Mirrorworld

by Daniel Jordan

  Little could grow in that, but Marcus took it with him, and went to buy some boots.

  More time passed; it was evening by the time Marcus finally found himself stood before the House of Viaggiatori again, fully loaded with bags of new clothes. Aware that going back would probably be the last time he would do so, he’d stayed out to experience some of the city, and enact an almost regretful goodbye to a place that had sheltered him and certainly given him some new experiences. He’d wandered the streets, seen the sights, and flinched at a few tall people in long black cloaks who he’d seen, but there’d been no sign of Death. Perhaps the Reaper really was busy; whatever the reason, for now it seemed to Marcus that he had been granted a temporary reprieve.

  Central Plaza was quiet. Walking up Rice Street, Marcus had been surrounded by the hubbub of a city coming alive for the evening, a ghost walking unseen through the lights of the many eateries, bars and social clubs, and a whisper unheard amongst the sounds of dining, drinking, socialising and carousing that emanated from therein. But here on the summit, all was quiet. Flickering lights in the windows of the encircling buildings suggested hard work still in action, and there were yet people milling about the square on some errand or another, but for the most part the flow of the city seemed to have moved on. Here, Portruss slept, so that it might be all the more awake elsewhere.

  Aside from the few passers-by, there was one other person of note in the square. Against a whitewashed pillar in the shadow of the House of Viaggiatori there leant a tall, hard-faced man with a worn complexion, marked by a variety of small scars that made a scribbling of his face. Dark-haired and casually dressed, the man seemed quite at ease staring out over the plaza with a cigarette in hand, but there was a certain lazy tension in his stance, and the way that his hand constantly strayed to the hilt of his sword – a heavy, two-handed piece that he wore strapped to his back – suggested a guarded nature. It made for a strange reading on his immediate appearance, watching smoke billow away in the air.

  Marcus had invested in some cigarettes himself, under what seemed like a fairly logical assumption that he wasn’t so long for this world that the health issues would be a concern. Sadly, in the difficult moment between trying to choose between fifteen different brands that he knew nothing about and avoiding the shopkeeper’s stare of impatient weariness, he’d forgotten to buy anything to light them with. Right now, on this quiet evening, in the calm before his storm, he wanted a smoke, and so he carefully approached the tall man, whose eyes narrowed.

  “Got a light?” Marcus asked.

  The man grunted, and tossed a box of matches; Marcus hastily dropped his bags to snatch it from the air. He extracted his box of cigarettes, lit one, inhaled deeply, and handed the matches back to the man, who still leant against the pillar, studying him.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the man asked, his voice disarmingly deep and gruff.

  Marcus blinked, taken by surprise. “You can tell?”

  “Ha. The correct answer was ‘I don’t know what you mean’.” The man didn’t smile. “You wear the colours of the Viaggiatori, though you wisely try to hide it. And all the Viaggiatori know my face, and would never approach me asking for anything. You’re either new and uninformed, or just uninformed.”

  Marcus leant back against the next pillar over, inhaling again. “I’m from Earth.”

  “And why did you tell me that?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. These people move between worlds all the time. Anyone can be from anywhere, it doesn’t seem to matter much to them.”

  “Ha,” the man said again; it seemed to be his full concession to humour. “Things being in the right place matters a lot to them. Things being in the wrong place even more so.”

  “Well, maybe, then,” Marcus said, with another shrug. “It certainly didn’t stop them deciding that the place they wanted me to be was on some fool errand to the north. Off to save the world tomorrow. Hooray.”

  The man glanced at him, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a very faint smile. Dropping the stub of his cigarette and grinding it beneath his boot, he gave Marcus a knowing nod. “At least they pay well,” he said, and strode off, through the open doors into the House of Viaggiatori.

  Marcus stayed where he was, and finished his own cigarette. Strange meetings like this were beginning to be the norm for him, so he wasn’t particularly fazed by it. He was fairly certain he’d just met the Assassin, the fabled man with no name who was going to be the one to save them all.

  Well, good for him.

  Marcus stood, staring out at nothing for a while, not listening to the thoughts that bounced still around his mind. Underneath him, the world turned towards the future.

  Part 2

  A Road Less Travelled By

  “May you live all the days of your life.’

  14

  It was a quiet day in the House of Viaggiatori. The day receptionist, a man whose few responsibilities never failed to not fill his time, had taken to idly gazing out of the wide front doors, which had been propped open so that the late summer heat might spread its sticky, humid grease over a wider area, and so all the more thinly. The season had been long and hot, and was even now yet lingering into autumn, the almost unbearable heat broken only on the rare occasion when rattling winds from the Storm Coast blew thunderheads inland, where they would shatter and deliver their payload over the city. No such storm would be coming today; from his post behind the welcome desk, the day receptionist sat and watched the few flourishing clouds as they painted a demure path across the dazzling blue canvas of the sky.

  The day receptionist was looking forwards to autumn, harbinger of winter though it was. He found the heat suffocating, and was looking forward to gentler temperatures. It didn’t greatly affect his ability to work, as reception duty was a fairly low-key affair at the House of Viaggiatori, but as he felt the tendrils of age beginning to creep up around him he was becoming more aware of the particular rhythms that bought satisfaction to his life, and soul-rending heat was not counted amongst them. He’d actually been considering moving away from the urban heat-trap that was Portruss, but after fifty years of city life he wasn’t sure he was entirely sure if he knew any other way to live. All his life he’d been a servant to the cause of the Viaggiatori, working the Mirrorline, experiencing great and sometimes terrifying things in the name of science and progress. Why, in his youth, he’d even been a part of the Rashalamn experiments – how long ago had that been now? It was almost thirty years, he was sure – there had definitely been recent talk about celebrating the upcoming milestone.

  Thirty years of bending time and space, with his off time spent living the big city life – how could he possibly trade that in for a quiet bungalow in the suburbs beyond East Gate? No, the city was where he belonged, for better health or worse. Having officially retired himself from active service after a particularly nasty Mirrorline accident that he was sure had literally added years to his life, he’d settled into this new, low-maintenance position as de facto receptionist. Here he was surprisingly cloistered from the goings-on of the organisation, as Viaggiatori agents reported to the mission hub further in the building; the day receptionist was left to deal only with visitors who weren’t part of the organisation, and such visitations were surprisingly few and far between. In the lull between visits, he would unleash great effort into the endless task of depleting the reserves of tea and biscuits that were provided for him. Many years at this work had yet failed to offer up any progress; every morning, without fail, and no matter how much of the stock he might have worked his way through the preceding day, he would take up his position only to discover that it had all been replenished. It was, in a way, quite marvellous. The day receptionist was incredibly proud of the invisible pixies who worked so hard to ensure his jars were always full, and so was steadfast in his infinite effort to keep them on their toes. It was a bureaucratic singularity, a machine that worked
without fail, but one of the innumerable little things that added up to an enjoyably banal lifestyle.

  He shared his stock, of course; one person could only eat so many biscuits in a day. The day receptionist had been cultivating for some time now a rich social scene of associates who would pop by every now and then, share a brew or two and trade gossip about their lives or events in the city. In his mind, the day receptionist’s only rival in intelligence networking was old man Eustace, and the day receptionist drew a very important distinction between himself and his peer; Eustace might know more people, but they were always the same people. The day receptionist met new people all the time, enticing them in with the scents of a brewing pot of Russian Breakfast and striking up a conversation in that effortless way he had. His finger, then, was always on the pulse; his information was always current, fresh off the street and dripping mud on the entrance hall’s expensive carpet, damaging a state of cleanliness that would nonetheless relieve itself overnight with the same casual efficiency that so inspired the day receptionist to share his cookies.

  Really, it was a simple life, and a good one. The days rolled past with lazy charm, most good, some simply dull. This one would be a good one, if only a storm would come and break the heat.

  Suddenly, the day receptionist became aware that something was happening outside. The regular flow of crowds across Central Plaza, the unspoken yet indefatigable currents of the city, had been disrupted; someone had somehow mustered the strength of will required to avoid being sucked into them, and was instead forcing their way directly across the plaza, surrounded by a conspicuous ocean of space which none of the other passing commuters seemed inclined to fill. This space thus remained the exclusive abode of the six figures bedecked in pointy hats who stood at its heart, the small group of wizards that was heading directly towards the House of Viaggiatori. The sight was curious for how alien it was, and perhaps a little unnerving. The wizards and the Viaggiatori interacted regularly of course, but mostly through missives who were content to make their way through the Central Plaza spin cycle; the sight of this group bearing down on him with such unsubtle forbearance filled the day receptionist with nervous anticipation.

  Under his gaze, the wizards climbed the steps and entered the building. Five of them were of the same general shape that the day receptionist associated with all wizards; mostly spherical, pointy at the top, heavily bearded. These five, however, were hanging back, and appeared to be unwilling companions for the other wizard, the one who led them across the hall to the entrance desk. This one was different. He was taller and far slimmer than his companions, his beard but a wisp, his blond hair long about his face. His robes were stylised, fitted and bore no sign of stain, a notable contrast to the food, wax and demon’s blood that marked the garments of his associates. And then there was the face; from heavily sleep-deprived eye sockets there burned the fiercest hatred and anger that the day receptionist had ever perceived, and the man’s expression seemed to have fixed itself into a permanent scowl that it would surely relax back into should he ever find cause to change it.

  The day receptionist knew who this was, of course. Everyone in the city knew Keithus, even if they’d never seen him. The man was legendary, his profile carried on whispers of his strength and the impossible magical accomplishments that he had already listed to his name. He was known to be intensely private, which, if anything, only helped further his legend; even his fellow wizards spoke of him in hushed tones. Oddly, though, whilst their accounts certainly painted him as an eccentric verging on perhaps slightly mad, none of them had mentioned the endless, terrifying aura of barely-contained rage that the man emitted, an aura the day receptionist had to physically prevent himself from shirking back from as the man bore down on him.

  “May I help you, sir?” the day receptionist almost-but-not-quite-didn’t-squeak.

  “Why yes, reception person,” Keithus told him with a solemn viciousness, “I do believe you can. Could you please point me towards the people who run this organisation? I’d like a word.”

  “Erm,” said the day receptionist, before rallying and refusing to be intimidated by this man who was staring down at him with an intense dislike that the day receptionist felt he had done nothing to deserve. “Apologies,” he said, holding his composure, “but the Master and the council are cloistered in meeting in the Main Chamber right now, along with all the pre-eminent Viaggiatori. They are concerned with serious issues, and would, I’m sure, be disinclined to suffer any interruption. You are, however, welcome to wait. Might I direct sir to take a seat?”

  “You could try,” Keithus said, loading his words with unspoken threat. “Here that, pals?” he added to his assembled wizards, who all flinched. “They’re discussing serious issues! Perfect. Now, where’s this main chamber?” he asked, turning back to the day receptionist, who wilted again under his gaze and pointed wordlessly to the pile of visitor’s pamphlets that lay stacked on the desk and counted amongst their contents a map of the House of Viaggiatori.

  “Thank you very much,” the wizard said, reaching for one. He studied it for a moment, discovered what he needed to know, then set the map alight with a click of his fingers. It burned away instantly, and a flash of disappointment was visible on Keithus’s face before he clicked his fingers again, set the entire reception desk alight, and, with a nod, strode off towards the main hall, sweeping his accumulated wizards along like flotsam in his wake.

  The day receptionist caught up with Keithus just in time to witness his most heinous act of vandalism yet; a trail of scorched walls and smoking footprints ended with the wizards standing before the heavy, very definitely closed ornate double doors that marked the entrance to the Main Chamber, and it was these priceless historical artefacts that Keithus now blew off their hinges with a particularly violent hand gesture. The day receptionist spared a moment of mourning for the flagrant violation of the age-old Viaggiatori principle that when these doors were closed, no-one was to come a’knockin’, then dived in through the wreckage ahead of the wizards.

  “I’m sorry,” he called out wildly to the amassed ranks of Viaggiatori, who had paused in the act of whatever they’d been debating to spin their collective heads towards the shattered doors. “He just stormed in-“ and that was as far as he got, as a blast of wind knocked him off his feet and sent him flying into the corner. Here, he was greeted by a wall, which chastened him for his cheek in interrupting Keithus’s dramatic entrance by impacting itself rudely into his face.

  Keithus stepped through the rubble as if nothing had happened, his silhouetted figure resolving itself as he cleared the dust storm and detritus that he had bought in with him. He paused to watch the ripple of recognition pass over the assembled Viaggiatori, who filled the tiered benches that ran along the room’s sides, framing the large central table. Here, the Master and the Council sat, stunned silence overruling the details of whatever debate they had previously been engaged with. All eyes were on Keithus, except for the day receptionist’s, whose were on the floor.

  “Good morning,” Keithus said, addressing the central table in the voice of a dewdrop falling on a calm lake while the forest burns down around it. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

  The four councillors looked to each other, and then, with perfect synchronisation, to Eira.

  “Thanks guys,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Nothing that can’t wait,” she added to Keithus, with feeling. The day receptionist, who had staggered back to his feet and was staying there only with the support of his new friend the wall, was impressed. He was surely not the only member of the organisation who stood wary against the recent stream of progressive thinking that had run through the Viaggiatori and culminated in the election of a young, untested new Master, but right now he didn’t believe any of the other applicants could have faced the unstoppable wrath machine that was Keithus so stoically. Even the wizard himself seemed taken aback.

  “Nice of you to drop by,” Eira said to him. “What can
we do for you today?”

  “Nothing,” Keithus said sharply, small shoots of flame flashing from his fingertips as the burning rage that the day receptionist had felt exuding from him slipped through a crack in his furiously calm façade. “No,” he continued, breathing deeply, “not nothing. I wish I could say that I require no further help from the Viaggiatori. Oh how I wish I could say nothing, and destroy you all just like my better instincts are screaming at me to do! But no. I do need you. Yet do I swear, I’ll have it on my own terms, this time. If needs be,” he added blithely, “I could always only kill most of you.”

  The councillors exchanged glances again, but Eira held the wizard’s gaze. “Who’s killing anybody?” she asked, her voice barely quaking. “If you have a grievance against us, Keithus, I’m sure we can settle it without any talk of murder. I can see you’re pretty mad about something. What’s eating you?”

  Keithus simply stared at her for a moment. “Of course,” he said eventually, shaking his head. “Of course. I knew it was a foolish hope.. but there it was. Some little part of me wanted to believe that you knew, that perhaps there was some greater reasoning behind your actions, something I could have been persuaded to see as necessary.. but that’s not it, is it? You have no idea. And why would you? It was just another day for the lot of you. Yes, that’s the Viaggiatori way. I saw it in you then as I see it in you now; do whatever the hell you want, fiddle with things that you don’t even understand, and damn the consequences. You tell yourselves it’s all for a greater good, and you work to ‘save the world’ without giving a damn about it or the people in it. I should destroy you, for that alone.”