The Universal Mirror (18 page)

He walked up to the barque, his dark eyes sparkling as they surveyed her prow.  The figurehead was a mermaid whose face had been worn away by the tides, but at least she was whole.  Asahel’s foot scraped the gangplank, his toe half on it when he heard the call of Serenissma’s captain.

“Master Soames!”  Zuane’s face was beaming as he strode towards Asahel.  Zuane was a head and a half taller than Asahel and a man who rarely stood still—it was a wonder that he managed to fit on any ship at all.  Asahel often thought that he must have never served on a ship as small as the Serenissma, before but Zuane treated the barque with a respect he showed nothing else.  “Good day.  Isn’t it?  Look at this weather—we’ll be back on the tides before long.”

“You’re a bit anxious for it, aye?”  Asahel slid his foot back, hoping that Zuane hadn’t noticed.

“If a man gave up at the first sign of bad luck, we’d never get a thing done.”  Zuane shrugged.

“You were lost in the north for months,” he reminded the other man, noticing the strain in the hull.  The crew had mentioned that they’d been shelled as well.  Piracy.  It’ll be the ruin of anyone trading through Anjdur for much longer.  Asahel frowned.  Zuane looked chagrined, his fingers ruffling his own hair.

“I know, sir.  Look, why don’t you come aboard and see how she held up?  It’s not as bad as some would make you believe.”  Zuane offered, his long arms waving at the deck.  Asahel followed his motion, and then shook his head.  “Later.  I’ve got other things, and it’d be horrid if the wrong man was to catch me on that ship.”  It wasn’t quite Heresy, to stand on the deck of a docked ship, but whispers carried further than one meant them.  He thought of Felix and smiled, thinking that the other magician might leap at the opportunity. 

“Pleasant things, then?”  The captain commented and Asahel shook his head.

“No, not at all.”  He had to think about the warehouse and keeping it secure now that the yards were filling with workers, but that wasn’t a concern he could share.  “It’s the routine, a bit.  Papers and decisions.”  A heavy sigh followed.

“It could be worse,” Zuane said cheerfully.  “You could be Disappeared.”  The way that he said it gave the word a bit more import than it would normally deserve, as if to vanish was simply the start of a grand adventure.  Asahel shot him a look, wondering whether Zuane was somehow involved in whatever he had just mentioned.  He allowed no conscription on his vessels but he knew of other ship owners that pressed men into service continually.

“Disappeared?”

“You haven’t heard?  Sailors have loose lips when they’ve been drinking,” Zuane said, then amended, “Of course, you wouldn’t be drinking with them.”

No, I’m too high in their eyes for that, Asahel thought.  And too low in Quentin’s for the same.  He remained silent, answering Zuane with a nod.

“There’s been quite a few people gone missing, they say.  Oh, no one you’d see as important—more the sorts no one pays any mind to.”  Asahel’s heart skipped as the Captain spoke, rambling on and embellishing his story.  There was truth at the heart of it, however.  Asahel could see that in spite of his wild flourishes.

“When did they start?”  He interrupted, cutting Zuane off as he opened his mouth to take a breath.

“Why, I don’t know,” the man’s weathered brow wrinkled.  “Before Serenissma came into port, likely.  We’ve only been here three weeks, Master Soames.”

Asahel could feel the heat rising to his face.  Zuane must have noticed it as well because he added quickly, “Ask the lads, they’ll have heard.  They’re at the Devil and Fisherman most nights, half in their cups.”

“Aye.”  He remembered himself and gave the captain a watery smile.  There was no need to give Zuane reason to wonder about him—if the sailors had loose lips, the captain had a love for a story unparalleled by any man Asahel had ever met.  “I’ll be back about for the tour of the ship later?”

“Of course, sir.”  Zuane’s left eye squinted at him.  It narrowed further as Asahel walked off the pier, his short steps so quick that he was almost running.

It wasn’t until he reached the security of his front door that Asahel allowed himself to breathe.  The Soames house was small but somber.  The sound of his breathing was all that could be heard as he rested his head against the wall.  Disappearances… that began recently.  People no one would notice. 

Some things were too monstrous to believe and yet… the body of three weeks past was flashing behind his eyelids.  He remembered how neat the clothing had been.  He’d commented on it and listened to Quentin laugh about Taggart raising his standards.

But now.

With trembling hands, he walked to his study, sitting at his desk and pulling out two sheets of parchment.  The quill was unsteady in his hand as he began the first letter.  Asahel had a merchant’s hand, neat and legible, ideally suited to writing figures and issuing orders.  The paper before him was no evidence of that, ink dropping from his quill as he thought and blotting the page.

He began—

“Quentin.” 

A hard lump welled up in his throat as he realized that he needed to be concerned about other eyes.  It had been days since Quentin had mentioned Catharine, but her presence still hovered over their interactions.  There were others who could intercept the letter as well—Quentin’s house was twice as busy as Asahel’s own.  He scratched out Quentin’s first name, writing instead, “Lord Gredara.”

The next words came no more easily.

“We need to discuss our business arrangement—” The quill blotted again as Asahel hesitated, deliberating about what he needed to write.  “—particularly the origins of the cargo in question.” 

Asahel stared at the words as he dipped the quill into the pot, signing his name with a flourish.  He folded the page neatly, sealing it with the signet of his house in hopes that it would be seen as a business deal.  Catharine could not remember him, he thought.  It had been months since he’d seen her last.

His hand reached for the quill and inkpot again, setting it to the second sheet of paper.

“Felix.  I need—” He blotted out the last word.  “—want to talk to you about something.”  The quill dropped as he stared at the page. 

“You can’t do this, Asahel,” he whispered, just before he crumpled the paper in his fist.

Him.  His own was the face that Catharine carried closest to her heart.  Quentin couldn’t understand it, even now that weeks had passed.  If she cares for me, why is she so angry?  The thought haunted him even after he slipped the locket into one of Olina’s old aprons, knowing that it would be returned.

He saw the chain again on Catharine’s slender neck as they entered the Hall of the Winter Court.  It was buried underneath a collar of rubies, but he could still see the chain peeking at the edges.

“You look altogether too content,” Catharine’s voice was sharp as she glanced over at him.  It was the last ball before the Court made its progress.  Winter romances flared their last on this night as others looked to the summer.  He himself could feel eyes appraising him, aware that Catharine wasn’t blind to their looks, either.  It was obvious by the steeling of her face, jaw set as if she was readying for a fight.

“The winter’s almost over.”  The words were bright and his smile brilliant enough to fool even the geographer.  He leaned over and murmured into his wife’s ear.  “And I’m incredibly sick of parties.”

She looked disarmed.

“Shall we get something to drink, Catharine?”  He asked, his voice pleasant.  Quentin had started drinking long before they left their home, and he noticed that she had already leaned in to sniff his breath.  “You won’t give me a dance, but surely you’ll let me stand at your side a few moments more.”

“I don’t dance,” Catharine said, delicately stepping back.

“Not with me, but you will with a merchant.”  They passed a woman of House Hathering who gasped as she heard his statement.  Good, Quentin thought as he steered Catharine towards the wall.  Let her think that I’m jealous.  A sour swallow later, he realized, I am.

“He’s not just a merchant.”  She was striving to keep her words quiet, her throat straining with the effort.  “Quent, you’ve been drinking.”

“What do you mean—he’s not just a merchant?”  He sharpened his gaze, standing up tall.  He needed to know what she knew, he insisted to himself silently.  Her actions made little sense to him and Catharine was always sensible.  Her skin was paling as she looked at him, almost paper-white under the pox scars.  A lock of hair fell across her face as she tossed her head.  Quentin noticed that she didn’t push it away.

“You know him from university.”  The words were barely audible despite the pride in her stance.

“What do you know about it?”  He took another step towards her, she one back.  There were other faces in the room watching him now.  He didn’t care.

“I know you both went there.  That you were friends.”  Her dark eyes were skittish as they met his, more a wild deer than the lioness he so often thought her.

“There’s more.”  They were circling one another now.  It would have been a dance had the music not been half a step behind.  Catharine stepped forward unexpectedly, breaking the pattern by slipping her hand into his.

It felt for that moment that they were the only ones in the room.  She drew him onto the ballroom floor, their bodies closer together than any other couple dancing.  Her skirts brushed his hips as she lightly stepped to his side with the rhythm.  The music that played was simple—strings, flute, and drum—but the steps to this dance were intricate.  Her feet moved with a grace, and surety that betrayed how well indeed she knew it.

Then her lips grazed his ear, sending a shiver down his spine just before she whispered, “The Geographer’s watching us, you fool.”

He tried not to pointedly look at the dais behind her where Tycho sat, his corpulent body dominating most of the stage as the Prince hovered just beyond.  His maps were here, spread out across the table in front of him.  Quentin did not need to look to know that—the Geographer’s maps were instruments of power.  The magic within the maps was so strong that it throbbed down into the floor and through the palace, echoing into the blood of every magician present. 

That knowledge, and Catharine’s words, sobered Quentin swiftly.

“What do we do?”  He whispered back.

“We dance,” she said, a small laugh on her lips as she finished circling him.  They clasped hands and eyes again, moving as one to the beat.

“This?”  Quentin looked redder than Asahel had ever seen him, throwing the crumpled paper right at his chest.  Asahel caught it next to his skin, holding it there with both hands as Quent stepped forward.  The other man jabbed his finger into the back of Asahel’s hand.  “A letter, Asahel?  Really?”

“You’ve avoided this place for weeks,” Asahel said, stepping back.  He threw the paper into the small fireplace.  A few sparks flew up, as it burst into flame.  “I’d not have thought it any better to have come to your front door.”

“No,” Quentin’s gaze shifted to the fire.

“I wanted to speak, the two of us, without having—that to deal with.”  It was the magic that he meant, the magic and the death that went with it.  It was there in the room with them still, despite the fact that there was no corpse in the warehouse.  The table was just as conspicuous now that it was empty, simply because for the two of them to meet, it had become a requirement that the work be involved.

I want that to change—no, I need it to change, Asahel thought as he looked at Quentin.  But I don’t know how to say it.  His foot pressed down on a loose board, rattling it as he took another step towards the table. 

“There’s been a series of murders,” Asahel began, steadying himself on the table surface.  The wood was scarred already, singed from where their magic had burnt through one body after another.  “Near the docks is where I heard of it.”

“There’s always murder in this part of town,” Quentin replied.  “Is that what you wanted to speak about?”  The other man’s face relaxed, the knot in his brow unfurrowing as he looked at Asahel.  “You’re worrying over things that can’t be changed.”

“Where do the bodies come from, Quentin?” 

Neither of them moved.  It seemed to him that Quentin tensed again, coiling back up as if he was preparing a strike. 

“The grave robbers.  Taggart.  You know that.”

“I know that, aye.”  Asahel’s dark eyes focused on the redhead’s face.  He forced himself to remain steady despite the fact that he wanted desperately not to complete his own thoughts aloud.  “But where have they taken them from?  We’ve heard of no thefts from the Thana. They’ve never explained any of this to me and you’ve not told me what it is that they told you about it.  If you asked at all.”

The look in Quentin’s eyes as he turned again could not be mistaken for anything but guilt.

“Look me in the eyes, Quentin.”  He inhaled.  “And tell me that they’ve not been killing for this.”

Quentin didn’t turn back.  But he answered, in a voice so quiet Asahel could barely hear it, “I don’t know.”

“We can’t do this.”

“We have to.”