The Obsidian Mirror

by Catherine Fisher

  As I look down from the window, I see it is a man. He looks up. He has dark hair.

  He is a stranger.

  Jake tasted the vile brew again; this time it was infinitely worse. He put the chipped china cup down politely. “Thanks.”

  Moll looked at his face. “Too sour for you?”

  “No. It was lovely. Thanks.”

  “Eat, then.”

  She waved at the selection of faintly rancid pastries, obviously stolen from the bins of some bakery. He picked one up and took a cautious bite. He had no idea what it was, and didn’t want to ask.

  They were sitting on the floor of a tiny space that Moll called her “crib”—a heap of dirty blankets and possibly clothes, and they were taking tea. He wasn’t sure if the girl was playing some game of make-believe or was deadly serious; certainly her pride in having him there seemed only too real.

  The crib was a small balcony or box, high up on the side of the theater. If he stood up, he would be looking down into where the front rows had once been, but now that space was a makeshift squatter camp of flimsily constructed shelters, tents, even small buildings made of poles and partitions and props and scraps of once bright theater curtain. On the wide stage itself men sat and drank, women roared with laughter, dogs and babies fought. It stank of gin and ordure, the roof greasy with candle soot.

  It was a vision from a nightmare.

  “Look,” he whispered. “I don’t have much time. These men…”

  “Filchers.”

  “Okay. These filchers. I need to find them. Fast.” He had sudden fears of the men selling the bracelet in some dingy pawnshop, of it tossed among a heap of useless metal, slithering unnoticed to the bottom of the pile.

  “I told you. I know them and I’ll show them.” Infuriatingly complacent, she was eating what might have been half a sausage; she gave a quick sideways jerk of her head. “They’re down there. But wotch they don’t see you.”

  He turned and peered down. “On the stage?”

  “Wiv the drabs.”

  “The what?”

  “Drabs. Trulls. The tarts!” She slipped up behind him and jabbed a thin finger, and he saw them.

  Two men, one thickset, the other, the one he’d kicked, a skinny ferret-thin man. They were sprawled among a pile of broken scenery drinking; one had his arm around a frowsty-looking woman in a torn red skirt and not much else.

  “Right,” Jake said. “I get it. But the stuff they stole—the bracelet—where is it?”

  She wriggled next to him and waved the sausage past his nose. “They’ll have the stash up there, where they keep all their stuff. See look, a-hanging.”

  He saw. High up, suspended from the rickety walkways above the stage, looped with ropes and pulleys, a leather bag swung high and safe.

  “No one can get at it there,” Moll said thoughtfully. “Leastways, they don’t think so.”

  Jake frowned. The men were drinking immediately below. “Including me.” He shuffled back and turned around. “But I have to get it back, Moll. I have to.”

  She pushed the dirty cup at him. “It’s fine. Don’t fret. Drink yer tea and sleep for a bit. I’ll keep watch, and soon they’ll be snoring. And then, you and me, we can climb up. See? I’ll show you a way. Easy as kiss-me-hand.”

  Jake took another absent slurp of the brown liquid.

  Below, the raucous shouts of laughter broke out even louder.

  Wharton stormed into the kitchen.

  Sarah turned. “This is Gideon. A friend.”

  The boy’s presence threw Wharton right off track. Who was he? How had he gotten here? He felt for a moment as if the whole tangle was a dream; that he would wake up soon in his narrow bed in the school and see the fresh white Alps behind the pile of books to be marked on the windowsill.

  Behind him, Rebecca came in, a little breathless. She stared at Gideon.

  Then Wharton said, “Never mind him, Sarah. Who are you?”

  “What?” She had that wary, careful glance he was beginning to recognize. “I don’t…”

  “You’ve been lying to us since the start. You’re not this escaped patient. I just heard on the radio that that girl’s already been found. That was just some story you used to get in here.”

  “What?” Rebecca said.

  “It’s true. Look at her face.”

  Sarah knew she was pale with dismay and frustration. Rebecca came and stood by Wharton, folding her arms. Gideon perched on the table, feet dangling, watching with interest.

  Rebecca said, “Is this true?”

  Suddenly she was tired of pretense, of being alone among them. “All right. So what if it is.”

  Wharton came up to her and stared in her eyes, and his hurt would have made her ashamed if she had let it, but she had to think about ZEUS now, about the others who were lost, about the black hole Janus would make of the world.

  “Is that all?” he said.

  She shrugged. “I can’t explain. Not to you. To Venn.”

  She expected anger but instead, very gently, he reached out and turned something hanging at her neck, and she realized he had the half coin in his fingers, that it had slipped out of her scarf and that he was staring at it in strange disquiet.

  He dropped it and stepped back.

  “Lock the door,” he snapped.

  Rebecca ran and slipped the bolt, standing with her back to it.

  Wharton’s eyes were steely. He faced Sarah without moving. “I want to know exactly who you are, lady. Where you came from, what you want here. No lies, no excuses. And I want to know now.”

  18

  That a man could grow quietly into so much power. That he could plan and scheme and have his enemies removed one by one, and then his allies, until finally everyone is too terrified to speak out against him. Until he rules with a scepter of steel.

  We should have seen this coming. This is history; it has happened again and again. But if he then discovers a weapon that can destroy the world…

  We are the first to fight against such a terror.

  Illegal ZEUS transmission

  “WAKE UP, CULLY. It’s time.”

  The small hand was shaking his shoulder; he rolled over and nearly groaned, but the dirty fingers clamped tight on his mouth.

  Moll drew back. Her tangled hair had been pushed into a man’s cap; her eyes were lit with excitement.

  Jake sat up. He must have slept for a few hours; he was stiff and sore from the hard floor and his mouth was dry. Scratching his hair, he felt fleabites. He whispered, “Water?”

  She shook her head.

  “Probably just as well. So, where are they?”

  In answer she squirmed alongside him, and they both peered cautiously over the balcony.

  The thieves had drunk themselves into oblivion. They lay sprawled on the cluttered stage, one on a bench, the other curled in a heap of old coats and cloaks, only his head showing.

  The women had gone.

  “Right.” Jake glanced up at the swinging bag. “We need to lower that. Are there some pulleys?”

  She looked at him sadly, as if he were the child of ten. “Not as works, cully. You have to climb.”

  He scowled. Silently, she pushed him through the door out of the balcony.

  The sleeping theater was a nest of rats. They scattered in rustling scutters as the small girl led Jake, her hand in his, along the rotting corridors. Ancient posters hung in rags, layer upon layer of lost comedy acts and forgotten singers, of plays mildewed into obscurity.

  The backstage area was a maze of bedding and rubbish. A woman squatting in a corner turned and stared at them, and Jake saw she held a baby, swaddled tight to her chest.

  Moll put her finger to her lips; the woman stared, blank with weariness.

  What had once been the wings stank now; pools of what Jake hoped was water ran on the boards, some of which had been ripped up for firewood.

  He paused.

  The bag of loot swung overhead. It was at least fifteen meters
up, and the rope it hung from snaked down and was firmly tied around the big thief’s waist.

  Jake swore, silently.

  Moll tugged him down, her small lips tickled his ear. “Look there. You’ll have to climb.”

  Slung next to it was a thicker cable, rising in a great loop. He gazed at it, then at the men. He said, “Right. You stay here. If they wake, they mustn’t look up. Do you understand?”

  “Clear as muck, Jake.”

  He took the cable in his hands. It was filthy, and the fibers creaked, but it was strong and as he tested it carefully he knew it would support him. He slid his hands up, gripped with his feet, and began to climb.

  Hand over hand he hauled himself up. The rope’s end twitched and swayed; then it came loose from somewhere and skittered over the stage, making a soft rustle that froze him in fear.

  The big thief snored.

  Moll, crouched in the darkness, gave him a double thumbs-up. He climbed on.

  Soon his hands were red and sore, his knees and back one fierce ache. The higher he went, the more the rope swung, its end kinking and flicking. Up here it was dark, and sweat stung his eyes, but at last he was alongside the bag, its dim shape an arm’s length away.

  This was tricky. He tried to reach out and grab it. Twice he missed.

  The third time, with an effort, he forced the cable to swing, and as the swing brought him close he caught at the bag and this time held it, the leather soft and yielding. Gently, he drew it toward him.

  The cord leading down strained tight around the fat man’s belly. He snuffled and muttered something in his sleep, flinging out one arm.

  Carefully, gripping only with knees and ankles, Jake eased his hand inside the bag. He felt cloth, the greasy edges of coins. He felt the solid round lump of a gentleman’s watch. And he felt the bracelet.

  Its snake form was cold under his fingers.

  He tugged at it.

  Coins slid and clinked. He had it but it was tangled on something in there; he pulled it again with more force.

  The rope swung, the cable swept. In a sudden dizzying moment he lost his grip; his ankles slid, he grabbed wildly at the rope and at once he was upside-down, gasping, the snake bracelet ripped from the bag of loot that tipped out all its contents, crashing, tumbling, an iron rain, onto the sleepers on the stage.

  Sarah said quietly, “I never actually said that girl was me. I let you believe it. I saw the report in the paper and the photograph was like me. It was too good a chance to waste.”

  They were all gazing at her as if they didn’t know her anymore. It was hard, but she pushed the cropped hair behind her ear and floundered on. “My name is really Sarah, just not Stewart. I…”

  Wharton pointed to the coin. “Explain that. In the journal, Symmes is given it as a token. Zeus. Why is it significant?” His voice betrayed his anger.

  She stared. “You read the journal?”

  Wharton looked slightly red. “Well, I went into Jake’s room and there was all this stuff…”

  She nodded. “The journal is about the past. I don’t come from the past. I come from the future.”

  Rebecca stifled a grin; Sarah’s eyes flickered to her. “Don’t laugh at me.” She glanced back at Wharton. “He believes me.”

  He shrugged. “Yesterday…an hour ago…I would have laughed too.”

  “She’s telling the truth.” Gideon’s voice was cool and disinterested. “I’ve seen her—she was a little girl. They took—will take—her parents away.”

  She stared at him, dizzied by the way all time was one for him. Then she said, “I will be born here. But my Wintercombe is a ruin. A place of ghosts. A colony where ragged people live like rats, and where I hide my secrets in a hiding-hole in a brambled room.” She shrugged, and went and sat on the inglenook bench, staring into the flames. “I can’t tell you all of it. But there was a man in the camp called Janus. He started off as one of us. One of the revolutionaries. Gradually, he changed. Became one of them. My father said, ‘He’s going too far. Thinks he’s more important than the cause.’ One night, in winter, we heard him on the radio. TV was long gone, the Internet dead. We heard Janus and we knew he was all that was left. My mother laughed, but my father was afraid. It only took an hour after that for the headlights of the trucks to come roaring down the drive. They took my parents away. I don’t know where. They took me to the Labyrinth.”

  Gideon came softly and sat next to her. “A place of terror?”

  She laughed. “A place where I learned to be invisible. A place of secret experiments and strange procedures. A place where they studied humans, how to make them more than mortal.”

  He laughed too. “More than mortal!”

  Rebecca shivered.

  “But a few of us were stubborn.” Sarah looked up. “We formed a resistance cell. We called ourselves ZEUS because of the coin, and because of the story, the legend in Greek mythology…”

  “What legend?” Rebecca asked,

  Wharton nodded. “I see. Chronos—that is Time—was a Titan who murdered all his sons one by one. Until Zeus was born. Zeus was the one who defeated Time.” He looked at her. “How many of you were there?”

  She shrugged. “Six. Six friends. Angry, disaffected kids with no hope. No plan. Until we found out about the mirror.”

  Wharton got up and put a new log on the fire, pushing it well down into the hot red embers. “So you get yourself in here, you make us feel so sorry for you, you lie and pretend, and all the time you want to steal the mirror?” His anger was sharp as a wasp. He stood there and dusted his hands and held her with his annoyingly honest stare.

  “Not to steal,” she said quickly.

  “Then…”

  “To protect it. From Janus ever getting it.”

  She glanced at Gideon. He sat in the inglenook, watching the crackling fire. His hands were around his knees, his whole body twisted away from the iron work. He was listening intently.

  She hurried to escape the lie, maybe too quickly. “He’s experimented with it. We don’t know details, but we do know that it works and that he’s journeyed because…because of the Replicants.”

  Wharton said, “All this is fascinating, but…”

  “No, please. Listen.” She turned to him, her blue eyes fierce. “This is important. If a journeyman makes a mistake…if you come back at the wrong time…that is, if you come back before you leave…don’t you see? There will be two of you. We call it replication. Janus must have done that, because he has at least several Replicants. One of them is here, outside, in the grounds. Now.”

  “And the wolf,” Gideon said. “Don’t forget the wolf.”

  “He breeds them. They smell out the tracks of a traveler in time.”

  Wharton frowned. “But, the snow.”

  “Won’t stop him. He’ll use it. He’s already cut the power.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “All this…it sounds crazy.”

  “Who asked you?” Sarah swung around, irritated. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  The tall girl shrugged. “I came to warn Jake…”

  “Why?” Sarah said, suspicious. “About Janus? Then how did you—”

  “Look.” Wharton’s voice was sharp. “The house is secure. Any minute now Piers will get the lights working. No one can get in. I assure you.”

  The crash silenced him.

  He stared at Sarah. Then they were both out of the archway and running down the frosty corridor, under the bells. Hurtling into the hall, Wharton stopped dead, seeing the front door had been burst wide open, the lock still smoking. Snow swirled over the black-and-white tiles of the floor.

  Behind him, Sarah said, “He’s inside.” She turned to him, her face pale. “Get to the Monk’s Walk. Quickly. Or we’re finished.”

  “Oh, I intend to. But not you.” Wharton blocked her way. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere near that mirror, Sarah. Because everything you’ve told us could still be a pack of lies.”

  Deep in the ligh
tless house, Maskelyne heard the crash. He had crouched, shivering, trying to rub feeling back into his arms and shoulders for long minutes; then he had explored carefully, opening doors, peering into rooms, working his way silently into the heart of the ancient building, its scents of wax polish and old lavender.

  He knew the device was here. In some inexplicable way he could sense its waiting presence, feel its tingling aura in his nerves. The mirror recognized him. He moved toward it, down passageways, up stairwells, treading stealthily down the empty expanse of the Long Gallery.

  The crash stopped him, under a portrait of a long-dead Lord Venn. Someone had forced open the front door. For a moment he heard the blur of anxious voices, then he ran, up a narrow spiral stair that led to the first floor.

  He walked stealthily down the corridor and turned a corner.

  Piers was waiting for him.

  The small man smiled, satisfied. “So. It is you after all.”

  He stood in his grubby white coat, the red waistcoat bright under it, his small feet planted firmly. He had no weapon, but Maskelyne knew he didn’t need one. This was no human servant.

  He stopped. “You know me?”

  “You’re in Symmes’s journal. You’re the one he stole the mirror from.” His voice was conversational. Piers strolled down the corridor. “I’ve seen you on the cameras. You’ve been trying to get in here for months.” He came up to Maskelyne, curious. “Did you journey? Did you come straight from that night in the opium den?”

  Curiosity. The bright eyes were wide with it. It was the one weak point Maskelyne understood. He let his shoulders slump; allowed exhaustion to cross his marked face. He said, “I’m lost in this time. I just want the mirror. My mirror.”

  There was a small blue-and-white ceramic pot on the wide windowsill. That would do, if he could reach it. Quickly he drew the slim glass weapon from his pocket.

  Piers laughed, as if surprised. “That won’t hurt me.” He came right up to it; let the barrel rest against his chest, almost friendly. “I’m not the sort of being that can be destroyed with a weapon.”

  Maskelyne nodded. “I know that,” he said. Then he spoke, so fast, so low, the whisper was barely intelligible; a rapid spell in ancient Latin and lost Celtic, the words garbled backward, forward, inside-out, and opposite, a web of knotted sound, a rattle of power.