Fromarch met her eyes, and nodded. “Which makes all this nonsense with the Tears more than a mere inconvenience,” he said. “Say the Alons pull out. Any agreements four of the Realms make with the Hang will be forever contested by the fifth. And who knows? The Hang might leave, too, rather than have any dealings with a factious lot of simpletons who can’t all sit down long enough to sign a few pieces of paper.”

“That’s why we’re here, lass,” said Shingvere. “Not that we think you can’t handle it, mind you. Not at all. But you’ve got a heavy pack, these days. We’re only here to help you bear the load, if you’ll have us. And watching this mirror while you go off and save the kingdom seems like just the chore for two grumpy old wizards, now doesn’t it?”

Meralda pushed back her chair and stood. I’ve got to walk around a bit, she thought. My feet are still cold in my boots, and my joints still ache from sleeping in that torture chamber of a chair. “What makes you think Yvin asked them here?” she said, stretching.

Fromarch shrugged. “It’s simple, really. I don’t think they’d have come unless they were asked.”

“They certainly wouldn’t have loaded their entire royal family onto a boat, not knowing what sort of reception to expect.” Shingvere filled his fork with more pancake. “Which means this was all arranged well beforehand.”

“Oh, Yvin wouldn’t tell anyone, of course,” said Fromarch. “Best to get the Hang all here and just spring it on the Realms. That way no one gets worked up into a frenzy too soon, and we don’t have foreign troops hiding all along the Lamp.”

“He could have told us,” snapped Meralda.

“Hmmph,” snorted Fromarch. “Since when have kings sought advice from their betters? Mark my words, though. If this bit of scheming goes bad, we’ll be the ones who’ll have to sort it all out.”

Meralda glared. He didn’t tell because he doesn’t trust, she thought. And he doesn’t trust, said a voice within her, because I’m a woman.

“He wouldn’t have told me, either,” said Fromarch, gently. “I once heard Yvin tell someone, doesn’t matter who, that magic and mages were best left to the guilds, and the tradesmen. He said the age of the wizard was over, and done, and the Realms were better for it.” Fromarch sighed. “He’s wrong, of course,” he added. “But he’s the king, and that’s that.”

Meralda found her chair again. Her head began to pound, and her clothes, wrinkled and ill-fitting from a day and a night of constant wear, rubbed and stuck and sagged. She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes and sighed.

“Perhaps I should just send Yvin a message,” she said. “Perhaps I should tell him that since the age of wizards is done, he should seek the help of the guilds and the tradesmen in recovering the Tears.”

Shingvere chuckled. “I dare you,” he said.

Meralda heard Fromarch set down his cup with a small sharp click and rise slowly to his feet.

“Agree or not, the world is changing,” he said. “And we will have a hand in it, for good or ill. Might I suggest we all get to work? For the good of the realm, if not its shortsighted nitwit of a monarch?”

Meralda opened her eyes. “I’m for a bath,” she said. “Now, and Yvin be hanged.”

Shingvere crowed. “At last, our battle cry,” he said. “A bath, and the king be hanged!” he shouted, brandishing his fork. “Clean clothes, then victory!”

Meralda found a brief laugh. “Vonats,” she said, after Shingvere bowed and sat. “If you two are correct, they’d be the obvious choice for our scheming villains,” she said. “If the Hang enter the Accords as a sixth realm, Vonath will have to mind its manners. Forever.”

“Perhaps,” said Fromarch. “Or perhaps this is mere coincidence. The Vonats do love to make trouble at Accords, if you’ll recall.”

Shingvere snorted. “But this smacks of mage-cast mischief, not some bugger sneaking around with a dagger,” he said.

Boots sounded in the hall outside. “All of this is mere speculation, though,” said Fromarch, hastily. “We have discussed it with no one but you, Mage. Make of it what you will.”

A knock sounded at the door. Meralda started toward it, but Shingvere darted ahead and bade her to sit down.

“I’ll see to this,” he said, hand on the handle. “From now on, Meralda, we’re the hired help. Let us do the chores. You’ve got better things to do.”

He swung the door open. “Yes?” he inquired, managing somehow to convey through his tone and bearing that the caller was neither welcome nor, most likely, even in the right neighborhood. “Who is calling, pray tell?”

“It’s me, as you bloody well know,” said the captain, from the hall. “Are you going to get out of the way, or not?”

Shingvere flung the door open, and stepped aside with a bow and a flourish. “May I present Captain Ernest Ballen,” he said. “Late of a kitchen, somewhere,” he added.

“Eryans,” muttered the captain, stamping past Shingvere without a backward glance. “Morning, Thaumaturge,” he said, moving to stand beside Meralda. He squinted into the mirror and frowned. “Any luck?”

“No one has been in or out,” she said. “Have the mages explained our suspicions to you yet?”

The captain turned and glared. “All they’ve done is puff and moon like a pair of hoot owls,” he said. He looked back to Meralda. “I knew I’d have to ask you before I’d get an answer.”

“We believe the Tears are still in the safe room,” she said. She explained her theory to him, from her doubts concerning the Tear’s post-theft value to Mug’s joking query of the mirror and its sudden display of the safe room, and the implications she had drawn.

Halfway through it, the captain asked for a chair, and Shingvere scooted his over to him. The captain sat, and Meralda watched him sag and go nearly limp.

“You haven’t slept a wink, have you?” she asked, at last.

Shingvere stuck a fresh cup of coffee in the captain’s hand. “He’s not likely to, for a while, either,” he said.

“That’s the truth,” muttered the captain. “Interviewing doormen. Interviewing night watchmen. Listening to the Watch interview jewelers and fences and petty thieves. Bah.” He looked up at Meralda with bloodshot eyes, and smiled a crooked smile. “I came here hoping you’d have some news for me, Thaumaturge,” he said. “Thank you.”

Meralda felt her cheeks redden, and she looked away. “You’re welcome,” she said. “But until I can get back in the safe room, I haven’t done a thing,” she said.

The captain sipped coffee and frowned. “Won’t be easy,” he said. “The Alon wizards are making a big fuss. They’ve all but accused each and every mage in Tirlin,” he said. “Even the Hang.” He hesitated. “Even you, Thaumaturge.”

Meralda whirled back to face the captain. “They’ve done what?”

“They’ve bawled to Yvin that only a mage could have done such a thing,” he said. “Around sunrise, they demanded that all the mages be hauled in before the Alon queen and put to the question,” he said. “You and Loman included.”

Meralda felt her heart begin to race, and the red of her cheeks spread. “How dare those posturing wand-wavers accuse me of theft,” she said. “If any mage stole the Tears, it’s likely one of them.”

“I know, I know,” said the captain, lifting his hand. “And Yvin told them to go soak their heads. Said he’d not be delivering anyone to Alon law before Tirlish law was done with them,” he said. “He also suggested that accusing real mages of petty theft was just the sort of thing that left scorch marks on the carpets and bad smells in the halls,” he added. “You should have seen their faces when they worked out the implications of the real mages’ comment,” he said. “Priceless, really.”

Meralda returned the captain’s grin. “All right,” she said, after a deep breath. “We won’t know if I’m right until I can return to the safe room, Captain. From what you’ve just said, I might not be welcome.”