mean nothing, mistress, but keep it in mind.”

A knock sounded at the door. Meralda emptied her cup into the sink, rinsed the cup out with a spray of hot water, and placed it in the drying rack with a dozen of its brothers.

“Pardon, ma’am,” said Tervis, from the hall. “Letter for you. From the palace.”

“Of course it is,” said Meralda. “He said letter, but what he meant was urgent summons.”

Mug sighed. “Seventeen more days, mistress,” he said. “Seventeen more days, and you can skip court sessions for weeks at a time and ignore Yvin’s summons and surround yourself with spark coils and magelamps from sunrise to sunset.”

Meralda took a deep breath and marched toward her front door.

“There you are, lass,” said Shingvere, who leaned against the wall by the Royal Laboratory doors.

Meralda halted at the top of the west stair. The Bellringers, behind her, halted as well. Meralda noted with mild amusement that Tervis remained facing the top of the stair, while Kervis turned and faced the foot.

Shingvere saw, and chuckled. “I’ve been waiting for you, Thaumaturge,” he said, capping a small silver flask and slipping it 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?”