Текст книги "All the Paths of Shadow"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

The captain chuckled. “No. But he can appeal to their patriotism and beg them for silence.”

“He might as well whistle them a dancing tune,” snapped Mug. “Murder sells papers.”

“Bribes seal lips,” mused the captain. “Especially very large royal bribes, which are usually accompanied by subtle hints of royal mayhem.”

“So the papers won’t print a story of an assassination attempt on the steps of the castle.”

“Not this time.” The captain turned to face the Bellringers. “You two. Charging that fiend, knocking him down. Rare good sense, that. I don’t have access to the royal purse, but will put in a word for both of you. End of summer might see you lads promoted.”

The Bellringers exchanged grins. “Thank you, sir,” said Kervis.

The captain rose, groaned, and turned toward the door.

“Got to get back out there,” he said. “I’ll be back around later. You two see that the thaumaturge doesn’t run into any more vanishing Alons.”

The Bellringers nodded.

Mug tossed his leaves in disgust. “So that’s it? The king bribes the papers, and you just go about your day as though nothing happened?”

“Kervis. Tervis. Take your posts, please. We won’t be leaving for a while.”

The Bellringers leaped to their feet.

“And thank you. You were both very brave out there.”

The brothers blushed in identical shades of crimson and bolted for the door.

Meralda waited for the door to slam before rising and pulling the scrap of tarp off Goboy’s glass.

The Wizard’s Flat was there, lit by horizontal shafts of early morning sun. Nameless and Faceless were gone.

“Good morning,” said Meralda.

“I assume your remark is rhetorical in nature.” The image in the glass wavered a bit, then stabilized. “Yes. An informal greeting. Forgive me. I have not carried on a conversation in nearly a millennia.”

“The mage was attacked not an hour ago, Tower,” snapped Mug. “Attacked by a man who appeared from nowhere and vanished in broad daylight. Your famous sticks of lumber didn’t so much as say boo.” The dandyleaf shot an accusatory vine toward the glass. “I thought you said we could expect a bit of help from that lot.”

“Attacked? By whom?”

Meralda waved her hand at Mug for silence. “By someone posing as an Alon,” she said. “Someone with magical assistance. I do not believe he simply slipped away on a busy street with half the guard out looking for him”

“Interesting. I, too, was the subject of an attack at approximately that time.”

“You? Attacked?” Mug snorted. “With what, battering rams and pick-axes?”

“Someone attempted to latch a moderately complicated spellwork to my main structure. I deflected it, of course, but the construction of the spell was most unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

“I have maintained an intimate familiarity with every arcane practice in all of the Realms,” replied the Tower. “Vonat, Phendelit, Eryan, Alon. I am expert in them all.”

“Your wooden friends do a lot of traveling, don’t they?”

“Mug.” Meralda rose and began to pace. “And this was something new?”

“It was.”

“Do you know who sent it?”

“Not yet. I know the general area from which it originated. The spell caster was careful to maintain a considerable distance and employ a number of obfuscatory measures.”

“Dorleigh and Ventham,” said Mug. “Somewhere between those two streets, wasn’t it?”

The Tower’s tone took on a hint of bemusement. “Just so, construct,” it said. “Just so.”

Meralda frowned. Mug turned a trio of eyes toward her.

“I may be just a lowly construct, mistress, but I do read the Post. The Vonats rented out a couple of rooming houses in that neighborhood. They always do that, since they throw the kind of parties King Yvin won’t stand for.”

“I dispatched Nameless and Faceless to that area as soon as I detected the intrusion,” said the Tower. “Their absence during your difficulty was thus my fault. I apologize.”

“Well. Finally.” Mug tossed his fronds. “Was that so hard?”

“The staves.” Meralda thought for a moment. “Have they returned?”

“No. I can attempt to recall them now, if you wish. Though I cannot guarantee their timely obedience.”

Meralda paused in her pacing. “No. Let them be. Though I would like to hear what they found, when they return.”

“As you wish.” The Tower fell silent for a moment. “Have you considered the matter of the curseworks, Mage Ovis?”

As if I’ve considered anything else,thought Meralda. “I have. Tower, a question. This unique new magic you encountered, could it be Hang magic?”

“I have considered that. I simply have no knowledge of the Hang or their arcane traditions. But given the presence of the Hang, it seems likely. You suspect collusion between Hang and Vonath?”

“I suspect a few rogue elements within the Hang may be involved. And all of Vonath, including the rats, the crows and the crickets.”

The Tower hesitated.

“Humor.”

Meralda chuckled. “An attempt. But if we face Hang magic, we need to know something about it. And who knows? There might be something in the Hang traditions that can help repair the spokes.”

“A possibility.”

There came a knock at the door. The image in the glass shook, and became nothing but a simple refection of Meralda and Mug.

Kervis stuck his head in the door.

“Ma’am,” he called. “It’s Mr. Donchen. He says he doesn’t have an appointment, but he needs to see you.” Kervis grinned. “He’s brought more food, too. They have two kinds of breakfast over there, and he’s brought both.”

Meralda pushed back her hair, wished she’d had time to comb it, and forced a smile.

“Well, show him right in,” she called. “He’s just the man I wanted to see.”

“That was excellent,” said Meralda, pushing away her empty plate.

Donchen smiled and made a little bow with his head. Meralda caught herself staring again, trying to guess his age. There were no wrinkles at the corners of his almond-shaped grey eyes. His short-cropped hair was a uniform inky black. His teeth were perfect, and a brilliant white.

He grinned back, and Meralda blushed.

“I am glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “Though I must confess, I did not prepare any of this. Chef Inglee did all the work. I merely stole the serving cart.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. I’ve had nothing but coffee in ages.”

Donchen nodded. “You are a busy woman, Mage Ovis. Dining with possibly nefarious foreigners. Being attacked on the palace steps by vanishing Alons. It’s a wonder you ever dine at all.”

Mug bunched his eyes.

“You know about that.”

“I was there.”

“Didn’t see you rushing to anyone’s aid,” muttered Mug.

“I was too far away,” replied Donchen, nonplussed. “But not so far away that I couldn’t confirm the use of a very familiar charm. I did in fact make an effort to track your assailant, Mage Ovis. I fear I failed in that effort, shortly after commencing it.”

“Was he heading south, when last you saw him?”

Donchen nodded. “He was. This is significant?”

Meralda shrugged. “It’s suggestive. The Vonats have rented a pair of boarding houses south of the palace.”

“Hmm. I see.” Meralda watched the man’s face. He kept it blank, but she didn’t need Sight to see his mind working behind his eyes.

“You said I could ask you anything, yesterday,” she said. “Did you mean that?”

“I did.”

Meralda leaned forward. “All right. Then I have a question. Who are you?”

“And none of that friendly cook business, either,” added Mug. “You know what she means.”

Donchen smiled. “I do. I will answer, though you may find it troubling at first. I am a ghost.”

Mug snorted. “You eat a lot for a specter.”

“That’s not what he means,” said Meralda. “Is it?”

“No. It is customary, you see, for persons of my position and background to spend a certain number of years as a sohata. A ghost. As a sohata, I may walk where I will, speak as I will, act as I will. No one of the House of Chentze sees or hears me. Thus, I am a ghost.”

“But not the dead and buried sort? No rising from the grave or feasting on the blood of the living?” Mug stared hard at Donchen with all twenty-nine of his eyes. “Because we take a dim view of those sorts of goings-on here in Tirlin.”

Donchen laughed. “I assure you, Mug, I neither rise from the grave nor feast on blood. I much prefer feather beds and vegetables.”

“A ghost.” Meralda searched his eyes for any hint of deceit. “So your Mighty Dragon has no idea you’re speaking with me?”

“I am sohata, Mage Ovis. I walk unseen. My only voice the wind. The tradition is ancient and much venerated. Even private speculation concerning a ghost is believed to invite a bewildering variety of dooms.”

That actually makes sense,thought Meralda. No wonder he seems to do as he pleases. I could certainly use a year or two as a ghost myself.

“You say you followed the Alon?”

“I did,” said Donchen. “Though I suspect he was no more Alon than you or Mug or I. He was using a charm of concealment to alter his appearance. You suspected this too, did you not?”

Meralda nodded. She didn’t glance toward Goboy’s glass, but she knew the Tower was listening.

“I fear the charm employed the magic of my homeland,” said Donchen, frowning. “For that, I apologize.”

Meralda lifted an eyebrow. “Only a person with Sight could even detect magic,” she said. “And only one with talent and training could identify it.”

Donchen laughed and spread his hands. “I make no claims to any great prowess in the arts,” he said. “But I do have some small knowledge. As a sohata, I have spent hours looking over Loman’s shoulders. I may even have pocketed a trinket or two.” He grinned and reached into his pockets with both hands.

“Why, look here,” he said, placing two small objects on either side of his empty plate. “I can’t imagine how these came to fall in my pockets.”

Mug immediately aimed a cluster of eyes at each small device.

One appeared to be a small brass compass, the lid flipped open to reveal a needle, tipped in red, pointing steadily at the laboratory doors. But when Meralda looked closer, she saw that the face of the dial lacked any markings for directions. Instead, a pair of brass wheels, each worked with tiny Hang symbols, moved and spun according to workings she couldn’t see.

The other device resembled a perfume bottle, complete with an elegant spray bulb. The glass was crystal, cut with ornate designs and gilded with delicate gold filigree.

“Hang ghosts have sticky fingers,” observed Mug. “I’m beginning to like you after all.”

“What are these?” asked Meralda, resisting the urge to pick them up and inspect them closer. “And why have you brought them to me?”

Donchen smiled. “This,” he said, picking up the compass, “is a very simple device which will point out spellworks. Hang spellworks, I mean. Most of the arcane traditions of the Realms simply won’t register, which is why the needle is ignoring the many wonders housed here and is instead pointing that way. South, isn’t it? Well, our ships are docked south of here, and I’m sure that accounts for some of the indication. But see these dials? This one indicates distance. This one denotes intensity.”

Donchen offered the device to Meralda, and she took it.

The needle pointed toward the door, and the tiny wheels spun and whirled.

“Those characters are numbers,” said Donchen. “I’ll scribble them and their Kingdom counterparts down for you before I go. We measure feet in nearly the same way. I’ll leave figures for that too.”

He picked up the bottle, and placed it carefully in Meralda’s hand.

“This is a more, um, active magic,” he said. “I hope you don’t find a need for it. But, if you should find yourself facing hostile persons again, spray them with this. You’ll find they cannot hide from you afterward, no matter where they run, no matter what spells they employ. If you see them again, you will know.”

Meralda regarded the bottle carefully. It was nearly full of a clear liquid, and though the beveled edges of the cuts and the gold filigree made seeing inside it difficult, it seemed as though something moved deep within it.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a magic sword in a pocket somewhere, do you?” asked Mug. “Something a little more martial than a squirt of water to the nose?”

“Perhaps next time.” Donchen rose and stretched. “I feel the need for a walk, Mage Ovis. I think I’ll amble about your fair city for a bit. Perhaps I’ll take in some new sights. What neighborhood would you suggest I visit, pray tell?”

Meralda rose and smiled. “I hear the area between Dorleigh and Ventham streets is interesting this time of year. You might even see a Vonat or two there, though I understand they try to keep out of sight.”

Donchen nodded. “We’ll just see how talented they are at that, won’t we?” He bowed, tossed Mug a salute, and gathered up empty plates and dirty silverware.

“I’m sure we’ll speak again soon, Mage Ovis,” he said.

Meralda pulled his serving cart by her desk and helped him clear away the remains of the meal.

“I’m sure we will, Mr. Donchen,” she said.

“Please. I am sohata. Call me Donchen. No one will hear.”

“Only if you call me Meralda.” Meralda blushed, for no reason she could determine.

Mug groaned and pretended to suffer a sudden attack of blight.

“You’re going to trust him? Just like that?”

“Did I tell him about the Tower? Did I tell him anything he didn’t already know?” Meralda stood, glared, and began to pace. “Perhaps you failed to notice he’s been more than forthcoming, Mug. Far more than I.”

“I think you’re succumbing to his otherworldly charms,” said Mug. “I think-”

“I found no evidence of dissembling on the part of the young man,” said the Tower.

“Oh, what do you know? You yourself admitted you hadn’t had a simple conversation in a thousand years. Now you’re an expert at sizing up strangers?”

The Tower had no reply.

Meralda shook her head. I wonder if Mug is right. I do like Donchen. There’s something genuine under that self-deprecating humor.

“Oh, he’s a smooth talker, all right,” muttered Mug. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we know nothing about him other than what he tells us. Which he could be making up on the spot, for all we know.”

“I don’t think so, Mug. He’s offered to help, which I need. So until he gives me a reason to distrust him, I’m not going to start.”

“Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when he turns out to be a Vonat in disguise.”

Meralda glared. Mug tossed his leaves and glared back.

“Tower. Can you follow Donchen, watch what he does?”

“With ease.” The scene in the mirror flashed, became a crow’s eye view of the Hang as he pushed his serving cart back toward the kitchen.

Donchen smiled at the people he met in the halls, spoke to some, laughed with some. The image in the glass was silent, and Meralda found herself wishing she could hear what was said.

“Good thinking, mistress,” said Mug. “I’ll keep eyes on him while you work.”

The image of Donchen shrank until it occupied only half the glass. In the other, a drawing appeared, depicting the Tower and the damaged curseworks which spun atop it.

Meralda sank back into her chair.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s start with the very first spell your master latched when he laid the curseworks. I need to know everything I can about the core of it, please.”

The image in the glass shimmered. Some of it fell away, leaving only a whirling, tangled mass of fine lines spinning slowly against the dark.

“Observe,” said the Tower. “There are four thousand, nine hundred, and fourteen elements. Each is independent of the other…”

The Tower droned on. Mug watched Donchen leave the palace. Meralda covered three pages of drawing paper with notes and sketches. Donchen ambled down crowded city streets, his hands in his pockets, his lips pursed in a carefree whistle.

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.

Meralda darted off the step, nimbly fell in step behind a Phendelit flower girl, and headed toward Donchen.

As she walked, a pair of shadows fluttered past. Crows?

Meralda put her head down and hurried past the flower girl.

Donchen was indeed concealing his almond-shaped eyes and inky black hair behind a charm. The spell lent him the appearance of a weary Eryan dock worker, complete with battered felt cap and sooty, calloused hands from handling dirigible mooring ropes.

But the spell failed to extend to his soft-soled shoes. Meralda spotted them instantly, gliding down the sidewalk, and she put herself square in his path.

He stopped, his bearded Eryan face breaking into a wide grin.

“You’re being followed,” said Meralda, before he could speak. She caught his elbow and guided him off the sidewalk and into the doorway of a cigar shop.

“Really? What an amazing day I’m having. By whom?”

“Loman. And mages Shingvere and Fromarch. They’re even sharing a cab.”

Donchen sighed and rubbed his face. His hand passed through the specter of his beard. “Marvelous. Do you think our spell casting friend has spotted them yet? He’s trying to transport a rather large spell, by the way. Where to, I have no idea.”

“I know.” Meralda wished Donchen was wearing his own face. “It’s aimed at the Tower. I’ll know more once it’s latched. But for now, I need to keep Fromarch and Shingvere as far away from the Vonats as possible. They’ll detect it, too, and there’s no telling what they might do.”

“Something involving a massive explosion, I surmise.” Donchen put a finger to his chin. “I don’t think anyone has seen me. Shall I go on ahead, see what I can see?”

Meralda nodded. “Go. I’ll turn the mages around. But do be careful, won’t you?”

“I am a ghost,” said Donchen, with a smile. “As such, I have little to fear.”

And he sauntered out of the doorway, and vanished into the crowd.

Meralda resisted an urge to watch him go. “Your shoes,” she called, not knowing if he heard, or understood.

Then she whirled and made her way up the street in the opposite direction, darting to the edge of the sidewalk so she could see oncoming cabs well before they passed.

“We almost ran you over,” growled Fromarch.

“What you almost did was ride headlong into a Vonat spell,” said Meralda, forcing herself to keep her voice lowered to whisper. “And you waving the Infinite Latch around! What do you think might have happened if the Vonat had decided to hurl something your way?”

“We’d have ruined a room or two, what with all those stinking Vonat ashes,” said Shingvere, waggling a finger at Meralda. “We’re hardly first years, you know. I have done a bit of magic in my time.”

Meralda hushed him with a furious gesture. All around them, bemused diners looked on, forks paused in mid-raise, ears turned and listening.

Loman, the elderly Hang wizard, laughed to himself as he tried to wrap Phendelit noodles around his fork.

“You still haven’t told me what the three of you were out doing,” said Meralda.

“We’re just three old men, out enjoying a cab ride,” said Fromarch. “Isn’t that right?”

“Nonsense.” Meralda glared. Loman met her gaze and winked. “Why were you following Donchen?”

“Who?”

“Never met the man.”

“Donchen is dead,” said Loman, in perfect New Kingdom. “How does one follow a ghost?”

“You’re insufferable, the lot of you!” Meralda pushed back her chair and rose. “Do I have your words, as gentlemen and scholars, that you will take a cab back home and stay there? Please?”

Fromarch exchanged shrugs with Shingvere. “Fine. We’ve got a bit of beer to drink, as I recall.”

“We certainly do.”

Loman nodded owlishly. “I myself enjoy the occasional fermented beverage.”

Meralda glared, turned, and stalked out of the diner.

Fromarch let the door slam shut before speaking.

“How did she know?”

“Search me,” said Shingvere. “I was sure she was holed up in the laboratory.”

“She is a very clever young woman,” said Loman. “Do you often see crows inside your eateries?”

Fromarch frowned. “Never.”

“My old eyes,” replied Loman. “So, shall we do as your mage bids, and go home?”

“Eventually,” said Shingvere. “Eventually.”

Fromarch grinned and waved to the waiter for a check.