The Mirror of Worlds

by David Drake

  They bumped elbows as she shrugged into her own tunic. She was trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, but Cashel heard it regardless.

  “No, Sharina,” he said calmly. “But I think I ought to talk to him myself. Do you have a mirror?”

  They’d need a light, too. The guards outside the tent had a lantern he could borrow, but he’d just as soon leave them and everybody else out of this. Cashel didn’t often get angry, but he was angry now.

  He took the flint and steel from the tarred leather cylinder hanging from the tent’s ridgepole and struck sparks into a pile of mushroom spores. When the tinder flared, he touched the lampwick to it.

  “He has metal men for servants,” Sharina said softly. “I heard the sound when I was starting to go to sleep, and I thought…”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Cashel repeated quietly. “Do you have a mirror?”

  “Here,” said Sharina, holding the Pewle knife upright so that their lamplit faces were reflected on the flat of the polished blade. “I think this is…suitable.”

  Cashel saw shadows quiver in the steel; no more than that. Voices murmured outside the tent; rested guards were replacing those who’d been on duty.

  “He’s there,” Sharina said in an urgent whisper. He didn’t know whether she was speaking to him or just to herself. “I know he’s there!”

  “It’s smaller than me,” Cashel said carefully.

  “So’s the pupil of my eye,” Sharina said. “But I can see all of you. The knife is enough.”

  “Prince Vorsan,” Cashel said, speaking as if the knife blade was the man he was looking for. “My name’s Cashel or-Kenset. I’d like to talk to you; it won’t take long. You have my word that I won’t harm you or yours if you let me in to talk.”

  A shadow solidified on the metal, seemingly the reflection of someone behind them. It had shape but not texture. “Vorsan, you can trust—” Sharina began.

  Cashel touched her cheek with his left hand. “Hush, love,” he said, watching the shimmering steel. “This is for men.”

  The shadow moved and was light, a round room beneath a glowing dome. The man on the other side wore robes of a blue Cashel’d seen only a few times on evenings when he looked into the depths of the sea. Across that backdrop moved clouds of perfect silver, shredding and re-forming like an autumn storm drove it.

  Oh, Ilna’d love to see that cloth! Cashel thought; and blushed, because after all it wasn’t what he’d come here about.

  Vorsan was pudgy. He wore a wreath of silver flowers that matched the embroidered clouds, and on his right and left were the silver men Sharina’d mentioned. They didn’t have faces or the kinds of bumps and angles normal people had; it was sort of like they were wax figures and they’d been heated just a little.

  Each silver man held a club of metal that seemed to grow right out of his hand.

  Cashel cleared his throat and raised his quarterstaff upright—it was too tall for the tent that way—but just held it in the one hand, not threatening anybody. “You don’t need those,” he said, nodding to the servants. “My word’s good.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of that,” Vorsan said, making an expression like he was swallowing something sour. “Still, I’m not a man of violence myself and, ah, I felt it was better to be prepared when I explain the situation to you.”

  If you think those two metal monkeys’d stop me if I hadn’t given my word…, Cashel thought; but he didn’t speak, because it’d sound like a threat and he wasn’t one to threaten folks.

  But if I hadn’t given my word…

  “Now, I’m sure you care a great deal for the princess,” Vorsan said. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Cashel. “I care for Sharina.”

  “Well, you see, the point is that you can’t protect her from what’s about to happen to your world,” Vorsan said. “I’m the only one who can protect her. I can’t seem to get her to understand that. The Last will destroy your world as the Flood did mine, but this time there’ll be no respite. Mankind is doomed forever—and the Princess Sharina is doomed as well unless you convince her to come with me. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “Sir,” said Cashel, “I don’t believe that we can’t win. I’ll never believe that Evil wins, not even if it kills me, and I don’t think Sharina believes that either. But—”

  “I’m telling you the truth, my good man!” Vorsan said. “Do you think I’m mistaken? I created this sanctuary. I’m Vorsan, and I don’t make mistakes!”

  Cashel laughed. He was still angry, but the little fellow was as funny as a bullfrog puffing himself up and trying to be an ox.

  “You’ve made one mistake I know about, Master Vorsan,” he said. He let the laughter stay in his voice. Laughing at the little fellow’d bother him more than shouts would. It wasn’t a kind thing to do, but Cashel was angry.

  “You thought that it’d matter to Sharina even if she thought you were right,” he said. “Even if she was sure we were all going to lose and these black ugly Last were going to kill everything else in the world. She’d keep on fighting anyway, because that’s what decent folk do when it’s that or give in to evil. Which you’d know yourself if you were a man.”

  Vorsan gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “You can’t really believe that?” he said, but though he made a question out of the words, his tone said he really was starting to understand. “The Princess Sharina is unique, so perfectly wonderful—it wouldn’t be right that she throw her life away so pointlessly. She owes it to the world to be preserved!”

  Cashel laughed again. “Do you listen to yourself?” he asked, meaning it for a real question. “Sharina’s going to fight for the world, which you’d never do. Just keep out of the way. That’s all she wants of you, Vorsan—your space.”

  “She can’t really mean that,” Vorsan whispered, looking down at his hands cupped before him. He raised his eyes to Cashel’s and went on. “Very well, then; you may leave. Focus on your reflection in the mirror on either side of you.”

  “One thing more, Master Vorsan,” Cashel said. “I gave you my word I wouldn’t harm you if you invited me in; and I haven’t. But sir—if you trouble Sharina again, I’ll be back, without an invitation and without any promises. And I’ll end it then, whatever Tenoctris says.”

  “You can’t reach me unless I permit it!” the pudgy man said.

  Cashel smiled. “The better part of me doesn’t want to prove how wrong you are,” he said. “But I’m not as peaceful a man as you maybe think. Good day, Master Vorsan.”

  Cashel looked into a mirror as clear as the air between him and its surface; and after a moment, he was falling back into Sharina’s arms.

  THE LAKE WAS a dome of warm mist rising for as far outward as Garric could see from the ogre’s back. Air currents opened vistas and closed them, occasionally showing him groves of fruit trees scattered into the distance. The air had an undertone, mildly unpleasant but not one of decay.

  “You’re smelling asphalt,” Shin said. “Bitumen. It’s seeped up to fill most of the bowl here over the centuries. Rain doesn’t soak in as it would on normal ground, so the surface is cut with freshwater leads.”

  The aegipan nodded his little goatee toward the lake with a lolling grin. “And islands of dirt and rock remain where the hills were,” he added. “They’re planted with orchards, I see.”

  “I’ve never seen a place like this,” Garric said, lifting his right leg from the stirrup and doubling it to stretch different muscles. “It’s quite interesting, of course, but I don’t see how we can get across it. Can we go around?”

  “No,” said Shin. “But I believe these men—”

  He jogged his chin toward six figures who’d appeared from the warm fog. They were armed, though for the moment they seemed watchful rather than openly hostile.

  “—will be able to guide us.”

  Kore grunted disgustedly. “The stink of asphalt keeps me from smelling anything!” she muttered. “It’s
worse than being blind, or next to it.”

  “I’ll dismount!” Garric said in an urgent whisper. Kore knelt; the strangers backed away with some shouted disquiet. They must’ve thought the ogre was crouching to charge.

  “We’re friends, good sirs!” Garric called and he walked forward, his left arm raised in greeting. “Don’t be put off by my mount. She’s quite harmless, I assure you.”

  “Yes, yes, rub it in, why don’t you?” Kore murmured in the background. “It’s possible that my humiliation hasn’t yet been as complete as it could be. Utterly harmless, yes.”

  “I’m Garric or-Reise from Haft, traveling southward in hopes of visiting a wise man,” Garric said, keeping his tone brightly cheerful. “I’m not wealthy, but I can find a silver piece for the man who leads me and my companions through this—”

  He gestured, still with his left hand.

  “—lake or tar pit or whatever you call it.”

  The six men looked a right lot of villains, to tell the truth. Though probably no better disciplined than the troop his party’d met on the northern edge of the teak forest, these were better armed and as growlingly dangerous as a pack of cur dogs.

  “You’re in Lord Holm’s domain now,” said the man whose fore-and-aft bicorn hat was decorated with a long feather, now bedraggled but originally pink. He held a cocked crossbow which, unlike the fellow’s clothing, looked very well maintained. “Watch your tongue when you discuss his possessions, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I will indeed, sirs,” Garric said, standing arms akimbo with his head high. The most dangerous thing he could do would be to act subservient to these men; they’d be on him like sharks if they decided he could be bullied. “Now, which of you will guide me through to the other side?”

  The leader turned to the older man at his side, a fat fellow whose thinning hair was blond but whose beard was russet with streaks of gray. “What do you think, Platt?” he asked. “Do you suppose he’s the one?”

  “He could be, Leel,” the fat man said, scratching his groin with his left hand. “It’s not like Milord gave us much of a description, is it? ‘There’ll be a hero coming; bring him back to me.’”

  “Milord’s a wizard,” said Leel forcefully to Garric. “He can foresee things.”

  “Then he foresaw us,” said Kore, who’d walked up directly behind Garric while he was talking with Leel and his men. “Who but the hero Garric or-Reise could tame a mount as handsome and powerful as myself?”

  “She’s making them think it’s a joke,” said Carus, looking critically at the ogre through Garric’s eyes. “But when you think how it came that you’re riding her…she’s a clever lady, whatever she looks like.”

  “I’ve had greater compliments than any a human ruffian is capable of giving me,” Kore said, puzzling the locals who hadn’t heard the ghost’s observation. “But thank you just the same.”

  “I would be honored to meet Lord Holm,” Garric said politely. “Though as I say, my wish is merely to pass through his territory, paying for food and lodging. We’ll of course do no harm to anyone on the way.”

  “Bloody well told, you won’t,” the leader said, gesturing with his crossbow. The bow was horn-backed wood rather than steel, but Garric didn’t need his ancestor’s assessment to know that it’d send its square-headed quarrel through a man’s chest at short range.

  “What is there to harm, Leel?” another man demanded. “They’re not working any but the south islands, and you know half the grubbies’ve run away by now.”

  “Shut up, Wagga!” Leel said. “Sister bite your tongue out, you fool.”

  He looked up to judge the position of the sun. “All right, we’ll take them back. The big one, whatever it is—”

  “The ogre, my man,” Kore said with a note of chill. “Your ignorance is pardonable, but your lack of courtesy is not.”

  “Like I say, whatever,” Leel growled. “He can’t get across unless he flies. There’s a little solid ground and most of the surface is okay for a man if he moves along. But a horse can’t make it, and that brute’s bigger’n any horse.”

  “So I am,” said the ogre, raising her left hand and spreading the clawed fingers. Their span was enormous, easily that of the ribs of a parasol. “But on all fours, as I will deign to go under the circumstances, I spread my weight more broadly than a horse or even a man. Lead on, sirrah!”

  Leel shrugged. “I figure it’ll sink to the bottom of the tar,” he said. “Which is no business of mine. And you’ll—”

  He looked directly at Kore for the first time. Leel obviously disliked the ogre, though he didn’t seem to be as fearful as many of those Garric had met since he began riding her.

  “—have plenty of company down there, much good may they do you. Trying to get through the lake without us to guide you, well—it’s been tried.”

  “Look, Leel,” said Platt, scratching his groin again. It seemed to be a nervous mannerism. “It’s pretty late already. Don’t you think we should maybe wait till morning?”

  “No, I bloody well don’t,” snapped Leel. “Let’s get going. Wagga, you lead.”

  A ratty little man nodded and slipped forward. He carried three javelins in a bundle and wore a hat made of leaves bent onto a frame of willow shoots. Leel gestured Platt ahead of him, said to Garric, “You lot follow me,” and stepped onto the yielding, barren surface.

  Shin hopped ahead, dancing rather than walking. Garric shuffled onto the path behind him. He noticed the lake’s warmth on the backs of his calves before it seeped through the soles of his boots, but it wasn’t dangerous in itself.

  Dust, vegetable matter, and gravel were worked into the bitumen. The men ahead of Garric moved swiftly, so he fitted his pace to theirs. He was used to marshes, but he’d have been more comfortable if he had a staff to probe and to vault and—if worse came to worst—to spread his weight if he slipped into a sucking cavity. He didn’t suppose hot tar would release a victim as easily as the mud of Pattern Marsh in the borough either.

  The aegipan turned and raised an eyebrow in question.

  Garric grinned, his mood suddenly lightened. “I was just thinking that I’d like a tar bath even less than I did a mud one when I tended sheep,” he said. “So I’ll avoid it.”

  “Hey, what if the big one falls through, Leel?” called a man toward the rear of the party.

  “Then you find a way around the hole, don’t you, Tenny?” said the leader, for the moment a wraith in the mist. “Or you wait here on the lake till the bogeys come to get you.”

  Tenny snarled a curse, but he didn’t raise his voice enough to force Leel to notice him.

  “Or again,” Kore murmured, “I might decide to spend my final moments savoring a meal of human flesh. We can never be sure of the future, can we?”

  The ogre didn’t sound concerned. Carus laughed, but Garric wasn’t sure the comment had been meant as a joke. On the other hand—

  Garric grinned. The thought was amusing even if it weren’t a joke, if you looked at the world in a particular way. He’d become enough of a warrior himself to understand that sometimes grim jokes were the only kind available, and those were the times you really needed a joke.

  The mist largely cleared, though Garric hadn’t noticed a breeze or patch of cooler air to explain it. They’d reached an island. Tar had soaked into the dirt of the margins, forming a black crust. Wagga was trotting across a field of bromeliads with squat, scaly trunks like palmettos. They grew in straight lines and must’ve been planted deliberately.

  “Pineapples,” Carus said. “Saw them on Tisamur my first campaign. You cut the trunk open and it’s sweet and sour both at once. Any cold at all kills them, but I guess this steam bath takes care of winter.”

  Garric eyed the plants critically as he strode between the rows. They hadn’t been tended in weeks or more, judging from the way vines were curling around the trunks. He wondered about the bogeys Leel had mentioned; then he wondered just what Lord Holm wanted
a hero for.

  They were on the asphalt again. The paths led from island to island. A lead of dark water eight or nine feet wide cut the surface. Wagga and Leel splashed through. Shin leaped it gracefully, landed on his hands, and somersaulted onto his hooves again.

  Garric could’ve jumped across too, but he didn’t trust the surface on the other side. Slamming down with his full weight might crack it. The very least he could expect then would be to lose a boot that he’d want after they’d crossed this stinking blackness.

  The water was warm, the bottom slimy but less than knee-deep. He hopped up the other side and sloshed forward. Their bare-legged guides showed no interest in stopping to allow Garric to pour the water out of his boot.

  The path across the bitumen jogged repeatedly. Once Wagga led them in a wide circuit. The mist chanced to clear again long enough for Garric to see a single bubble of fresh tar in the midst of the otherwise unbroken gray expanse which they’d just avoided.

  They crossed three more islands of normal soil, each planted with fruit trees. The light was failing; the sky was too bright for stars, but all below was in heavy shadow. Neither Garric nor Carus could identify the fruit on the last island, and they didn’t tarry long enough in the dimness even to guess at its kinship. Part of the crop was rotting neglected on the ground.

  Garric glanced over his shoulder. Kore was close behind, pacing easily on all fours. She’d stripped palm fronds to weave between the long fingers of either hand, increasing their surface area the way the webs of a frog’s feet do. She grinned, though her long face touched the expression with savage horror.

  “Leel, it’s getting bloody late!” Platt called. “We should’ve waited till morning.”

  “Shut up, you fool, or you needn’t worry about bogeys!” Leel snarled back.

  Lights winked ahead, then vanished in a curl of mist. “About time,” one of the men muttered.

  “Look to the left, lad,” warned Carus, seeing more with Carrie’s eyes than the owner did. At first Garric thought he was seeing another island half a mile away. The outlines were too square, though, and when the mist cleared momentarily he thought he glimpsed window alcoves and turrets on two corners.