Chapter Eighteen

“The Times is predicting rain for the commencement ceremony, mistress,” said Mug, shuffling quickly through the newspapers scattered on a workbench with quick motions of his vines. “The Post is promising sun.”

Meralda shrugged, her attention focused on the delicate mesh of steel she struggled to solder in place between two curved lengths of springy copper. Smoke rose up and tickled her nose, and she bit back a sneeze as she secured the last bit of steel and held it fast to let the molten solder cool.

The Accords begin tomorrow, she thought. And if I am unable to restore the tethers, rain will be the least of anyone’s problems.

“Done,” she said, frowning at her handiwork. “That should speed things up in the flat.”

Mug swiveled half his eyes toward her latest creation.

“You’re getting very good at metal-working, you know.”

“Thank you, Mug.”

A soft knock, one-two-three, one-two-three, one, sounded at the door.

“That would be supper,” observed Mug. “He’s certainly punctual, your Donchen. That’s a fine quality in a man, you know.”

Meralda turned so Mug wouldn’t see her blush. “He’s hardly my Donchen,” she said, before walking for the door.

Mug chuckled at her back.

Donchen and his cart trundled into the room, filling the laboratory with the smell of the Hang dishes Meralda was coming to love. Donchen smiled above his cart and greeted Meralda with a sweeping bow.

“Your dinner is served,” he said, in a perfect rendition of a refined Eryan accent. “I took the liberty of providing the Bellringers with egg rolls and fried rice.”

Meralda laughed and executed a curtsey. “Why thank you, kind sir. I do hope you’ll join me?”

Donchen smiled. “After I see us served, of course,” he said. “Pray be seated, while I prepare the table.”

Mug groaned from across the room. “I’m still trying to heal over here, you two,” he cried. “This isn’t helping.”

Donchen pushed the cart to Meralda’s desk, covered it with a stark white linen tablecloth, and began dispensing the meal. “I brought you a decanter of spring water, all the way from my homeland,” he said, to Mug. “This particular spring is said to both heal the wounded and grant them one wish.”

“I wish my new eye to be yellow, then,” said Mug. He waved a small, but growing eye bud toward Donchen. “See? The one I lost is budding back out.”

Donchen leaned down and inspected the bloom critically. “You heal quickly, Mr. Mug. I am glad to see that.”

Meralda found chopsticks and glasses and poured cold tea from a silver pitcher.

“He’s doing remarkably well.” Donchen reached into the cart and produced a crystal flask capped by a delicate filigree of silver worked into the shape of a grinning dragon’s head.

“The spring water,” he said.

Meralda took the flask and watched it glitter in the light as it turned. “Do all the springs in Hang grant wishes?”

Donchen grinned. “According to some. I am of a more skeptical bent. But the healing qualities of this spring are at least supported by some evidence.”

“You are certainly free with the treasures of the House of Chentze,” said Meralda.

Donchen shrugged. “The waters of healing are best drunk by the wounded.”

“That has the sound of a proverb.”

Donchen straightened the napkins, nudged an errant piece of rice back into its bowl, and brought his hands together.

“It is just that. Part of a legend, actually. Would you care to hear the rest?”

Meralda pulled back his chair and motioned him to sit. He laughed and sat.

Meralda pulled her own chair close to his.

“I’m starved. You talk. I’ll eat.”

Donchen handed her an egg roll, and began his story.

“He’s twenty-two, by the way.”

“Who?”

Mug rolled his remaining twenty-eight eyes. “Your friendly Hang ghost. Donchen. He’s twenty-two years old. Not really so much older than you.”

Meralda frowned. “And just how do you suddenly know his age?”

“I said ‘Tell me how old you are.’ He said ‘twenty-two’. I asked him if those were the same as Tirlish years, and he went into a wholly unnecessary explanation of planetary rotation, but the upshot is that yes, Hang years and Realm years are the same thing. So he’s twenty-two and now you know and you are very welcome.”

Meralda felt her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t ask you to ask the man his age!”

“No, and that would have been another very simple question.” Mug brought a wobbling cluster of blue eyes toward Meralda. “Mistress, I may be a bit vegetative, but I’ve lived with you mobile folk long enough to know a few things. About gentlemen and ladies…”

“Mugglewort Ovis. That is quite enough.” Meralda rose and stalked away. “The very existence of Tirlin hangs by a thread. The Vonats are aiming spells who knows where this very moment. The Accords may see an epic disaster born. Do you really think I have time to behave like some…” she fought for words “…moon-eyed schoolgirl?”

“I understand the situation, mistress. I do. But to reply to a question with a question, what better time than now to, um, explore exciting new friendships, shall we say?”

“Any time would be better than now, if I wanted such a thing.”

“Which you clearly don’t.”

“Of course I don’t. He is a Hang noble of some sort. Or a spy. Or both.”

“When he isn’t cooking you elaborate meals, that is.”

“I haven’t asked for a single scrap, Mug, and you know that!”

A knock sounded at the door. Kervis stuck his head inside and peeked about.

“I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee,” he said. “And some pastries.”

“Bring them in,” said Meralda, with a final glare at Mug. “I’ll be working all night.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the Bellringer. He brought a carafe of coffee and a plate full of donuts inside and placed them carefully on a workbench.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

“No,” said Meralda, suddenly weary. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

Kervis nodded and darted back through the doors.

Mug turned his eyes back toward the glass and began to hum. Meralda poured a cup of coffee and returned to her calculations, pretending she didn’t recognize the old Phendelit wedding march Mug sang.

Twenty-two. He looks a bit older, mused Meralda, instantly chiding herself for doing so. What difference does it make to me, whether Donchen is twenty-two or sixty-two? If we survive the Accords he’ll soon be boarding that monstrous ship of his and sailing away forever, anyway. Even the Hang can’t cross the Great Sea on a whim.

“Seven times five is most certainly not sixty,” said Mug. He pointed with a vine toward Meralda’s latest scribble. “Someone’s mind is wandering.”

Meralda crossed out the error and resumed her calculations without a word. Mug regarded her with a pair of sad blue eyes for a moment, before turning his attention back to the mirror, and its slow deliberate sweeps of the halls and corridors near the laboratory.

“Are you sure this is necessary? It’s nearly midnight, mistress.”

Meralda shook her head. “I know the time, Mug. What of it?”

“The Tower. At midnight. Hello? Haunted tower, dead of night? You don’t see a potential for mischief anywhere in that description?”

“I can assure you my volume is free of any phantasmal presences,” said Tower. Meralda thought she heard a hint of amusement in Tower’s careful tone. “At midnight, or any other hour.”

“Well, you wouldn’t bloody know if you were haunted, now would you? That’s how ghosts work. Showing up where you know they can’t possibly be.”

“So the presence of a ghost is confirmed by the absence of a ghost?”

Meralda raised her hand for silence. “I’m going, Mug. Tower will be with me. So will Nameless and Faceless. I can’t save the kingdom on banker’s hours.”

“I still don’t trust you-know-who and you-know-what,” whispered Mug.