The Mirrored City

by Michael J. Bode

  Lyta shook her head. “You have no idea—”

  “I’ve seen how people live here. I’ve felt it. Dessim is a city that embraces life. Would you rather live to be a hundred and never taste what life has to offer, or would you rather die knowing you experienced as much possibility as Creation has to offer?”

  “You’re drunk.” Lyta smiled.

  “And I love it. Why don’t people feel this way all the time?” Shannon caressed the sides of her delicate neck with the backs of her hands.

  “The answer may come in the morning,” Lyta quipped.

  “I’m really sleepy now,” Shannon said.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  Shannon was staggering through the streets, her head lolling back and forth as she leaned on Lyta’s shoulder. They would have made faster progress if Lyta just carried Shannon, but she staunchly refused to be carried, insisting she was not a child. She was in good company; as the sky darkened, more and more drunks poured onto the street, laughing, singing, and vomiting as they spilled out of restaurants and salons.

  Dessim was a disgusting haven for reprobates and charlatans. The Diviners hawked trinkets on the street corners and preached a mangled mishmash of doctrine according to the gods and signs they supposedly saw in their visions. Unlike the healers of Baash, they had no real magic that Lyta could discern. She would have paid handsomely to have Shannon restored to sobriety.

  Flimsy broadsheets depicting the Grand Patriarch in ridiculous caricature were plastered over the walls of the buildings declaring: HE’S FINALLY DEAD; PRAISE HIS ASSASSIN. She held no special admiration for Ibiq Qaadar, but she thought it in extremely poor taste to celebrate the death of a human being. It worried her that Shannon felt such a kinship with these kinds of people.

  Lyta veered them to one of the shortcuts. In Baash, it was called the Alley of Truth; here it was named the Alley of Riddles. No doors or windows faced the long stretch of narrow stone cobbles. The walls were scrawled with graffiti, posing silly “philosophical” inquiries. “When you die, you become closer to god… because you no longer exist?” and “What if there were no hypothetical questions?”

  Lyta sighed, thankful to be off the main streets. They made their way down the quiet alley.

  Lyta felt a growing sense of unease as she made her way to the middle stretch of the alleyway, and the raucous sounds of nightlife faded behind them. Shannon, barely conscious, placed her head limply on Lyta’s shoulder, nuzzled it, and moaned something unintelligible.

  Lyta glanced around and saw nothing, but a sharp sense of dread started to percolate in her stomach. She walked faster, carrying Shannon’s body like a ragdoll at her side. When Shannon didn’t protest, Lyta scooped up the girl and ran as fast as possible.

  Lyta saw it, scuttling down the side of one of the buildings: a massive shape in a dirty, tattered robe with three hoods. It galloped along the wall, remaining just out of sight, and for such a massive thing, it moved with alarming speed as it shadowed her.

  It leapt off one wall and landed on the other, scurried, and jumped out in front of her, landing in a crouch. Its body was fully covered, and it lacked any sort of recognizable anatomy under its billowing veil of stinking rags. It made no sound whatsoever.

  Setting Shannon down, Lyta readied herself for a fight, raising her fists as she’d seen brawlers do. “Away with you, creature!” she commanded.

  The three hoods tilted slowly in different directions, weaving back and forth.

  Lyta charged the creature. It reared up menacingly, becoming a seven-foot wall of rags. Striking its chest with her fist, she broke through bone and tissue. Her hand emerged through the back, clutching something that felt like an intestine. The thing looked down on her, and in the dark of the hoods, she saw the gleam of eyes. Too many eyes.

  She yanked her arm back, but it was stuck. The creature’s flesh closed around her arm, holding her fast. Lyta pummeled and kicked as the thing fell on top of her, scratching her skin and returning the blows. They tumbled in the alley, and the thing jumped against the walls, slamming her into the stone. She heard every bone in her body crunch, faster than she could heal.

  They wrestled as the creature launched them in the air, rolling over dizzily as they hit another wall. The thing released her, and she tumbled to the ground, head first. Her neck snapped, numbing her entire body. Her limbs still flailed, but she had no direct control of them.

  She tried to remain calm as the worms inside her dutifully restored her broken body. She saw Shannon, passed out on the cobblestones. Lyta tried to yell, but the thing had done something to her throat in the fighting. All she could do was rasp pathetically.

  The monster came crashing down in front of her. She saw only the dirty multicolored robe and a few toes with cracked yellow nails protruding under the hem.

  Then, in a flash, it leapt away. Her heart sank when she saw Shannon was no longer there. After what seemed an eternity, as her bones cracked into place and her flesh healed, Lyta was able to stand. Her dress was a shredded ruin of blood and black ichor hanging off her uninjured cocoa skin. She glanced everywhere, but the thing had vanished, along with Shannon.

  Lyta searched the alley desperately but found no sign. She fell to her knees and wept.

  Lyta wandered the streets, drenched in blood and torn fabric. Her eyes were vacant and stained with tears. If anyone noticed her, they made some drunken attempt to paw her breasts. A few Patrean guards asked if she was okay, but people must have assumed it was some sort of costume. She didn’t look like she’d been in a fight. As the evening wore on, she found herself in front of Freedom House, exhausted with worry.

  She had failed to keep her reckless lover safe, but the biggest irony was that her decision to take the shortcut had exposed them to danger. She would never forgive herself. She knew she had to go to the authorities but had no trust in the justice of Dessim. First, she needed a change of clothes and a bath.

  On her way to her chambers, she passed doors where people of importance were having private celebrations. She walked past three prostitutes, two women and a young boy, who laughed behind her back at her clothes.

  She couldn’t imagine her life without Shannon. All this misfortune was Lyta’s fault. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  Tearing off her clothing, she felt her way to the lamp and lit it, bathing their quarters in a soft amber glow. Shannon’s discarded clothing littered the floor. She had tried on dozens of outfits before they went out. Lyta absently began to collect them off the floor.

  “Hello, Lyta.”

  She spun around and gasped. The Stormlord Heath reclined in one of the chairs, his legs crossed and his hand resting on his chin, while his other arm dangled over the armrest. His skin seemed dark as the night, and his silver eyes blazed in the flickering light of the lamp. “Forgive my intrusion. I’ll wait while you to make yourself decent.”

  Lyta quickly pulled on one of Shannon’s dresses, a sheer turquoise shift. “Why are you here?”

  Heath smiled. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Lyta. I’m hoping we can help each other. I apologize for surprising you, but I wasn’t certain you’d respond to my formal invitation. I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  “I don’t have time for this. Shannon was taken.”

  He arched his eyebrow. “Interesting. I’m very good at finding people. Maybe I can help.”

  “Why would you?” Lyta crossed her arms and turned her body away.

  “Give me a reason to,” Heath said casually. “You know what I want.”

  “The vote in the Grand Assembly.” Lyta sighed. “I can’t give that to you. We fled Baash in disgrace.”

  “Safina wants me to kill you in exchange for the vote,” Heath said. “And normally I would, but I don’t trust her to hold her end of the bargain. If she wants you dead, it’s not because you damaged some Fodders; you must know something she wants hidden. Give me some leverage, and I’ll do what I can to find Shannon.”

 
“Why should I trust you?” Lyta demanded.

  “Because I haven’t killed you yet,” Heath explained. “And I could do it very easily. But I’m sympathetic to your relationship. I’ve had many male lovers in my time, and I don’t want to support an institution that would have you persecuted for being who you are. Your skills could also be useful to me later.”

  Lyta considered ripping his head off, but she knew his reputation as a skilled operative in the Inquisition. She had no idea where to look for Shannon, and this man made his trade in hunting down witches. “Shannon knows all of Vyzad’s secrets, as well as secrets of all the Great Houses. Safina thinks me the architect of this intrigue, but Shannon… she has ways of knowing things no one else can. She can get you whatever leverage you need.”

  Heath considered it. “Are you lying to me? You must admit there is substantial motivation.”

  “Stormlord,” Lyta said, “you might be able to kill me, but I am more than I appear to be. Every moment we waste posturing is another moment Shannon is in the clutches of that abomination. I don’t want to live if she cannot be saved. So if you will not help me, then we will fight until one of us is dead.” Lyta grabbed an iron floor-length candleholder and tore it in half with her bare hands. Candles tumbled to the floor, and she held two steel rods in her fists, their ends tapered to fine points from the strain of separation.

  Heath nodded. “Metal would be a poor choice of weapon against a Stormlord, but I respect your strength. I’ll help you find her. However, if this doesn’t pan out, I have no other option than to bring your head back to Safina. Deal?”

  Lyta tossed the broken candleholder to the ground. “We have an accord.”

  Heath stood. “Then we should get started. Do you have any of her blood or hair?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Blood Magic

  HEATH

  NEED EASY COIN? BLOOD DONORS WANTED!!!

  The Magesterium needs your vital humours to advance the cause of Science and Research. Your generous donation will be used for the treatment of Maladies, Infertility, and the Palliative Care of Grievous Injuries.

  UNTAPPED RICHES IN YOUR VEINS?

  For each dram of blood you donate, you will be given two ducats. Each donor will also be given a delectable tangerine biscuit.

  PATREANS (AND CERTAIN OTHER ANIMALS) WELCOME

  We need vital humours from all races and genders and species. For non-humanoid animals, please inquire ahead. SORRY, NO GOATS, PIGS, OR COMMON HORSES.

  COMPLETELY SAFE AND LEGAL!

  Blood mages are licensed by the Magesterium and the Protectorate Council of Deans. Do not take the risk with black market operations.

  See Magus Darla Winterholt for an appointment.

  —BROADSHEET ADVERTISEMENT FOUND IN DESSIM’S BEGGAR DISTRICT

  MAGUS DARLA WINTERHOLT’S laboratory occupied a dark corner of the Magesterium’s basement. Like most blood mages’ studies, large glass canisters of red humours were fitted with brass pipes and valves that snaked their way across the ceiling and walls to various workstations. A shirtless Patrean male reclined on a table as blood flowed out of copper manacles on his wrists into a pair of copper vessels. Magus Winterholt peered at a book over the rim of her wire spectacles.

  She was a plain woman in her fifties, with a buttoned-up red mantle and graying blonde hair pulled back. “Yes. Come in. They told me you would be here. I was in the process of sending a formal invitation, but I’ve been distracted with my experiments. This is fortunate. Please sit, unless you’d prefer to stand. Standing’s better for circulation.” She didn’t look up once.

  Heath smiled, trying to make eye contact. “Thank you, Magus Winterholt, for making the time to see us. I know you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the reason we’re here.” He offered the single chair in front of the desk to Lyta. She sat quietly.

  “Ah yes.” Winterholt looked up brightly, speaking in quick clipped tones. “How would you like to proceed? I can extract the sample with a blade, or I can siphon. Also, how much blood do you need to maintain consciousness? This will factor in to the method for extraction.”

  Heath laughed. “I’m not here to give blood.”

  She seemed perplexed. “Oh? I had just assumed you wanted to further my research. Apparently that was a misconception. I apologize. Please state your business.”

  “May I call you Darla?” Heath asked, a flirtatious smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

  “Magus Winterholt is sufficient given our level of familiarity. No one calls me Darla, not even my husband.”

  Heath nodded. “I need to find someone, and I heard you were the best in Dessim.”

  “That is an accurate assessment,” she agreed.

  Heath tapped Lyta on the shoulder, and she produced a red cloth from her pouch. She set it on the table.

  “What is this?” Winterholt asked.

  “It’s a menstrual cloth,” Heath said. “The person it belonged to was taken, and we need to find her. She could be in grave peril.”

  “Oh my,” Winterholt said. She grabbed the cloth and sniffed it. Shaking her head, she set the cloth down on the table. “This has been cleaned. Blood magic works best with a fresh sample.”

  Lyta interjected, “We don’t have a fresh sample. Can you work with this or not?”

  Winterholt pondered. “I can try to see if any of the humour is intact. If anyone can do it, I would be the most capable, but I can make no guarantees. The sample would also be destroyed during the extraction process, so there would be only one chance to perform a trace. I should get started.”

  “Thank you,” Heath said warmly.

  “Since you are here,” Winterholt paused, “I am going to request a sample of your blood for my research. There’s no delicate way to put this, so I will be blunt. I will only help you if you give me your blood. Those are my conditions, and they are non-negotiable.”

  Heath looked at Lyta who gazed up at him with pleading blue eyes. He sighed. “I’ll get you a sample. You work on the tracer spell.”

  She nodded. “That’s acceptable.”

  Heath walked over to a table and picked up a copper scalpel. Resting his hand in a metal dish, he exposed the underside of his wrist. He cut across the veins so the blood would bubble up from the gash and dribble out. The drops rang out loudly as they first hit the basin and then became quieter as it started to fill with blood.

  Lyta stood over his shoulder. “That cut looks deep.”

  “I’ll heal,” Heath said.

  “How? You’re a Stormlord.”

  He smiled. “I was a healer before. When Kondole gave me the gift of the elements, he let me keep the Light of Ohan. I’m a dual theurge. What about you? Do you have Light?”

  Lyta shook her head. “No. If I had the gift, I would have been sent to the cloister.”

  Heath smiled and placed his other hand on his wrist. Light flickered from his fingers, and the cut sealed. Because his Light was not as strong as it used to be, he felt drained and slightly dizzy.

  The Fodder on the table moaned. “Um…I think I’m bleeding out, Magus Winterholt.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “You have another thirty-five minutes. You might lose consciousness, but I have lost only four donors due to negligence, two of them because of unsanitary instruments. I’ve washed everything, I assure you.”

  Winterholt dipped the cloth in a glass jar with yellowish liquid and rubbed the sides of it. For a while, nothing happened, but then a pinkish cloud of blood tore free from the cloth and swirled around the jar.

  “Oh my,” Winterholt said. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I have the largest library of menstrual blood samples in the protectorate and this is unprecedented. To be completely honest, I didn’t expect it to work. Whom did you say this belonged to?”

  “A dear friend of mine,” Lyta said.

  “This is not human.” Winterholt shook her head. “There’s too much information in the humour for it to belong to one individual, yet it bear
s consistent markers…”

  Heath gently insisted, “We need a location.”

  “Yes, yes.” The Magus placed the jar atop a map of the city and centered it over the Magesterium.

  They watched intently as the cloud of blood swam around the liquid and formed a fan-shaped pattern from the center to the edge of the glass.

  Winterholt concluded, “Your friend is in Baash, somewhere in the southern quarter. I can place it with a small degree of accuracy that she would be in one of these buildings.” She drew a line from the jar through the map of the city.

  Heath examined the map, tracing his fingers along the line. “That’s a lot of ground to cover. Do you still have that strip from your bloodied dress?”

  “No need.” Lyta’s eyes looked glassy as she pointed to a square building. “I know exactly where she is. This is a healer temple in Baash. It’s a mirror to a very bad place here in Dessim.”

  “Well, it’s a whorehouse in Dessim,” Winterholt said. “I went there once with a colleague. I’d just published a paper on reconstructing phenotype from blood samples. She insisted we needed a girls’ night to celebrate. It was very repugnant. I left after a few minutes.”

  “Show her the other thing,” Heath said. “Maybe she can tell us something about it.”

  Lyta removed a strip of ichor-soaked dress from her battle with the shrouded creature. “What can you tell us about this?”

  Winterholt took it and sniffed it. “By the Host. What in Creation is this?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us, if not where it is then anything about it,” Heath said.

  “This is bad, very, very bad.” She handed the strip of cloth back to Lyta. “That blood comes from a chimera. I trust you know what that is.”

  Heath glowered. “I do. Thank you for your time.”

  Stories of such creatures had circulated among the witch hunters of the Inquisition. Chimeras were biomantic horrors pieced together from the disparate remnants of other creatures. They weren’t truly alive or dead. Heath had never tangled with one, but Sword had colorful stories. Heath would try back at their apartments first, but the local branch of the Inquisition might have more reliable information.