Meralda called for coffee. Mug watched Donchen idle in front of stores, chat with strangers, wait and move with crowds as they were waved across streets by traffic masters.

“He’s using magic of some sort,” muttered Mug. “No one seems to notice he’s Hang.”

Meralda nodded, her pencil scratching across the page.

“It is a minor charm of concealment,” said the Tower. “Phendelit in nature.”

Mug imitated a derisive snort. “Stolen, then.”

“Are you talking, Mug, or watching?”

“Both, mistress.” Mug fell silent, his eyes intent on the glass.

Donchen stopped to speak with a skirted Eryan flower girl. He spoke. She laughed. He produced a coin, and she produced a yellow rose. Donchen took it and walked away smiling.

“Bet that’s for you,” whispered Mug.

And then Donchen rounded a corner. The image in the glass shifted, moving to keep the Hang centered in the glass.

As Donchen rounded the corner, he vanished.

Mug whistled and aimed a dozen suddenly rigid vines at the glass.

“Mistress!” he shouted. “He’s gone!”

Meralda looked up, frowning.

The street scene in the glass turned back and forth, as though searching. Passers-by walked past, but Donchen was nowhere to be seen.

“Impressive,” said the Tower.

“Impossible,” sputtered Mug. “Mistress, he’s made himself invisible!”

Meralda put her pencil down. “That’s not possible, Mug.”

“Then where is he?”

“He is precisely where he should be,” said the Tower. “Observe.”

The image shimmered. Meralda watched as pedestrians walked the sidewalk, and then she smiled.

“The people on the street can still see him, Mug,” she said, pointing at the glass. “Watch. They’re stepping aside. Slowing or speeding up to let him pass. It’s just us who can’t see him, because we’re using a spell.”

“Indeed. But see here.” The Tower paused, and the glass flickered, and Donchen was once again walking down a crowded sidewalk. “I have adjusted for his spell.”

Mug turned eyes toward Meralda. “That’s no Phendelit spell he’s using, is it, Tower?”

“It is not. I have not seen the like of it before. I surmise it is Hang.”

“I’ll bet a donut Mr. Fancy Pants knew you’d try to watch him, mistress,” said Mug. “A bit out of character, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s the Vonats he’s hiding from, Mug, and you know it. He has no idea we’re watching him too.”

“I agree with the mage,” said the Tower. “What a fascinating method of spell construction he employed.”

“I’ll want to see it too, when we’re done here.” Meralda rubbed her eyes. “If we’re ever done here.”

Mug groaned suddenly. “Oh, no,” he said.

Meralda looked to the glass again.

Shingvere darted out of a shop, watched Donchen for a moment, and waved to someone inside. An instant later, Fromarch appeared and joined the other wizard before both began to march down the street behind Donchen.

Mug shook his leaves. “This will not end well,” he said, as the two elderly wizards struggled to keep up with Donchen’s leisurely pace. “A pair of trumpet sounding trolls would be less conspicuous.”

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.