He looks even older up close, thought Meralda, as Que-long stepped onto the platform. Old, but hardly frail.

Que-long was nearly bald. Only a fringe of short white hair remained, ringing his scalp just above his ears. He had narrow brown eyes, eyebrows so light and sparse they were barely visible at all, a small straight nose, and tiny ears set close to his head. When he smiled, his teeth were straight and whole and white.

He was attired as he had been at the breakfast two days ago. Loose white robe, black trousers woven of some sheer, shiny material, and soft, laceless black shoes.

He bowed again, still smiling.

Que-long spoke a soft, faint word, which Meralda didn’t understand. Chezin nodded, and spoke.

“The dragon apologizes for interrupting your work,” he said. “He hopes you will overlook an old man’s eagerness to see wondrous foreign magics wrought by the hand of a master.”

Mug emitted a barely audible snort of derision, and Meralda felt the blood drain from her face.

“The House of Chentze is an honored guest here,” she said, quickly. “I am delighted that Chentze finds my work interesting, but I fear that the task at hand is rather, um, mundane. Still, I shall-”

A new head popped up from the stair. “Terribly sorry,” he said, halting. “A thousand contrite apologies for my intolerably rude intrusion. May I approach?”

Meralda nodded, and swallowed. The newcomer was the Hang man who’d bidden her good morning at court two days ago. Meralda had never learned his name.

The man came swiftly up the last few steps, his soft shoes silent on the treads. He leaped past the last step and landed just beyond the stair, his hands suddenly clasped behind his back, his slight frame relaxed and still.

I’ve already been caught staring once, thought Meralda. Still, she allowed herself a good look before she looked away and made a small bow of her own.

In that brief moment, she saw he had grey eyes. Light, bright grey, the exact color of fresh-poured lead. Like all the Hang, his eyes were more almond-shaped than round, from a downturned fold of skin at the inner corners. His nose was small, his hair was straight and black, and his frame was angular and compact.

The newcomer wore a plain white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Meralda could see that his arms were smooth and hairless. She tried and failed to guess his age, deciding he might be twenty or twenty-five or neither.

Meralda bowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chezin grimace slightly, and she couldn’t tell if he was troubled by her response or the newcomer’s sudden easy smile.

“Hello,” said the man. “I’m Donchen.” He glanced about, crooked his finger at Meralda, and leaned slightly forward before speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I think that I might be a foreigner.”

Mug laughed out loud. Meralda blinked. Que-long stared in wonder at Mug, who shrugged and lifted more eyes toward Que-long.

Chezin’s jaw muscles tightened, and he stared for a moment at Mug, but then his eyes resumed their patrol of the platform and the stair.

Donchen regarded Mug and then Meralda with a hint of wonder. “I have heard the Tirlish thaumaturge enjoyed the company of a most uncommon helpmate,” he said. “I see the tales were understated.”

Que-long whispered something. Chezin nodded, then stepped toward Meralda.

“The Mighty Dragon wishes to better know your familiar,” he said. “We were told it has the power of speech.”

Meralda felt herself nodding. “Of course,” she said. What better way to start war than with Mug’s candid social observations?

Mug moved his leaves, and bunched his eyes together in clumps, according to color. “Hello,” he said, as Que-long and a reluctant Chezin approached. “I have twenty-nine eyes.”

Meralda frowned. Mug’s voice had changed. He was bright and cheery, all traces of his usual mocking tone gone.

“Marvelous,” said Donchen, who watched with Meralda as Que-long put his face close to Mug. “And you created him as a child?”

Meralda nodded. Donchen had somehow come within a single pace of her.

“It was, um, unintentional,” she said. “It’s a fairly common occurrence among young mages. Mage Fromarch, for instance, has a staff he crafted from his father’s walking stick.”

“No one knew I had any talent until this stick started singing, one day on the trolley,” gruffed Fromarch.

Donchen laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said to Meralda, after a moment. “I was rude to you the other morning, at breakfast.” He shrugged. “Chezin once said I have the spirit of a lotash trapped inside me.”

Meralda fought away a blush. “If anyone owes anyone an apology, it is I,” she said. “I was gawking. Forgive me.” She took a quick breath. “What, may I ask, is a lotash?”

“A mischievous supernatural being, which of course does not exist,” said Donchen. “And you weren’t gawking. It is only natural to be curious about new things. We, for instance, are curious about you.” His smile widened. “I do hope the dragon isn’t upsetting your familiar.”

Meralda glanced toward Que-long, and saw that he was moving his finger back and forth in front of Mug, who was following the fingertip with clumps of moving eyes. Chezin stood by, motionless.

“On the contrary,” she said. “Mug loves attention, more than water or mulch.”

Donchen watched Mug for a moment, and then he looked away, turning his gaze upon the Tower. Meralda watched him follow it all the way up, until his head was tilted back and he squinted at the sunlight.

“So this is the Tower,” he said. “Immortal, eternal, legacy of an age, enduring remnant of a mighty sorcerer’s grim reign.” He glanced sideways at Meralda and grinned. “So says the marker in the park.”

“It tends toward hyperbole,” she said. “Otrinvion was a monster, and if the kings of old could have brought the Tower down it would have been rubble a hundred times over.”

Donchen nodded, his eyes still on the Tower. “That, I think, would have been a shame.”

More footsteps sounded on the stair, and Meralda heard Shingvere’s voice, raised in laughter. Donchen turned back to face her.

“Your Eryan friend tells us the Tower is haunted. He suggested I ask you for the details.”

“My Eryan friend,” said Meralda, struggling to keep her smile, “also tends toward hyperbole. The Tower is no more haunted than this platform. But there are those who see ghosts in every patch of shadow.” She cast a nod toward the stair. “Eryans, you will find, are particularly susceptible.”

Donchen nodded. “In my country, it is assumed that any structure larger and older than last year’s bird nest is infested with the most bewildering variety of phantoms,” he said. “A regrettable superstition, but one to which people cling.” He gazed again upon the Tower, and lifted his hands as he spoke. “We should have to invent whole new classes of specters, were we to find such a tower in the midst of our land.”

Shingvere stepped onto the platform just as Donchen spoke. “Morning, Thaumaturge,” he said. “I see you’ve met our friends.”

Meralda nodded, and Shingvere stepped aside, and another Hang sidled past him.

“May I present Loman?” said Chezin. “Wielder of the Word, Bearer of the Staff.”

“The approximate equivalent of your own title,” whispered Donchen, to Meralda. “He makes magic for the king, at least when the court isn’t badgering him with trivia.”

The platform, built for a king and four guards, not a thaumaturge, a work bench, three Hang, and a Shingvere, was suddenly crowded. Loman shuffled his way past Shingvere and Donchen to stand before Meralda, who marveled when she saw Que-long motion Chezin back and squeeze himself in the corner between the rail and Meralda’s table so the aging Hang wizard had room to walk.

Of all the Hang, only the wizard Loman showed signs of age in his walk. He was stooped and slow, shuffling one foot forward at a time, his face turned toward the floor planks, his knuckles white upon his staff, so tight was his grip. His hair was shoulder-length, grey like dirty snow. His downturned face was wrinkled, though Meralda could see little of it aside from bushy white eyebrows and the tip of his blunt nose.