The Universal Mirror

by Gwen Perkins

  It was the abruptness of the gesture that gave Quentin pause. Asahel was always gentle with the subjects that they chose—gentle in a way that made no sense, perhaps—but he had always been that, gentle. Quentin had never thought it odd that he insisted on covering the bodies and reburying them in well-dug graves. He had thought of it as a precaution. Now, he saw that it was something more. What, Quentin didn’t understand.

  Asahel stepped away when he had finished, his skin still blotched with the flush of anger.

  “Is Taggart going to bury him, or have we got to do it?” The “we” had the sense of an “I” behind it. Quentin tried to swallow his irritation at the comment, knowing that Asahel had been left to do the cleanup more than once.

  “No, he said he’d come. It’s easier for him to come to the warehouse.” He almost added “you know that” but stopped himself. There was no need to antagonize Asahel further.

  “Fair enough.” Asahel’s shoulders slumped.

  “Asahel,” Quentin couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry. About being—” Irreverent? But we have no gods now. That’s old mythology… children’s stories. “Callous. But what did you expect?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Something different.”

  “Different? Than what?”

  Asahel ignored the question. His feet dragged across the wooden planks of the warehouse, one heel after another. They were in the heart of Sailors’ Row, a choice that had surprised Quentin when his friend had suggested it. It had been a wise decision in spite of his misgivings—the sailors rarely made note of either of them as they passed through the streets. When they did, it was simply to tip their heads to Asahel. Quentin, they paid no mind. He’d grown used to it eventually, just as he’d grown used to the scent of cassia in the breeze and the taste of brine in the back of his mouth.

  “We never talked about the letter,” Asahel said.

  “Have you gotten another?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps it wasn’t what you thought.” It had been in Catharine’s hand, Quentin feared. There was no way to explain her actions to Asahel, not when he didn’t know their reason.

  “You were the one with the thoughts. I didn’t insist on turning it into an inquisition,” Asahel murmured. “It wasn’t Felix.” He lifted his head and Quentin saw nothing but trouble in those dark eyes.

  “Carnicus,” he said, as if reducing Felix to a surname would lessen his influence. “He’s smarter than either of us, you know. He could fool us both and not even think twice of it.”

  “Aye, he’s smarter.” The sentence was almost a sigh. “But he’d not send a letter to do what he could to your face.” Asahel’s mouth quirked slightly upwards as he noted, “Yours in particular, Quent.” Then he shook his head, dark curls wavering in the wind. “No, he’s a want to know what we’re doing but he’s not shy in asking. And he has been.”

  Don’t I know that well. It was a sour truth.

  “Wasn’t the letter more of a threat?” Quentin tried. If Asahel knows it was Catharine, he’ll never trust me again. And why should he? She clearly must want my head, and I know he thinks I’d give it to her. Without realizing, he’d again begun twisting the locket and chain around his fingers.

  “It’s not him,” Asahel repeated. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “I didn’t know you were such good friends as that.” The words were ugly, the tone uglier still. Asahel’s face crumpled under them, a brilliant swath of red making his embarrassment plain.

  “No. Don’t… don’t talk like that.” He rubbed his nose with his knuckle. The man didn’t take mockery at the best of times and this was not that. Quentin saw that his mark had drawn blood and hesitated.

  Like what?

  “Fine,” Quentin said instead. “So you believe that Felix didn’t do it because he’s convinced you somehow. And you haven’t gotten any other letters. Perhaps we consider the matter dropped and leave it at that.” He felt the light weight of the chain on his finger again. It’s a locket. She’ll have a picture or a lock of hair inside… who will it belong to? Is it some other man that has her chasing us? Heresy is punishable by death, and she knows that. Everyone knows it.

  “It’s important,” Asahel argued. “It was so important to you not so long ago, and now you’ve decided it’s not?” Every line of his body seemed to strain backwards as he remained where he was. “What about Catharine?”

  “What about her?” Quentin knew he was a good liar but it never failed to surprise him how easily it came. “Do you know so many women who could write a letter like that? It isn’t as if they spend their hours in schooling.”

  Catharine had, however. She was an heiress with parents who felt their fortune left best in the hands of a woman who could manage it and her husband alike. Asahel could not have known that for certain, Quentin believed, but he’d spoken to her briefly. It was hard to think of Catharine as a woman who didn’t control her own destiny.

  “I only met your wife once,” was what Asahel said. Is that doubt in his voice? Quentin tried not to slip as he nodded.

  “And that was at a ball, which she hates. She’s not normally that…”

  “Aye, Quentin, she is.” Now the tremble in Asahel’s voice was nothing more than sympathy. “All of Pallo knows that.” Quentin couldn’t stand the way that the other man looked at him then with knowledge gained from men he thought his enemies. Catharine’s feelings towards him were the one thing that Quentin had never been able to lie about—not even to himself.

  “She’s why you do this, isn’t it?” Asahel asked the question so softly that Quentin could barely hear it.

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  Asahel swallowed, then opened the door. Watery light flowed into the room, casting gray shadows on the table as his friend stepped out into the street. He gestured to Quentin to follow but the redhead shook his head in return. Behind the other man, he could hear the calls of fishmongers and seamen and the shrill cries of gulls as they swooped down upon the ocean. He wasn’t ready for that world and its noisy blasts of color and he closed his eyes against it, listening for the shutting of the door.

  When it came, Quentin stared out at the room, feeling how small it really was. He moved away from the pale white sheet that draped across the table and the man who lay upon the battered wood. His back fell against the wall, ignoring the splinters that poked through the thin fabric of his shirt as he grasped the locket, squeezing it so hard in his palm that it felt it might bruise.

  You have to know, he told himself. It could mean your deaths.

  He pressed his lips together tightly, took one long breath, then opened the locket.

  Chapter 15

  Spring was coming upon Cercia. The days had grown longer, little by little, and it could be seen in the grateful eyes of the shipwrights as they looked up at the clouds. The docks were filled with sound and action. As the weather warmed, more men were needed to man the boats and begin the preparations for the summer’s journeys when the seas would calm. Three of those ships were in port now, but it was only one that Asahel cared about. The Serenissma.

  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 o
f 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.

  Chapter 16

  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 we
nt 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.

  Chapter 17

  “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?”