The City of Lies (The Mira Brand Adventures Book 3)

by Robert J. Crane

  Carson looked awed.

  “Locals in Pharo love me,” Emmanuel went on. “Donated the treasure to their museum, you see. You know, I just figured, I’m not using these, why not let them get the value out of them instead? Boost tourism, their economy, that sort of thing.” One corner of his mouth lifted, pocking a dimple in his cheek. “It’s like I always say: you can’t just be a Seeker. To be truly successful in this world—in any world, I believe—you have to be a giver, too.”

  I felt sick.

  Carson, on the other hand, was an inch away from turning into the girl who’d just passed. I could feel it.

  It made my foot itch.

  “What did you find?” he breathed.

  “Oh, nothing very exciting. Neat little things: a couple of plates of pure obduridium.”

  If Carson had been a dog, his ears would’ve pricked up, and his tail started wagging madly. “Oh! We found one of those, didn’t we?”

  Anyone else might’ve looked impressed. This news barely fazed Emmanuel. He simply lifted an eyebrow, just enough inquisitiveness on his face to feign cool curiosity—but I knew so much better. He had to stop talking about himself, and was putting in the minimum effort to keep his quarry ensnared before he could pivot the conversation back to himself.

  I hated him so much in that moment.

  And Carson too, a little bit, for falling for it.

  “Yeah?” Emmanuel said. “What did you do with it?”

  “We sold it.” Carson turned to me and Heidi, nodding at us, wanting an approving pair of nods back. Neither of us returned it.

  “Yeah? And what did you buy with your funds, baby sister?”

  “Elvish rope,” I snapped back.

  Victory: I’d thrown him. The calm, collected look he had painted on his face vanished in an instant. Eyebrows drawing together, he opened his mouth to speak and instead spluttered. Quickly, he slammed his hand against his chest and turned the choking noise into a poorly masked cough.

  Hah. Finally got you, you arse.

  Not that it wasn’t a fair reaction, of course. Obduridium was anything but common, even the impure, poorly fashioned stuff like the plate we’d sold to Benson weeks ago. There was also the matter of the exchange. Benson had been very keen in convincing us that he’d given me a good price. I’d had my doubts at the time and remained unconvinced.

  Regardless, to catch Emmanuel off-guard like that, make him react with shock instead of his self-satisfied breezy way of wafting through life on the wind of his own accomplishments—I would take that opportunity any day of the week.

  “Are you okay?” Carson asked. “Do you need some water? I’ve got—”

  I elbowed him again. “He’s fine.”

  “Fine,” he croaked. “Absolutely fine.” Another fake cough, and he did his very best to regain his composure. He did not do a very good job—and oh, how glad I was of that.

  Another pair of young women passed, kitted out in very short shorts and long baggy tops that bared shoulders and had slits running up the sides. They appraised Emmanuel. One fingered a curl of dark hair as she went by, slowing her pace just a tad.

  No reaction, and so they meandered off, looking put out.

  “Well,” Emmanuel said awkwardly. “Shall we set off to find this treasure then?”

  He stepped forward—

  I held out a hand. “Whoa, whoa. I don’t remember inviting you.”

  “Come on, Mira. I’m your brother.” And this time he didn’t look remotely self-assured or cool. This was a pair of siblings butting heads, just as stubborn as each other, one with something to prove and the other to … I dunno, be a controlling self-satisfied arse who always got his own way, I guess.

  “And this is my quest, and I’m saying you’re not coming.”

  “I know Pharo far better than you.”

  I puffed my chest up. “And how would you have any idea how well any of us knows Pharo?”

  Emmanuel pointed at Carson. “You guys know Pharo?”

  “No,” he said immediately.

  “Carson!” I cried.

  Heidi harrumphed. “Speak for the rest of us, why don’t you?”

  “Bingo,” said Emmanuel to me. “You don’t know Pharo. I do. I can be of value to you. Unless you want to wander around with no clue as to what you’re doing or where you’re going? The up-and-coming Mira Brand, taking her first tour of one of most well-known cities of our worlds, famed for being the last to conquer the great Ostiagard—and here she comes, ambling about like a lost child. Wouldn’t be the best impression in the world to give, would it?”

  I seethed.

  “You just think you’re so damn good, don’t you?” I breathed through my clamped-shut jaw. “Manny Brand, all that. The sun might as well shine out of your ar—”

  “Mira,” Heidi warned, tapping me on the arm.

  “He’s got a point,” Carson said. “We don’t know Pharo.” A hesitation. “I mean, do we?”

  “We don’t need to know every place we’re going like the back of our hands,” I muttered.

  “Speaking of,” said Emmanuel, pointing, “you’ve got a speck of chocolate or something on yours.”

  I glanced down. A coffee spatter. Ugh! I smeared it off, an inch away from just detonating right there and taking half of London with me.

  “But it would help,” Carson said, “to have Emmanuel’s expertise.”

  Why did he have to say my brother’s name like that?

  “We can manage,” I said.

  Carson hesitated. He cleared his throat. And then, eyes flitting away, he said, “This is my quest, Mira. Not yours. So if I want Emmanuel to come with us, then isn’t that my choice?”

  A faint grin ghosted Emmanuel’s lips again. He wasn’t the sort to just cheer or whoop—but now he was facing victory. He knew it, and he knew I knew it, and it made him so damned happy.

  Carson waited a beat before letting his gaze come back to mine. Assessing, like earlier, whether he’d hit the mark or not.

  I glared. Not a Heidi glare—I didn’t have the iciness down. No, this was a glare with all the force of a train bearing down on him.

  “You know what?” I said. “I don’t like this new Carson. He’s underhanded.”

  And pushing past him, I marched down the street.

  “So can he come?” Carson called after me.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s a yes, big guy,” said Emmanuel.

  I imagined him clapping Carson on the shoulder, and a smile passing between them—and as I hopefully pondered the thought of Bub chowing down on Carson’s stupid head, the storm clouds above me grew a shade darker.

  19

  Emmanuel took charge of cutting us through.

  His talisman was a ring. Bigger than mine, and more ornate too, it perched on his left forefinger on a gold band. The talisman itself was a silver disc, impressed with spiraling curves, coiling endlessly. I’d seen it many times as a child, and been horrendously jealous of it. Now I looked at it, more anger burned in me: at him, and at my parents for being so helplessly in love with their first-born.

  Okay, maybe I was still a little jealous.

  “This the spot?” Emmanuel asked Carson as he fiddled with his talisman.

  “I thought you knew Pharo?” I let sarcasm bleed into my voice.

  Emmanuel looked back at me and shrugged. I gritted my teeth. Liar. Liar, liar, liar.

  Carson rummaged in his manbag, retrieving his phone. He opened a picture he’d taken of a drawing in the seeker’s journal. It was of an older London, but the street name was the same, and the layout was close enough to tell that we’d found our cut-through point.

  “I think so.” Carson showed it to Emmanuel.

  “Looks like you may be right.”

  Carson looked pleased, and stowed his phone again. “I’ve got a ring too,” he said, eyeing Emmanuel’s talisman. “For cutting gates.”

  “Oh yeah?” The most minimal interest, yet to Carson’s ears, it no doubt sounded as tho
ugh Emmanuel’s world suddenly revolved around the bespectacled, sweater-clad Yank with the stupid manbag and annoying loafers and—

  Cool it, Mira. You’re devolving into Heidi pre-Tide of Ages.

  “I stole it, actually,” said Carson, a hint of childlike pride creeping into his voice. “From a guy we’ve run into a few times.”

  “Nice one, man.”

  Carson grinned. “It’s really cool. But I can’t use it because—”

  Heidi elbowed him hard in the ribs. He gasped, jerking around and turning wide eyes onto her.

  “Shut up,” she hissed.

  “The man is allowed to talk, isn’t he?” Emmanuel said.

  Heidi glowered back.

  To Carson, Emmanuel said, “On a bit of a short leash there, mate.”

  Carson cleared his throat, and lifted a very nervous smile. This time he had the sense not to say anything else.

  Emmanuel didn’t push. Instead: “This isn’t the usual place I’d head through to Pharo,” he told Carson.

  “No?”

  “I’m not in London very much. No, when I’m jumping through to Pharo I’ll head in via the Way-Crossing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A grand set of roads. Not very well known. I’ll show you sometime, perhaps.”

  Carson looked as though Emmanuel had promised to get down on one knee and asked if Carson would marry him. An immediate yes, I was certain.

  Emmanuel assessed the street, and the people milling back and forth. Then, deciding it was safe, he touched one finger to the ring, and using his left forefinger swiped a straight line.

  The gateway opened to full width in a fraction of a second. Like an eye turned on its edge, its edges arced to two sharp points. The edges were perfectly shaped, like Heidi’s, but they were unique too: instead of brilliant white, they sparkled, like someone had lined the portal with silver glitter.

  The colors inside were more muted, and danced slower. Sedate. Calm.

  “Onward,” said Emmanuel, waving us forward.

  Carson stepped to it—

  I grabbed him by the strap of his manbag.

  “Erk—!”

  “Look before you leap, hm?” Unsnapping the compass from my belt, I peered into its face to confirm that we actually were going to Pharo, and between Carson and Emmanuel, were not about to relegate ourselves to a void.

  Fortunately (unfortunately?) we were exactly where we needed to be.

  “You ought to trust me,” said Emmanuel. “I am your brother.”

  Exactly why I don’t trust you, I thought, but kept it to myself.

  “Go on then,” I told Carson, releasing him. “See you on the other side.”

  He straightened a little clumsily, glanced to Emmanuel—he smiled back, but it was a tired sort of smile, one that said, Sorry about her—and then he stepped through.

  Heidi looked at me. “You next?”

  “You.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yup.”

  She obliged, darting through the gap and vanishing.

  Just me and Emmanuel, all on our lonesome. Plus, you know, what felt like most of London filtering through the street, entirely oblivious to the vanishing act we were pulling one by one.

  He extended a hand. “After you.”

  “Together,” I said. “I don’t trust you not to close the gate on me.”

  “What sort of brother would I be if I did that?”

  I didn’t answer. Again, though, I had a response. It would make Emmanuel exactly the sort of brother he already was.

  “Together then,” he said. He stuck his hand out for me to take.

  I didn’t.

  “No? All right. On three?”

  “I want to see you step through it.”

  “Then we’re not exactly together, are we?”

  “I’ll be immediately behind.” Close enough that should he try closing the gateway, I could grab him and take him with me, wherever the tunnel’s collapse might lead—elsewhere in Pharo, another world entirely, or being snuffed entirely out of existence.

  “You’re the boss.”

  He tipped a salute, and stepped through the hole.

  I followed straight behind.

  This place between worlds was different. Like being in water, almost—no, surrounded by a tunnel of it. If I extended my fingertips, I could connect with the tunnel of color softly undulating around us. A touch and I dispersed it, drawing lines behind me like the bow of a ship cut through the water and leaving a wake.

  Emmanuel glanced back at me, and smiled. “Enjoying yourself, Meer?” His voice echoed strangely, as if coming from a new direction every half-syllable, and from much farther away than the few feet separating us.

  I didn’t reply; I knew better than to waste the lungful of air I’d gathered just on the off-chance we exited into water. The compass hadn’t shown that—but the picture was often behind, creating a lag between worlds, sometimes years at once; who knew if Pharo had gone the way of the Vardinn and been swept away by a flash flood since Emmanuel had last graced its streets?

  The gateway’s exit loomed—

  Emmanuel twisted to flash one last crooked grin. Then he blinked out of sight.

  A moment later, I passed the terminus.

  I stumbled sideways—there had been a drop, no larger than a step, but unexpected, enough to send me off-kilter. And I’d much rather face-plant earth than crash into Emmanuel’s back.

  Actually, he’d probably been expecting it, and was positioned to save me. Such a gentleman. Carson would probably give him a standing ovation.

  “Easy,” Emmanuel said as I righted myself. He reached out—

  “I’m fine,” I said, and swatted his hand away.

  “You missed a spot of—coffee, did you say?”

  A ghost of it lingered, just a shade darker than my skin. It could’ve been a birth mark for all anyone else knew.

  I licked a finger and smeared it again, scowling all the while.

  “This place is crazy,” said Carson.

  “Don’t let the locals hear you call it that,” Heidi warned.

  “She’s right, mate,” Emmanuel said, and clapped Carson on the shoulder. “They would be none too pleased.”

  We’d come out inside Pharo’s city limits. Like the Vardinn capital, it was surrounded by a wall, but smaller, more showy than defensive. From the outside, it was easy to see Pharo’s buildings rising against the skyline. This afternoon, that sky was stained a delicate green color. A handful of clouds lingered, but they were hard to pick out; a veil of smog blanketed Pharo, darker in the direction we faced—the city center, I guessed. It seemed to settle on an invisible floor, though; if I looked low enough, past jagged high rises that did not seem capable of supporting themselves, the smog suddenly cleared, leaving a low band of clear sky. It explained why the air didn’t feel cloying and dirty as I breathed.

  Like Ostiagard, Pharo had the same strangely proportioned buildings, jerking back and forth with sudden shifts in direction that made no sense. It was as if someone had taken a photograph of two cities, and then cut it, first in horizontal lines, second in random diagonals, and then pushed everything around so it all remained mostly in line, but now was suddenly entirely askew.

  But there were differences here too. In Ostiagard, elements of London architecture had bled through. The buildings could have come from our world, perhaps fallen through a maw-sized opening like Carson’s, and come out the other side discombobulated and peculiar.

  Pharo was much more steampunk, though not quite in the same way as Lady Angelica’s butlers or the fridge in my hideout. The buildings were slate grey, and layered with metal pressed over and over, sheets stamped together but not in line: like a 3D jigsaw, each layer was not quite the same shape as the last. Whole clusters of these were arranged around buildings’ frames, overlapping and jagging in and out, a metal carapace that did not even try to pretend to be fully solid. Like the angles of the buildings, it did not seem possible tha
t a building would be able to hold itself up, fashioned in such a way, or at least feel structurally sound—but Pharo had stood almost as long as Ostiagard. And unlike the City of Lies, it had never fallen. That presumably said something about the engineering here.

  Or maybe it just said that Pharo’s people didn’t invite invasion by bragging about the vast troves of riches they were squatting on.

  We’d come out the side of a firehouse. It was unmanned, although the street itself was wandered by a couple of gaggles—humans, mostly, though a group of squat, rabbit-like people in thick jackets thundered by, gabbling in a low, chittery sort of language. Except for brief passing glances, none of them paid us much mind.

  A fire engine was parked out front, on a set of metal tracks that led into the road and carried on in either direction. The equivalent of a fire engine, anyway. A dark hunk of metal, its wheels were almost half the size of the vehicle itself. A spout at the front reared skyward and then forked left at a sharp angle. It breathed a soft plume of smoke, dyeing the air with a grey line.

  “Seems Pharo does a great job of managing emissions then,” said Heidi, eyeing the vehicle. “Just leave it idling, why don’t they?”

  “Everything runs on that here,” said Emmanuel. “It’s no different to trains.”

  “We have electric trains now,” said Heidi dryly. “You should check one out sometime; they’re good.”

  The contraption was right up Carson’s alley, I figured. But save a passing glance, he was already moving on to much more important things. Namely: his phone.

  “No signal here,” he said.

  “You expect signal in Pharo?” Emmanuel asked.

  “The Mirrish had a phone network we connected to.”

  “Oh, their Grapevine thing. Snazzy piece of tech, that. Very proud of it, they are—and so they should be. I’ve told the Mirrish countless times, they are geniuses, pure and simple. They’d put Stephen Hawking to shame. They’re so humble, too. I really try to emulate that, you know?”