Free All the Paths of Shadow by Frank Tuttle

don’t think they will,” he said. “But I’d ask them nicely first, all the same. No harm in being polite, is there?”
    “No harm in being a soft-headed old fool, either,” muttered Fromarch. He leaned back into the shadows. “But do have a care latching spells to the Tower,” he said. “We had a devil of a time, way back when.”
    “Aye,” Shingvere said. “The structural spellworks left a residual charge. New spells tend to unlatch, after a short time. Even old skinny there had trouble working around it.”
    Fromarch began to snore. Shingvere yawned and rose from his settee, padding quickly across the dimly lit room toward Meralda. “Well,” he said, smiling. “Just like old times. Seems we young folks need to put the oldsters to bed.”
    Shingvere offered his hand, and Meralda took it, and rose. “It’s good to have you two back,” she said, in a whisper. “I’ve been worried about him, since he retired. He used to come around, but lately...”
    “He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re still working in his shadow,” replied Shingvere. “He’s really not such a bad old fellow, once you get to know him. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a bit of company here, now and then.”
    Meralda nodded. I’ll make the time, she vowed. Yvin can deal with it in any way he pleases.
    Shingvere grinned. “That’s my ’prentice,” he said. Fromarch began to mumble restlessly.
    “I’ll see you at court, I’m sure,” said Shingvere. “Tomorrow. But for now, we should all get some sleep. News of the Hang will break tomorrow, and that will make for a very long day of hand-wringing and useless conjecture.”
    Meralda groaned softly and rose. Shingvere took her hand, and the pair tip-toed, giggling and stumbling, through Fromarch’s darkened sitting room.
    Meralda gathered her light cloak from the rack on the wall and stepped outside. Angis and his coach sat in the dim red glow of a gas lamp. Angis’ cabman’s hat slumped over his eyes, and his chest rose and fell in perfect time with Fromarch’s snores.
    Shingvere laughed. “Looks like we’re the only ones left awake,” he said.
    “Good night,” said Meralda, struggling to regain her composure. “It’s been a lovely evening.” She shook her head to clear it, letting the cool night air wash over her face.
    Shingvere bowed. “Aye, lass, that it has,” he said. “Would that I were thirty years younger.”
    Meralda returned his bow. “You’ve been an old bachelor all your life,” she said. “But I love you anyway, you rascal of an Eryan wand-waver.”
    Then she turned and darted for the cab. Shingvere laughed and bowed and watched her go. He waved once to Angis as the cabman snapped his reins. Then he turned back to the door and Fromarch’s lightless sitting room.
    Inside, Fromarch stirred. “She gone?” he asked.
    “Gone,” said Shingvere, settling into a chair and fumbling in the dark for his pipe pouch.
    Fromarch muttered a word, and a light blazed, slow and gentle, from a point below the center of the ceiling.
    “Thank you,” said Shingvere, filling the bowl of a blackened, ancient Phendelit wood pipe. “May I?”
    “Please do,” said Fromarch. A flame appeared at Shingvere’s fingertip, and he lit his pipe with it.
    “She’s in for a bad summer,” said Shingvere, after a moment of sucking at the pipe stem. “The Hang. The Tower. The Vonats.”
    Fromarch nodded. “Vonats are sending that new wizard of theirs. Humindorus Nam. Mean piece of work.”
    “So I hear,” said Shingvere. “Think the stories are true?”
    Fromarch snorted. “Every other word, if that,” he said. Then he frowned. “Still. Met him once, years ago, outside Volot. Don’t ask what I was doing there.”
    “I won’t,” said Shingvere. “Mainly because I’ve known for years, but go ahead.”
    “Met him then,” said Fromarch, squinting back as if across the years. “Called himself just Dorous, then. Mad, he was. Twisted up inside. Didn’t