Thieves of Weirdwood

by Christian McKay Heidicker

  Arthur and Sekhmet crouched in an alley, eyes wide and fixed on the street. One of her hands was clamped firmly over his mouth, while the other pointed a sword toward the alley’s end.

  Arthur held his breath as the thing rolled past. It was as yellow as a sickly moon, and its body was made of feelers, like withered elephant trunks. They suctioned along the cobblestones, snorfling and oozing as the creature rolled its great mass through the twilight.

  The thing paused at the alley’s end. Sekhmet squeezed Arthur’s mouth tighter. One of the feelers sniffed toward them, and Arthur and Sekhmet held still as stone. When the feeler didn’t find anything, it retreated, and the creature continued down the street, like some deep-sea anemone searching for prey.

  It was only when the sniffing faded completely that Sekhmet released Arthur’s mouth.

  “That was unnecessary,” he said, stretching his jaw. “I wouldn’t make a sound around something like that.”

  Sekhmet sheathed her sword. “Have control over that mouth of yours, do you?”

  “I don’t talk that much,” Arthur said.

  “Oh good.” She stepped into the street. “I’ll look forward to complete silence for the rest of this mission then.”

  Arthur bit his lip.

  “Where’s the bookstore?” she asked.

  Arthur led her up Meadow Street—that is, Mildew Street—through First (Thirst) and Second (Fecund) Avenues. They climbed toward the black, sparkling stars, keeping behind trash cans and scaling fire escapes to avoid being spotted. The path was familiar to Arthur, yet not—like something in a dream.

  They passed a bank that resembled a hunched and looming giant, glaring at the city with its dark, windowed eyes. The corners where street musicians often performed spouted with fountains of light, filling the sky with images of hope and heartbreak. And Arthur could have sworn he spotted a flock of black, feathered shadows, perched on the laundry lines and leering at them with their all too human eyes.

  He was proud of himself for keeping silent when there were so many wonders to discuss. In fact, he managed to not say a single word … for half a block.

  “So how do I become a Novitiate?”

  “You don’t,” said Sekhmet.

  “Aw, come on. I’d be great at this stuff. I’ll be … What did you call 'em? Caviar and Antsy?”

  “Kishar and Anshar.”

  “Yeah! Those! What are those?”

  “Mage and paladin,” she said. “Huamei uses painting for his art. I use swords. He casts spells. I fight things. That’s why we’re supposed to stick together.”

  “Great. So how do I become the Kisser to your Asher?”

  “First, you pronounce them correctly.” Sekhmet was distracted, searching the oddly sloping rooftops for something. “After a child is selected by Lady Weirdwood, they study the delicate Balance between the Real and the Fae until they understand it as well as something so complicated can be understood. Then the true work begins. Novitiates train in their art for as many years as it takes for them to pass a test given by Lady Weirdwood.”

  A great sloshing sound made her go flat against a building, pulling Arthur with her. They peeked around the corner and spotted the bookshop where, in Real Kingsport, Arthur had stolen every new installment of Garnett Lacroix’s adventures … or had before the owner threatened to drown him in ink. Strangely, the Mirror bookstore was flooded with black liquid, sloshing in the windows but remaining perfectly flat against the open door. In the murk, a cuttlefish handed out books to swimming customers, rainbows rippling along its many tentacles.

  “Wait here,” Sekhmet said. “And do not move. Don’t even look around. Unless you don’t mind dying. Painfully.”

  She dove into the bookstore and vanished in the inky darkness. Arthur held his breath and waited. A few moments later, she exited, gasping for breath and dripping black. With a single swipe of her glowing sword, she cleaned herself of ink.

  “Not here either,” she said, disappointed.

  “That was amazing!” Arthur said. “You just dove in, like—”

  “Where’s your theater?” she interrupted.

  Arthur gestured. “Right this way, madam captor.” He led her up Center (Centaur) Street. “So what does this Rift look like?”

  “Imagine a hole in fabric.”

  Arthur stuck his finger through a hole in his shirt. “Don’t need to.”

  “A Rift is like that, only hanging in the air. When one opens in the Mirror, the Real bleeds through it, turning everything near the Rift back to normal. The buildings straighten their backs, the Mirror citizens look human again, and the bookshops won’t be flooded with ink.”

  “Got it,” Arthur said, scanning the street. “We need to find the patch of normal in this garden of oddities.”

  They reached the Grand (Banned) Theater, whose giant façade was composed of two giant, hideous masks that laughed and wept into the street. Sekhmet made Arthur wait outside again while she bought a ticket and went inside. She exited a few moments later, looking a little disturbed but shaking her head.

  “Where next?” Arthur asked.

  “That’s the question of the hour,” she said. “Rifts usually materialize because a mage from the Order of Eldar tears a hole in the Veil between the Real and the Fae. They tend to target areas where the Veil is thinnest because it’s easier to break there. Wardens are trained to search places where people use the most imagination. Theaters and bookshops. Orphanages and operas. But I’ve checked all of them, and they’re as solid and strange as ever.” She huffed. “My parents would have had this Rift sewn up in less than an hour.”

  “Imagination, eh?” Arthur said. “Why didn’t you say so? Fortune-Teller’s Alley is this way!”

  They climbed to the top of a roof and gazed out over River (Reaper) Road. Beastly lovers exited the Fortune-Smeller’s, holding hands and smooching—far too wetly and noisily for Arthur’s taste. There was no Rift.

  “I’d pass that Novitiate test of yours in a heartbeat, you know,” Arthur said, leading Sekhmet across the rooftops and brainstorming where to look next.

  “Think so, huh?” Sekhmet said.

  “Yeah! I mean, this is all standard fairy-tale stuff, right? A world in peril. Fantastical creatures run amok. I’ve read a hundred books like that! Here, I’ll prove it.”

  He examined the strange landscape, trying to solve the riddle of this world so Sekhmet might see him as something more than a glorified tour guide.

  “It seems to me,” he said loftily, “that this Mirror is a reflection of the citizens of Kingsport’s hopes and fears. These are not the buildings of my fair city, but how the people imagine them. It’s like Kingsport as seen in a distorted photograph. Or a fun house mirror.”

  Sekhmet’s face remained neutral as they gazed over Willow (Wallow) Street. The gambling dens were pasted with posters showing animals swimming in gold. But the sounds behind the doors were more like the noise of animals going to slaughter. Arthur and Sekhmet departed quickly, descending the opposite side of the building.

  Arthur continued his theory. “An important building like the bank hulks toward the stars while the poorhouse droops toward the ground. The people of Kingsport are afraid of Oakers, so in Mirror Kingsport, the officers grow to ogre-ish proportions.”

  He led her down the knotted twists and turns of the back alleys, like holes through cheese, taking a shortcut past the orphanage where a tarantula fed soup to a line of little birds, its fangs drooling as it watched them with its eight black eyes.

  “Meanwhile,” Arthur continued, “the casinos appear to be paradise but are actually slaughterhouses, Fortune-Smeller’s Alley is filled with empty promises of love, and the dresses on Lacey—er, Licey Lane grow as ridiculous as bird feathers. You call it a Mirror because it reflects not only the city but all of the dreams and nightmares the citizens hold in their hearts.”

  They passed the green glass walls of the city’s greenhouse, the Emerald Roof, which twined with vines that s
lithered like serpents with thorns and pulsed with red poisonous bulbs. A manhole cover burst open, and a bloodthirsty plant lunged at Arthur. Sekhmet decapitated it easily.

  “Thanks,” Arthur said, trying to pretend like he hadn’t almost had a heart attack. He took a breath and regained his train of thought. “Finally, that unsettling ball of elephant trunks we saw earlier must’ve been some great fear shared by the people in Kingsport. Let’s see…” He thought a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Aha! Debt! All of the unpaid bills and overdue rent are constantly rolling through the city, searching for delinquents.”

  Sekhmet nodded. “Not bad, kid.”

  Arthur wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered for the compliment or insulted because she called him kid.

  “Just one little correction,” she said. “You used words like imagination and fun house and photograph. But those are harmless. That would be like me referring to a knife in your heart as an insult. We’re walking through the literal hopes and fears of Kingsport—be it a mountain of gold or a ghost in your attic. Not to mention its legends and stories.”

  She pointed to a black cloud spewing from a factory. The cloud was made of tiny fanged mouths, which descended onto the city, hoping to chew up whatever lungs breathed them in.

  “If people have a nightmare or write a tall tale in the Real,” Sekhmet said, “it comes to life here and could murder us.”

  “Jeez.” Arthur rubbed his throat. “And I thought I’d read killer poetry before.”

  “And that ball of feelers?” Sekhmet said. “That wasn’t debt. Debt manifests as quicksand in the cobblestones and will swallow you as fast as falling. The city will chew you up and spit your bones into the sewer.”

  “Oh,” Arthur said, his pockets suddenly feeling light. “What was that thing then?”

  “That was a disease of some sort.”

  A coldness spread through Arthur’s chest. The Pox. That monster had slipped one of its many dripping snouts down his mom’s throat and stolen her life.

  “But—the Pox was wiped out four years ago. We have a vaccine for it and everything.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Sekhmet said. “But there is no vaccination for fear.”

  Arthur walked in silence, imagining what would have happened had that thing’s feeler caught them.

  “Don’t beat yourself up for not figuring all this stuff out,” Sekhmet said. “After we sew up this Rift, wherever it is, you’ll return to your life as a thief, and it won’t make any difference whether you understood the Mirror or not.”

  This pulled Arthur out of his dark thoughts. “I can’t just go back to my old life.” He stared at the stars, which had lines connecting the constellations. The crab was scratching the bear’s back. “Not after I’ve walked through an actual fairy tale. Kingsport will be so … depressing.”

  “You should be grateful to have a normal childhood,” Sekhmet said.

  Arthur was about to argue that his childhood was anything but normal, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Life in Weirdwood Manor is demanding. We’re constantly leaping from city to city, catching Fae-born, securing Rifts, and fighting the Order of Eldar, who want to poke holes in the Veil for their own personal gain. I didn’t have the luxuries that most kids did. No hobbies. No friendships besides my fellow Wardens. People close to me have died defending the Manor.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “My family has dedicated their lives to Weirdwood for sixteen generations. It’s been my honor to serve the Wardens since I was five.”

  Arthur quirked an eyebrow. “If I’d joined the Black Feathers that young, I definitely would have made Talon by now. Why are you still a Novitiate?”

  Sekhmet whirled on him. “For your information, I was the youngest person Lady Weirdwood ever granted full Wardenship.”

  “Jeez, sorry,” Arthur said. “Then what happened?”

  Her gaze fell to the ground. “I … proved I wasn’t worthy.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t ask me any more questions. I need to concentrate.”

  She quickened her pace, and Arthur followed at a distance.

  Surely, all this information he’d gleaned from Sekhmet would be enough for the Rook to release Harry. So long as Arthur could scrape up enough money in the Mirror City to pay Harry’s debt. But Arthur was starting to feel hesitant about sharing treasure or information with the leader of the Black Feathers. Arthur would keep it all to himself if he thought he could save Harry and become a Novitiate like Sekhmet, replacing a life of thieving and desperation with magic and adventure.

  “Well, it will be my honor to serve the Wardens as well,” Arthur said. “And to eventually rise to the lofty position of Lady Weirdwood—minus the wedding dress, of course. All we have to do is wipe out this Order of Eldar, right? They don’t sound too tough. More like a bunch of old people with canes and wooden teeth.”

  Sekhmet snorted.

  “Did I just make you laugh?”

  “I’m just imagining what the Order would do to you if you ever met them.”

  That shut Arthur up for a while.

  They arrived at the Ghastly Courtyard, where the dreams of hundreds of condemned Black Feathers took wing into the sky instead of being hanged. Sekhmet made Arthur stay put while she walked the perimeter. She returned a minute later, shaking her head.

  “Why do you keep making me wait outside?” Arthur asked. “Why can’t I join you?”

  “You’re not cloaked like I am. You stand out. If some of the more dangerous Mirror citizens realize you’re Real, they’ll eat you. Or worse, turn you into a pet.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened, but Sekhmet didn’t notice.

  “Where’s your Shopping District?” she asked. “If we’re going to search the more populated areas, we need to get you a cloak and me a Turkish delight cappuccino.”

  * * *

  The Shopping District—er, Slopping District—was overrun with beastly shoppers—tusked and fanged, scaled and feathered, squawking and roaring as loud as a zoo fire.

  “Quick,” Sekhmet whispered. “Pretend you’re grieving.”

  Arthur hid his face in his hands as she threw a cloaked arm around his shoulders, hiding him from view. From that point forward, the Slopping District was nothing but sounds and scents. The clink of coins blended with snarls and purrs and the wet slop of unsettling wares. Through his fingers, Arthur could smell wafts of desert incense, sweaty jungle air, and something cold and heavy hauled from the ocean’s depths.

  “Here’s the shop,” Sekhmet said. “Hide behind this trash can. And remember. No moving. No looking. Unless you want a painful death.”

  Arthur slumped into the shadow behind the trash, feeling like a disobedient child. Sekhmet entered the shop, which was called Peevish Peter’s Cloaks & Masks. It was run by a giant creature with an elongated snout and overlapping golden scales covering its body from head to foot. “Hhhow can I hhhelp you, mithhh,” the pangolin asked, tongue slipping in and out of its snout.

  Arthur remembered Sekhmet’s warning and looked away. He was trying his best to keep his eyes on the cobblestones when he heard a voice—a familiar voice, comically high-pitched.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Gather round for a tale so true it will leave you breathless!”

  Arthur peered around the trash can and saw a puppet theater, just like the ones in Market Square. But instead of a fantastical backdrop of dragons and castles, the theater showed a plain city street. And instead of puppets performing, it was just a hand.

  Graham? Arthur thought. Impossible. Wally’s brother was still locked up in Greyridge. And yet, how many people mimicked a naked puppet when they spoke?

  An audience gathered around the smaller theater.

  “This story takes place in a different world,” Graham’s hand said in a quiet, urgent voice. “In a world where your socks don’t slither away like snakes every time you try to put them on.”

  “Ooooohhhhhh,” the children in his audience said.


  Arthur blinked. Not children. But a duckling, a piglet, and an egg with two scaly legs and a tail poking through the shell.

  Graham’s hand continued. “A world in which humans locked up an innocent boy because they knew his drawings showed the truth.”

  The piglet snorted. “They locked him up for art? Is that really real?”

  The hand looked down, insulted. “As real as you or me.”

  Wally would want to know how his brother had escaped Greyridge and made it all the way to the Mirror City. It might even place Arthur back in Wally’s good graces. So Arthur slipped out from behind the trash can and crept toward the theater.

  But the moment he was in the open, the hand snapped up and looked right at him.

  “Arthur!” Graham cried. “You made it!”

  The critter kids turned and stared. So did their beastly parents, whose lips curled into snarls. But before they could come after him, a cloak swept around his shoulders.

  “Did I forget to warn you that you could be killed in this place?” Sekhmet asked, hustling him away from the theater.

  “I know, I know,” Arthur said. “But—”

  “Don’t argue. Just come on. We need to find the Rift. It’s almost morning, and I should have located it by now.” She stared across the sketch of an ocean to the horizon, beginning to glow with the eraser of dawn. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  Arthur stared back toward Graham’s puppet theater. “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  Arthur led Sekhmet through the Golden and Pearled Quarters, searching for the Rift in less obvious places, like the spice and bicycle shops. But everywhere they went, the sky was as solid as a well-woven shirt.

  The animal constellations started to die in the predawn light. Sekhmet was becoming more visibly frustrated.

  “Cheer up!” Arthur said. “Enjoy this beautiful morning! And how handsome I look in this cloak you bought me!”

  It was made from golden scales, shed from the pangolin shopkeep.

  “Apologies for my mood,” she said sarcastically. “I’m just trying to protect your entire city from being turned to porcelain by an infectious doll.”