All the Paths of Shadow by Frank Tuttle Page A

shook her head. The answer to Mage Fromarch’s question was obvious enough. But there, on the page, was a hand-drawn picture of a Hang warship, a ship that had done what no vessel of the Realms had ever done. It had crossed the Great Sea, and would do so again.
    “They’re up to no good,” said Shingvere, softly. “Mark my words, Apprentice Ovis. No bloody good.”
    Meralda closed the book, but the crude drawing of the Hang five-master haunted her dreams for days.
     

Chapter Three
     
     
    Meralda took Shingvere’s penny-stick and, just as she had countless times as an apprentice, slipped it wordlessly in her pocket.
    Yvin’s voice faded to a drone. Unhearing, Meralda dreamily recalled the little towns and villages strewn haphazardly along the banks of the Lamp, and wondered what sort of bedlam was occurring as the towering masts of the Great Sea ships bore down upon the fisher folk.
    Meralda shivered. The Hang. Sailing up the Lamp at last. If, of course, that Eryan rascal beside me is to be believed.
    As if he’d heard, Shingvere caught Meralda’s eye and nodded gravely, every hint of humor gone from his face.
    Meralda sighed. It’s true, then. For the first time in forty-five years the Hang have crossed the Great Sea, bound for Tirlin, practically on the eve of the Accords. No coincidence, that.
    “He won’t say a word, today,” whispered Shingvere, with a nod toward King Yvin. “We’ll all pretend it’s a secret, till the papers get wind of it. After that, Thaumaturge, if I were you I’d consider exercising that legendary distance mages and thaumaturges have for courts.”
    “Would that I could,” whispered Meralda.
    Shingvere grinned. “And I’d tell old windbag there to leave the Tower’s shadow be.”
    Heads turned toward the Eryan. “Shhhh,” hissed a Tirlish courtier.
    Shingvere made a gesture, and the man’s hair stood suddenly on end.
    “Shingvere!” said Meralda, as the wide-eyed courtier lifted his hands to his head.
    Shingvere glared, and the man’s hair fell. “Mind your manners,” grumbled the Eryan.
    Applause broke out as King Yvin bade the Eryan court to rise and be made welcome.
    Shingvere rolled his eyes and remained seated. “I’m meeting Fromarch this evening,” he whispered, as the applause died. “You’ll come too, won’t you? I’m sure the doddering old skinflint will have a supper meal of some poor sort.”
    Meralda nodded.
    Shingvere grinned. “Good. You’re old enough to have a pint with us now, you know. Never drank with a Tirlish woman before. Might be fun.”
    Again, applause rang out. Meralda caught sight of the captain’s back as he slipped through the furthest west doors. Soon, three of the captain’s staff and a handful of black-clad Secret Service officers followed.
    Yvin’s welcome speech droned on. Within moments, Shingvere was snoring.
    Meralda settled into her chair, gazed up at the stained glass murals and Tim the Horsehead’s toothy equine grin, and wondered just how he would have reacted to a fleet of Long Dragon five-masters sailing up the Lamp.
     
     
    “Pardon, ma’am,” said Kervis, “But what’s a Long Dragon five-master?”
    Their waiter hovered near, fussing with napkins and forks on a recently cleared table while he eavesdropped. Meralda brought her finger to her lips, and Kervis nodded and fell silent.
    Orlo’s sidewalk café was bustling. Diners were being seated on the knee-high walls of Orlo’s sputtering three-tiered fountain, on the backs of parked cabs, on upturned milk buckets, and, in one instance, on a wrought-iron trolley-stop bench hauled away from the curb by a bevy of brawny Builder’s Guild bricklayers. Waiters ducked and bobbed, arms laden with plates and drinks, their movements more dance than stride.
    A trio of skinny black-clad bankers darted like crows for the empty table beside Meralda’s. The waiter bade the newcomers welcome, promised them tea, and then, with a backward glance toward Meralda, he