“You would think the man’s hand would get all cramped, badgering you with letters every quarter hour,” said Mug.

Meralda halted at her desk and unfolded the thick royal paper.

Thaumaturge, it read, in an unfamiliar hand. I do hope you’re hungry.

Meralda creased her brow.

“What is it?” asked Mug.

There came a knock at the door.

“Oh, no,” said Meralda. “It can’t be.”

“Can’t be who?” asked Mug. He brought twenty eyes to bear upon Meralda. “Mistress?”

From beyond the door, Kervis spoke. “Thaumaturge?” he said. “There’s a gentleman here to see you.”

“A gentleman?” piped Mug. “Oh, a gentleman!”

“Quiet,” said Meralda. She pushed back a lock of hair and made for the door, note still in her hand.

I could beg off again, she thought. I could explain I’m in the midst of a complicated spellwork, one that requires more time, one dangerous to onlookers. I’d even be telling a good portion of the truth.

Meralda frowned. Why should I do that? He’s only a man, Hang or not. I’ve not been made Thaumaturge by hiding behind doors and hoping men who made me uncomfortable would just go away.

Meralda took a breath, straightened her blouse, and opened the doors.

There, in the hall, stood a smiling Donchen, flanked by a confused pair of Bellringers. Donchen stood behind a silver-trimmed kitchen serving cart, which smoked and made a faint sizzling sound. The aromatic steam that wafted from beneath the closed lid crept into the laboratory and immediately set Meralda’s stomach to grumbling.

Donchen wore an apron. A palace-issue, heavily starched white kitchen staff apron, complete with a palace sigil over the heart and an oversized key pocket sewn onto the right bottom hem. Under the apron he wore plain black pants and a white round-collared Phendelit button-front shirt. Crumpled in a ball on the lid of the serving tray was a soft, shapeless Eryan beret, which half the serving staff wore to fight off the chill of the palace halls.

Just the thing, Meralda realized, to go sneaking about the palace in.

Donchen stepped back from the cart and executed a perfect Phendelit bow, keeping his hands clasped at his back, his heels together, and bending his body smoothly at the waist. “Good evening, Thaumaturge,” he said. “My, doesn’t this smell good?”

“It does,” said Meralda. Behind Donchen, Kervis met Meralda’s eyes and made a frantic ‘what do we do?’ shrug.

Donchen couldn’t have seen, but his smile widened all the same. “I see you received my note,” he said, looking at the paper Meralda still held.

“I did,” said Meralda. She took a breath and found a smile. “And I am.”

She flung the doors open wide, and stepped aside, motioning Donchen within. “Won’t you come in?”

Donchen cocked his head. “I brought picnic gear, as well as dining utensils,” he said. “I realize the Royal Laboratory to Tirlin might not be an appropriate place to host a foreigner.”

“The Royal Laboratory of Tirlin is, at the moment, mine,” said Meralda. “I keep no secrets here. So if you promise not to make off with state treasures I’ll vow not to ask you pointed questions about your nation’s foreign policy. Fair enough?”

Donchen bowed again. “Fair enough.” Donchen broke from his bow, lifted the cart’s lid, and withdrew two bulging white paper bags from within the steaming depths.

“Here you are, gentlemen,” he said, turning and thrusting a bag at each Bellringer. “Dinner, compliments of the Mighty Dragon, long may he reign, so forth and so on.”

The Bellringers went wide-eyed, but took the bags.

“Sir, thank you, sir,” said Tervis, hefting the bag as if to see if it might move in his grasp.

“Egg rolls and fried rice,” said Donchen. “And forks. I do hope you like it.”

Then he turned back to Meralda, and put his hands on the cart handle. “Are you sure, Thaumaturge?” he said, before he started to push. “I won’t be in the least offended…”

“Nonsense,” said Meralda. You’re not the only one who can be bold and thumb your nose at propriety, she thought. “Let’s eat.”

Donchen smiled, and pushed, and crossed the threshold.

The meal, Meralda decided, was fabulous.

What the meal consisted of was still largely a mystery to her. There was a tiny yellow grain that Donchen called rice, which formed a bed for most of the other entrees. And there was pork in a thick, sweet red sauce, and chicken with garlic and almonds, and a fried roll that crunched when Meralda bit into it, and was full of, among other things, chopped shrimp bits.

Donchen brought only forks. “No, we’ll not struggle with chopsticks,” he’d said, when Meralda asked how the king and court were faring with the Hang utensils. “To be honest with you, I myself may adopt your fork as my dining tool of choice,” he added, with a grin. “Chezin will have a conniption fit.”

Meralda laughed, and eyed the silver bowl that held the almond chicken.

“Oh, do have more,” said Donchen, beaming. “Nothing flatters a chef more than a healthy appetite.”

Meralda reached for the lid. “You cooked this?”

“I did,” said Donchen, wiping his chin with an embroidered palace napkin. “Cooking relaxes me. I should have been a cook, really.”

Meralda lifted the lid. “A cook, as opposed to what?” she asked.

Donchen laughed. “Well put, Thaumaturge,” he said. He pushed his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “But what I am is not an easy question to answer.”

Meralda heaped three serving spoons of almond chicken on her plate.

“And yet you want me to ask,” said Meralda. She noticed Mug, who had feigned sleep as soon as the doors opened, slowly swivel another half-dozen barely open eyes her way. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

Donchen stretched, and met her gaze.

“Just so,” he said. His smile softened. “I wish we had more time, Thaumaturge,” he said. “We have a proverb. Trust, it is said, must be built over time, lest it fall away as quickly as it was born.” Donchen shook his head. “It’s a bit of a cliche, really, but there is an element of truth there. I can hardly expect an intelligent person such as yourself to suddenly trust a mysterious Hang visitor, even if he does cook an excellent almond chicken.”

Meralda swallowed a mouthful of rice and chicken and put down her fork.

“And what am I to trust you with?” she said.

Donchen sighed. “That, Thaumaturge, is for you to decide,” he said. “But here. I’ve done nothing but speak in riddles and proverbs. A failing of my schooling, I’m afraid.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Enough of that,” he said. “All that blathering about trust. Well, I’ve made up my mind, Thaumaturge. I’ve decided to trust you. You. Not your king, not your captain, not your House of Lords. You. So ask me anything. I’ll tell you, plain and true.”

Meralda saw Mug blink all his open eyes at once. She wiped her lips with her napkin and stood to face Donchen.

“All right,” she said, after a moment. “Why are you doing this?”

Donchen bowed. “I need an ally here,” he said. “Someone with the king’s ear, someone he trusts. I hope this person is you.”

“Why not the king?” asked Meralda. “Why bother with thaumaturges at all?”

Donchen smiled. “The king will act with caution, at all times,” he said. “And caution would tell him that I am not to be trusted. Not yet. Listened to, perhaps. Observed, of course. But trusted?” Donchen shook his head. “He’d be a fool to trust me. A fool to trust any of us. And your king, Thaumaturge, is no fool.”

Meralda stiffened. “And I am?”

“No,” said Donchen. “You may believe what I tell you. You may not. But your office will allow you to make the choice. Is it not true that Tirlish thaumaturges often work well apart from both court and king?”

Well spoken, thought Meralda. Well spoken, or perhaps just well rehearsed.