The Mirrored City

by Michael J. Bode

  He shook his head. “Who is she?”

  Daphne produced a ledger from under her chair. “Shannon Ibazz. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She was left on the stoop outside the Baash orphanage on the same day you were rendered to Dessim’s. Unlike you, she was a healthy child and was charitably adopted by one of the Great Houses. She’s presently missing.”

  Soren’s mind reeled. He had always been too trusting of people’s intentions, but his newfound skepticism couldn’t deny the gnawing sense that Daphne was right. He reached for the ledger and examined it. A child had been admitted to the Baash orphanage the same day as he was left in Dessim. His trembling fingers brushed over the page.

  Daphne said, “Your sister Shannon is in danger. One of the Proteans is working with a Stormlord, and they are hunting her. He’s the same Stormlord who assassinated the Grand Patriarch.”

  Soren nodded. “Heath.” He remembered the name from when he was possessed by the Sword. “You want him dead.”

  “I need him dead,” Daphne corrected. “If there were another way, I would gladly take it. He’s been like a little brother to me, but he has been corrupted by the Tempest and her false god. I’m not strong enough to fight him, Maddox, and his Protean ally by myself. But you, Soren, are.”

  Soren shook his head. “I’m not a fighter.”

  “You’re a Patrean,” Daphne snapped. “Fighting is in your blood. The Fathers gifted you with every advantage they gave their foot soldiers: strength, reflexes, and, most importantly, fearlessness. Your ancestors stood tall against the Harrowers when the most powerful cowered in fear. You just need something to make your body remember.”

  Daphne peeled off a leather glove and slid her bare hand toward Soren.

  Soren reached toward her hand. She grabbed his fingers and squeezed. The power that flowed into him felt warm. It was like standing in the sun on a spring day. Strength radiated through his muscles, and his pale skin turned golden tan. He moaned in pleasure and gripped Daphne’s hand tighter.

  “That’s enough for now,” she said. She pulled away.

  Reflexively, he leaned across the table, trying to grab her. He was hungry for power, and she had given him nothing more than a taste, like Keltis giving him the white powder.

  Soren asked more confidently, “When can I get more?”

  “In the inner circles of the Inquisition, we are a family. We take care of our own. If you help me in this, you become part of my family. We have a myriad of warlocks of every arcane persuasion in our custody. Their powers are useful, but they were gained through traffic with unclean entities. You could own those powers without making the same compromises.”

  He looked down at the jeweled Sword on the table. “What about that?”

  Daphne shrugged. “I haven’t decided. The relic has been part of the Inquisition, off and on, since we started. We used to be partners. Seems like ages ago. I’ll find it a new home after I deal with Heath. For now, the safest place is on my person.”

  Soren looked at the Sword for a long time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  Daphne stood. “Let’s get you ready. Follow me into the study if you want to find your sister.”

  Three blindfolded mages waited, unconscious and bound to the armrests of their chairs: a man in brown robes, a woman in red, and third man in black with white trim. They had long, thin silver needles stuck in the side of their necks. The room was lavishly furnished, with bookshelves and a large black marble fireplace.

  “Who are they?”

  “People who won’t be missed for a while,” Daphne answered. “A seal mage, a blood mage, and a necromancer. Not exemplars of their profession, but I had to work quickly last night while you were dead. The Asherai needles in their pressure points should keep them unconscious, but don’t disturb them too much.”

  Soren cracked his knuckles. His hands tingled in anticipation.

  He rubbed his hands as he approached the seal mage. He looked young, maybe a year or two older than Soren. Placing his hands on the man’s cheek stubble, Soren felt the flowing surge of magic course through his body. The stream of energy had only one signature: fire. He’d known that power through Maddox.

  He moved on to the blood mage. Her cheeks were soft and her hair silky, but she was nothing to look at. He felt a different flavor of power course into his body. His veins tingled and he felt strong, maybe as strong as the Proteans themselves. The color drained from the girl’s skin as he drank her energy.

  He pulled away and placed his hands on the necromancer’s face. The sensation was entirely new. Soren felt numb and cold as the power spread through his body. Instinctively, he became aware of new abilities as the life drained out of the man’s body.

  Daphne pulled Soren back, her leather gloves blocking the transfer of power. “Careful. Blood mages and necromancers have finite power. We don’t want to kill them unless there’s a compelling interest.”

  Soren almost hit her. With a single kiss, he could have drawn the Light from her body and left her helpless.

  Daphne seemed to read his mind. “This is just a taste, Soren. These acolytes are nothing compared to the bounty of abilities the Inquisition has at its disposal.”

  The silk tunic strained against his chest. His arms were massive. He felt the surge of power wash over him. It was better than any drug. It was better than sex, although he craved that, too. He felt invincible. After spending eighteen years as a sickly, meek child, he would finally have his day in the sun. With his sister at his side, Soren would stand a god among men.

  “Let’s find Shannon. I’m excited to meet her.”

  Daphne cooed, “All in good time. We need to go over the plan until you know every detail by heart.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  This Again?

  MADDOX

  The best predictor of the future is the past. So by that reasoning, the more of a past you have, the more likely you are to make predictable choices. As we keep making these same choices over and over, it becomes a vicious cycle. We repeat the past until it becomes our destiny. Getting old sucks—the best hope you have of breaking old patterns is dementia.

  —THE KEEPER, TRAVELER’S PROVERBS

  MADDOX WOKE ON his usual slab in the morgue, a towel across his privates. Several charred corpses were laid out on a sheet on the floor. The space barely had room to walk around, and several tables had been shoved aside to accommodate the burned remains. Isik’s skeletal cat walked amid the blackened bones, sniffing.

  Isik grumbled as he washed his hands in a basin. “How did you die this time?”

  “Century orchid,” Maddox said. He looked down at his chest. The Fire and Warding Seals were gone. Every time he died, he came back exactly as he was when he inscribed the Vitae Seal. He could have been grand magus several times over if his new seals would stick.

  Isik nodded. “Interesting. Asymptomatic death with no trace of poison. Never seen anyone go out that way. How did it smell?”

  “Better than this place,” Maddox said. “The Inspector should have known better than to drag me here.”

  “The housekeepers at Freedom House were naturally concerned when they found you dead and were quite insistent you be removed before they changed the linens in your suite. But now you are alive. Rejoice.” The last part did not sound enthusiastic. “I need to use the table to examine all the bodies you burned to death.”

  Maddox scratched his head. Daphne must have removed the orchid before he was found. He looked at the bodies. “I think the cause of death should be obvious.”

  “No one is doubting your crazy confession of arson, but I was asked to corroborate your account of evil worms bursting out of the stomachs of those you incinerated ‘like putrid bowls of black noodles exploding all at once.’ Thank you for that vivid image in the reports by the way.

  “They did not bring a change of clothes. Dead people’s clothes are in that crate over there. Maybe something fits? Sometimes I find good things.”

  Maddox grudgingly had
to agree that Isik looked pretty sharp and had little room to blame anyone for wearing a dead man’s clothes. “There was someone else with me and my Sword.”

  “There was not, and there was no sword.”

  Maddox slammed his hand on the table. “That fucking bitch! She took Soren.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Isik said. “Whoever she is sounds like an awful person. But I have many corpses to identify… or try to. You keep Isik busy with your various doings. I will be happiest when you return to Rivern, but I will be just as pleased if you leave before your scary friend comes to claim you.”

  Maddox rummaged through the discarded clothing and found a tunic and breeches that weren’t completely blood-soaked. Shoes would have been nice, but he could walk barefoot if he was careful where he stepped. He bid Isik farewell and made his way onto the street.

  He needed to find Heath, but it was out of the question to return to his quarters. He didn’t have a key and if the staff saw him, they would find his resurrection highly suspicious. Even so, the authorities in Dessim didn’t seem as uptight as they were in Rivern. Their halfhearted investigation of the murders and willingness to write off the incineration of a high-profile brothel spoke of either laziness or incompetence. No one in Dessim seemed to give a fuck about anything but themselves.

  Maddox could see the Archean sky ship above the city when he exited to the street. It hovered in a fixed position above the border between Baash and Dessim, and people occasionally pointed to it from the street. He had no idea what it was doing there, but he couldn’t help hoping they had realized their mistake and come to take him to the Academy.

  The idea of spending his eternity on a floating island with no contact with the outside world was a comforting fantasy. He looked down at his bare feet, already filthy from the street and trudged off to the Salon of Forgotten Gods.

  If he couldn’t go back to his rooms, Heath would look there after the morgue, and Maddox could use a drink.

  He arrived at the bar, noticing for the first time a wooden sign saying shoes and clothing were required. He let himself in anyway. The parlor was empty save for a woman in colorful silks drinking at the bar and chatting with Titus. Maddox knew that laugh anywhere.

  “Libertine,” he said.

  She spun on her stool, a glass sloshing insouciantly in her delicate hands. “Maddox! I knew you’d be here.”

  “I know you knew I’d be here, so stop acting so pleased with yourself.” He motioned for a drink, and Titus brought out a wine glass.

  “Excellent work at the Palace,” the Libertine exclaimed. “I heard you were phenomenal in the heat of battle. Get it? Heat. You should have gotten your Fire Seal as your first. It suits your temperament.”

  “Well, until yesterday, Libby, I never imagined my life would involve cooking sentient creatures to death.” Maddox sat down next to her. “What are you still doing here?”

  She slapped his arm. “Don’t be a grouch. We’re kindred spirits, you and I: immortals with a passion for life and celebration. Imagine the kind of fun we could have. I could blow your mind, Architect.”

  “No offense, but you’re fucking nuts. And not in the fun eccentric way, but in the completely terrifying way,” Maddox said, accepting the glass from Titus.

  “Eh. You’ll be just as scary when you’re my age. You’ve only been immortal for a year, and already you’ve left quite a trail of destruction.” She smiled mischievously. “That poor black-haired boy… his face did not look good.”

  “Boy?” Maddox asked. Oh shit, Keltis. I forgot he was still inside when I torched the place. He felt a pit open in his stomach.

  “Death may have been kinder,” she mused. “He was very vain and people like that do not face old age gracefully.”

  Maddox finished his wine in a single gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “Fuck you.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Guilt is such a useless emotion. It hangs around like a sick cat with a skin condition; you feel awful every time you look into its lonesome crusty eyes, wanting to be petted, and you just wish it was gone. But it never leaves.”

  Maddox rubbed his temples. “I can think of some other things that never leave.”

  “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have saved him. His life meant nothing,” she whispered soothingly.

  He felt like a great weight was lifted off his shoulders as her words sank into him. Time spread out like an ocean in all directions, and Keltis, all that he was and all that he could have been, was washed away in a single wave. All that remained was the terrifying truth that his life literally did not matter.

  “Stop. It.” Maddox gritted his teeth, trying to hold on to some feeling of regret or memory, but they were lost. “I didn’t give you permission to get inside my head.”

  She waved to Titus for more drinks. “I merely showed you a different perspective on the value of life. It’s not always precious or meaningful, Architect. That’s why it’s vital to live each fleeting instant like it was our last because one day, even for us, it will be. You want to do shots?”

  “Let’s do shots,” Titus said cheerfully. “I have a buddy who just got back from Rivern, and he brought some of that firebrandy shit you like.”

  The Libertine fixed her eyes on the Patrean bartender. “Now, you’re an interesting fellow. You’re not like most Patrean simulacra, are you? No, there’s a dreamy twinkle to your eye…”

  Maddox slammed his hand on the bar. “Leave my fucking bartender alone or Guides help me, I will not rest until I learn every last secret of the universe and invoke the full power of my lore to show you a misery that will last beyond the end of Creation.”

  She pouted. “Aw. You’re so adorable.”

  Titus shook his head and excused himself. “I uh… I’ll go look for that bottle… in the back.”

  Maddox waited until Titus was gone before turning on the Traveler. “Okay. Out with it. Where are Sword and Soren?”

  “No idea,” she said. “That’s not why I’m here. You did good against the Proteans, but their Seedmother is still on the loose. They’ve gotten very good at hiding from me.”

  Maddox forged a grin. “Why should I give a flying fuck about your ancient vendetta?”

  “One day,” she said, stroking his cheek, “you might need me for an important favor. I can grant you almost anything you could think of. If I give you my word, then I am bound by it, as I am by my wyrd. That means you would have my nearly limitless power and millennia of knowledge at your disposal. This is not something a Traveler grants lightly.”

  Maddox pondered this. He’d witnessed a little of their abilities in person but knew from his books that the First Mages were a class of power second only to the mysterious Guides themselves. The only reason they didn’t rule the world was because they were so dysfunctional they no longer cared for anything outside their own pet obsessions.

  “I need to find the Sword first,” Maddox insisted. “Then I kill the Seedmother. Deal?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned away. Mumbling some incantation, she tipped her head back and shut her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. She grabbed her glass and smiled. “The Sword is with a woman named Daphne.”

  Maddox glared, said nothing, and sipped his wine.

  “You know more than you did. Daphne wasn’t lying,” the Libertine explained. “Heath knows the bookstore she was talking about.”

  “I don’t need Heath,” Maddox said.

  She shrugged. “Be that as it may, he’s standing right behind you.”

  Maddox nearly spilled his glass as he whipped around. Heath stood, arms folded across his chest, silver eyes practically boring a hole in Maddox. “Maddox. Good to see you up and about on your own. Libertine, a pleasure as always.”

  “Well, I am always about pleasure.” She nodded graciously. “Might I say that the silver suits you. You look more… distinguished.”

  “Go away, you lying, murdering asshole,” Maddox said angrily.

  Out of the c
orner of his eye, he saw Titus walk out of the back room with a bottle, catch the conversation, and then turn around.

  “Maddox,” Heath said gently. He reached a hand to touch Maddox’s shoulder as he recoiled. “I know you must think terrible things about me, and this is the first time we’ve talked, really talked as two people, in a long time. But I’m your friend, and I care about you. Sword had to have shown you that.”

  “Bullshit,” Maddox said. “You lied to me from the day we met. You were never a spice merchant. You were a fucking assassin working for the Guides-damned Inquisition. And your friend Catherine was possessed by an ancient Sword, the same one you shoved into my hands when the Invocari tower fell into the Trident River.”

  “I wanted to keep that life separate from my personal affairs,” Heath assured Maddox. “Clearly that was an error in my judgment. You are an intelligent young man, capable of making your own decisions. I should have trusted you with the truth instead of pushing you away.”

  Maddox laughed. “Pushing me away? I came to you because I was hurting, and you wouldn’t open the fucking door. You let me drink myself into oblivion and let me wake up in the street. I passed out on your porch, Heath.”

  “Try to see that series of events from my perspective. You were piss drunk, literally, and you nearly ripped my front door off,” Heath said.

  “You could have sobered me with your Light,” Maddox insisted. “Instead, you did nothing.”

  “I didn’t force that bottle down your throat. I think we can both agree we could have handled that situation better.”

  “Can you believe this shit?” Maddox looked over at the Libertine, but her chair was empty and the only sign of her was an empty wine glass. Maddox’s shoulders sank. “Of course.”

  “Look,” Heath said, “we can get the Sword back from Daphne. She’s tricky, but she’s not a threat to us if we work together. I have a plan, but I’m willing to listen to any ideas you have. From here on out, we’re equals. No more secrets.”