The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

You owe Bedeckt for that.

  She blinked and a tear leaked from an eye.

  It was almost enough to make her want to forgive the bastard for abandoning her.

  She brushed the tear away on a filthy sleeve and bared yellow teeth at the empty hall.

  But not quite.

  Maybe she’d find some way of repaying him his one kindness before she killed him.

  I’m not crying for that undeserving sack of cat turds.

  More tears came and she hissed in anger as she swiped again with the sleeve. More tears. She couldn’t stop them. They flowed like a hot river of anguish and shame and anger. Unable to see, she stopped and leaned against the wall.

  He doesn’t deserve my tears.

  But she couldn’t stop. Her shoulder shook with spasms of loss and she punched the wall over and over until her fist felt broken and blood seeped around the sharp stones embedded in the tattered flesh of her knuckles.

  Bedeckt always trusted her, even though he knew she was untrustworthy. She knew he knew she stole from him. Not once did he confront her or even comment on it. He accepted her for what she was in a way no one else did.

  No one but Lebendig, she corrected.

  She always knew where she stood with Bedeckt. She understood the limits of what he’d accept and what would push him to violence. Bedeckt was as predictable as the stones of this wall. Lebendig… Stehlen was less sure. Something blinded her to what the woman thought.

  And you’ve never dared steal from her. Was because she loved the woman, or was it fear of rejection? What if she avoided stealing from the Swordswoman because she couldn’t trust how Lebendig would react.

  If you truly loved and trusted her you would have stole from her? You’re not making any sticking sense.

  Stehlen turned her back to the wall and slid down into a crouch. Elbows on her knees, she leaned her face into her hands, feeling the blood of savaged knuckles commingle with tears. She couldn’t stand the thought of Lebendig leaving. It was too much to take. Too much abandonment.

  “Kill her before she leaves.”

  Listen to yourself.

  Stehlen tried to drag her fingers through her hair and gave up when they became entangled in the matted chaos. She’d kill the woman after she left. Anything else was madness. And then, after Stehlen killed Lebendig, the Swordswoman would once again be forced to serve in the Afterdeath. Was it Wichtig or Bedeckt who joked that he should spend more time killing people he liked so as to have friends in the Afterdeath?

  Stehlen rose to her feet, eyes cold, face tight with drying tears and blood. A streamer of snot hung swinging from her nose and she wiped that too on her sleeve leaving a smear of brown and yellow. Squaring her shoulders, she set off down the passage, grateful no one stumbled across her during her moment of weakness and wishing someone had so she could kill them for it. Upon finding the kitchen, she stood unnoticed in the door, listening to the two guards she previously met discuss a stupid Geborene spy imprisoned in the tower’s dungeon.

  “The idiot doesn’t even have a single scar,” said one. “How could he be a Swordsman?”

  “He is missing those two teeth,” said the other.

  The old man sighed. “I knocked those out, remember?”

  The fat one shrugged.

  “Anyway, once Schnitter gets through with him he’ll be nothing but scars.”

  “Or he’ll be nothing,” said the fat man.

  The two looked ill, like they’d eaten something rancid.

  Stehlen grinned and turned away, leaving the men to their dinner. No doubt that was Wichtig they had in the basement. The thought of that perfect face being marred lit a glow of warmth in her chest. For once this cruel shite storm called life made sense. She thought about finding Wichtig, mocking his stupidity at being caught by a couple of morons.

  No. Later. A few scars would give the vacuous windbag a little character. Anything that pretty needed to be damaged. Whatever happened to him was far too long coming.

  Tomorrow she’d find the Swordsman.

  Stehlen returned to her room, slowing as she approached the door. She hesitated, afraid of what she might find within. Had Lebendig already left? Would the room be cold and empty? Clenching her teeth, she pushed the door open and entered.

  Lebendig sat perched on the corner of the single cot, sharpening her swords. She glanced up and nodded at Stehlen. There was something in her eyes. Was it happiness?

  Is she glad to see me? Was she worried I wouldn’t return?

  Stehlen thought about the horrid wood carving, the vicious yellow eyes, the stained teeth bared in a perpetual snarl. No, Lebendig couldn’t be happy to see that. No one could love such a face. No one could love what lived under that skin. And yet here she was, waiting for Stehlen. Did she have some secret agenda? Could she be working for Morgen, yet another level of control and manipulation? Or did she simply await her own chance at vengeance? Stehlen killed her, after all.

  Stehlen attempted a smile and Lebendig returned it with a glint of humour and, for the first time, Stehlen wished the woman was as talkative as Wichtig. The windbag’s endless spew of inanity might be annoying, but at least she always knew exactly what was on his mind. Lebendig could be thinking anything behind that mask. Was she nothing more than a superb actor, or did she truly love Stehlen?

  Setting her swords aside, Lebendig stood. She reached out a tentative hand to lift Stehlen’s battered knuckles for inspection.

  “A fight?” she asked, face unreadable.

  “With a wall,” said Stehlen.

  Lebendig nodded as if this were a perfectly reasonable answer. “It lost?”

  “Of course.”

  Lebendig didn’t mock Stehlen as Wichtig would have and didn’t ask if she killed each and every one of the tower’s inhabitants as Bedeckt would have. Stehlen loved her for it.

  The Swordswoman pulled her to the cot. “Lie, down on your stomach,” she said. “You’re tense. You need a back rub and an orgasm.”

  Later, as the two women lay naked and spooning, Lebendig’s muscular arm encircling Stehlen as if she’d protect her from all the hurts of the world, the petite Kleptic felt warm and safe. She’d find Wichtig in the morning and either rescue or kill him, depending on her mood.

  She snuggled deeper into the big woman’s arms and slept the dreamless sleep of an innocent child.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  War isn’t insanity, it’s the base state for all reality. Plants war for sunlight. Animals war for food and water. Wolves battle to decide who leads the pack. All life is struggle.

  Peace, now that is insanity.

  —General Misserfolg, Selbsthass

  Riding a flawlessly white stallion draped in crisp white livery and looking like a man in his early twenties, Morgen led his army, fifteen thousand men and women, south. He glanced at the offensive stain besmirching his own white robes. Nothing he did, no amount of scrubbing or cleaning or directed delusion would erase that smear. He even changed robes, but the new ones always had exactly the same discolouration. Nacht, that goat-sticking arsehole, fouled him with his delusions. Morgen rubbed the horse’s forehead where there had been a dark patch of hair. The animal hadn’t been quite perfect and he’d improved it, bending his will to the task to forever erase that imperfection.

  If only people were so easily adjusted.

  Why is that? Why can I make a tabletop perfect or erase a small patch of dark hair on a horse with the slightest desire, but people require convincing?

  Clearly it was some underlying rule of reality, but not one he knew of. Had he discovered a new law? He’d have to look into this later, when he returned victorious from Gottlos.

  The difference between people and tables was clear enough: Tables were inert. As inanimate objects, they required little convincing to change. The difference between horses and people was less apparent. Both were alive, both had their own desires. Horses might be trained, but they possessed a will of their own. And yet making his horse perfectly whit
e was easy and changing the skin tone of even the most devout Geborene priest was not. Even after Morgen managed the feat, the woman returned to her natural skin tone once beyond his immediate sphere of influence. He’d been disappointed. The perfect, porcelain-skinned priestess gave him hope he could change all his followers, do away with their countless blemishes and imperfections.

  Perhaps if I first convinced all Selbsthass that the woman’s skin was perfect, the alteration would have held. And therein lay the conundrum. People were so damned difficult to convince. And the older they were, the deeper they were mired in their assumptions and expectations. If only everyone could be like—

  Children.

  That’s why Konig worked with children to build his god. After his Ascension, he learned from Konig and Failure that there had been many attempts at creating a god and that the others ended with the child either committing suicide or collapsing under the weight of their delusions. Why was Morgen different? Was I just the most easily convinced? What did that say about him? The first word to mind was gullible, but that was viewed as a weakness not far removed from stupidity. I’m not stupid. But the Theocrat, all the Geborene priests, Bedeckt, Wichtig, and Stehlen all lied to him and it wasn’t until the very end he saw their perfidy for what it was. Could he be gullible and not stupid? Did innocence and inexperience explain everything? I’m not stupid.

  But how could he be sure?

  Morgen spotted Trottel, an unimaginative moron whose sole task in this army was to shine boots, a job he was remarkably good at. Moving his horse closer he caught the man’s attention.

  “How go the boots, Trottel?”

  The idiot, shining General Misserfolg’s spare riding boots as he walked, grinned up at Morgen. “Good. Very shiny.” He leaned close to examine Morgen’s boots and nodded happily when he noted their perfection.

  How could he ask Trottel if he thought of himself as stupid without insulting the man? An idea occurred to him.

  “Trottel,” he said, leaning low so no one would overhear. “Who do you think the stupidest person in this army is?”

  “General Misserfolg,” Trottel said without hesitation.

  Morgen glanced at his General. The man was a military genius. No one ever beat Misserfolg at chess or any strategic game. If Misserfolg’s an idiot we’re in trouble. Luckily, Trottel was definitely an idiot.

  “Why do you say that?” Morgen asked.

  “He’s in charge. Only a fool wants that much responsibility.” Trottel shrugged and spat on the General’s boot before scrubbing again at the offending smear.

  Responsibility makes the man. Konig said that and the Theocrat was no fool. “And yourself?” Morgen asked, hoping not to cause offence. “Do you consider yourself intelligent?”

  “Yup,” said Trottel, attention locked on the boot.

  “Why is that?”

  “I clean boots.”

  “Yes,” said Morgen. “I know.”

  “No responsibility beyond boots. People will want to kill the General. But me? No. Everyone needs clean boots.”

  If the fool thought anyone in the shite-stain that was Gottlos cared about the cleanliness of their footwear, he was in for a surprise.

  Morgen moved his horse away. Trottel, clearly stupid, thinks himself smart. He decided he shouldn’t be surprised that idiots didn’t have the wit to see their own stupidity. But how to know the difference? How could Morgen know whether he was smart or a fool. I don’t feel stupid. Trottel probably didn’t either.

  After pondering the idea further, he decided he must be smart because no one in Selbsthass believed he was a stupid god. His priests worked to convince the population of his perfection, and how could a perfect god be anything less than intelligent? Come to think of it, he was probably more than intelligent. Wouldn’t a perfect god be a genius? Looking back, he certainly felt a lot smarter than before his Ascension.

  Morgen stood in his stirrups, surveying what he saw of his army. White carpeted the land. It was beautiful. Fifteen thousand men and women, all geared for war. Even the thousands of support personnel and beasts of burden wore liveries of white. Were he willing to wait a few more days the numbers would have swollen to perhaps twenty thousand. As his spies reported that Gottlos couldn’t field more than six thousand, this would do. He’d been patient and now it was time to act.

  By the end of the first day, he barely managed to get his troops out of Selbsthass and the army was stretched out over damned near fifteen miles. It was an embarrassment that General Misserfolg couldn’t match what Morgen achieved when playing with his toy soldiers. A professional soldier should be able to do better than a little boy. Perhaps Trottel was correct in his assessment of the general.

  Late in the day, as the setting sun disappeared behind a wall of clouds, Morgen watched in horror as his troops dug latrine holes and defensive trenches, scarring the perfection of the Selbsthass landscape.

  Morgen snapped his fingers to get General Misserfolg’s attention. He pointed at the offending soldiers. “What are they doing?”

  “Digging—”

  “I can see that. Why?”

  “Fifteen thousand soldiers make a lot of…” He glanced at Morgen. “We have to put the waste somewhere. Better buried than—”

  “They’re tearing up the ground! Can’t they carry it?”

  “Carry the leavings of fifteen thousand soldiers?” General Misserfolg looked at Morgen like he thought the godling had lost his mind. “We have not the horses and wagons.”

  Seeing he was no longer needed, the General turned away to do whatever it was he did when not bellowing commands at underlings.

  Horses. Morgen had one thousand mounted cavalry. He shuddered to think about the mess the beasts were leaving behind. And then there were the teams of horses pulling the supply and hospital wagons. As if on cue, his own horse farted and loosed stream of steaming urine and an impressive mound of shite. This damned animal was further from perfection than he realized. There was much still to be done. Someday his followers would no longer need to do such indecorous things as crapping and pissing. The old gods must have been disgusting creatures, obsessed with filth, to make such flawed creatures. Morgen would do better.

  Nacht’s face grinned at Morgen from the mirror-perfect blade of a nearby soldier.

  War is a filthy undertaking, said his Reflection.

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  Experienced with war, are you?

  “I’ve played all the war-games, tested my strategies—”

  With toy soldiers. Nacht gave him a pitying look. Look around you. See any toy soldiers here? Your toys don’t shite and piss and bleed and scream when they’re wounded. They don’t miss their families. They aren’t worried that, if this little war isn’t over fast enough, they won’t make it back to Selbsthass in time for the harvest.

  “Nice speech,” said Morgen. “War is like anything else. I can improve upon it.”

  Going to make the perfect war, are you?

  Morgen couldn’t help but feel he missed something in that strange question. “I war in cause of perfection. If I—”

  Have to get your hands dirty along the way, then so be it?

  That was not what he was about to say. “So be it,” he agreed.

  There’s a Mirrorist blocking me, said Nacht. She’s very powerful.

  “I don’t care. I don’t need you and I certainly don’t trust you.”

  I still see glimpses of possible futures.

  “Go away.”

  King Dieb Schmutzig knows you’re coming. Unbrauchbar is now a walled city.

  “Walls won’t stop my Geisteskranken.”

  True, agreed Nacht with a toothy grin. It will get…interesting in Unbrauchbar. Educational. But you won’t make it to Gottlos.

  “Nothing can stop me.”

  One thing can.

  Morgen eyed his Reflection. “And that is?”

  You.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  If there is a golden
centre to the city-states, it’s Geldangelegenheiten. If there is a shite-stained cancerous underbelly, it’s also Geldangelegenheiten.

  —Anonymous

  Zukunft nudged Bedeckt with a toe and he stared up at her from the tavern floor. Did she look even better from down here? Certainly this angle did interesting things to her breasts. Her nipples, erect from the cold, looked like they were trying to escape the damp shirt.

  She raised an eyebrow, noting the objects of his attention. “You’re bleeding.”

  Bedeckt did his best to look somewhere else but his eyes betrayed him. “I need a doctor. Someone with battlefield experience.”

  “In this town? I doubt it.”

  How could she be so damned calm?

  Bedeckt moved his hand, exposing the wound.

  Zukunft paled. “Shite,” she said, eyes widening.

  Exactly what I wanted to hear. Gods, he was so thirsty. “Get me ale,” he said from the floor. Sitting up to drink seemed like too much effort and he figured he’d upend the flagon over his open mouth. With some luck most of it would wind up in his belly. Hopefully it wouldn’t all leak out the hole in his side.

  “Wait here.”

  He watched as she dashed to the bar, searched behind it, and returned with several crusty rags stinking of stale beer, and a bottle of something cloudy and foul smelling.

  “I don’t think—”

  She pressed the rags into the wound, soaking them in blood. “Hold these in place,” she said.

  Bedeckt did as commanded, trying not to think about how filthy the rags were. What were they last used to mop up? Puke, probably.

  Again Zukunft stood and Bedeckt envied how quiet her knees were. Not to mention the shapely curves of her calf muscles. Stupid old man. This time she went outside, leaving him alone with the corpses. Going to be one soon. She returned in moments, kicking the door open and leading her horse into the room. What the hells is the horse going to do?

  Throwing the saddlebag opened, she searched through it, cursing, and scattering her few possessions about the floor. Finally, she drew out the mirror, and stood staring into its surface.