The Mirrored City (4 page)

Maddox opened his eyes.

He felt dull and empty. The Sword was gone, and life felt like a pointless brutal torture. He was on his back, head turned toward a wall, atop a slab in some kind of workshop. His mind recognized the trappings of necromancy—the bones, the anatomical diagrams, the skeletal cat pantomiming the motions of cleaning its butt atop a pile of books. He was naked, but that was not unusual.

“Sword,” Maddox said.

“Fucking shit!” a Volkovian man’s voice exclaimed as a chair toppled over, clattering to the floor.

“Sword.”

“By the Ancestors,” whoever was standing behind Maddox said.

“Sword.”

He felt a meaty hand grab his chin and turn his face the other direction. He didn’t resist.

A middle-aged man stood above the slab, gawping. “You’re… alive.” He pressed his hands against Maddox’s naked chest where the monster had eviscerated him. He had two tattoos on his chest, the Seal of Movement, which was black ink, and the Seal of Vitae, which was golden and metallic.

“Sword.”

“I am Isik. What is your name?”

Maddox hesitated. “Sword.”

“Yes, yes. You had a sword,” the man stammered.

The words were a struggle to string together. “Give… me… my… Sword.”

“I will in a moment. It’s over there. First, I need to examine you.” He stared at Maddox’s face. “There was so much death in your eyes…”

With a monumental effort of will, Maddox turned his head. He had no energy to do anything. He spotted the Sword on a workbench and willed it to his hand, causing Isik to jump out of the way. He sighed with relief as Sword bonded to his broken mind.

Maddox blinked. “Was another body found with me?”

Isik’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“I’m immortal,” Maddox explained. “My Seal of Vitae is a temporal anchor to the exact moment I inscribed it. Any time I die, I come back at the same time every day as if no time had passed for me physically. This is far beyond anything this world is ready for, so I would appreciate if you could keep this discreet. Isik, I’m guessing by your robes and that medallion you wear that you’re the coroner?”

“I am,” Isik said. “But holy shit. You are alive. Your insides were a mess.”

“Forget about me. Was another man with me or near me? Any traces of unidentified blood? What about witness reports?”

Isik shook his head. “It was just you in the alley. What in the Ancestor’s name happened to you?”

“Your investigation is closed,” Heath’s voice called from the doorway. “Clearly the reports exaggerated the extent of my friend’s injuries. However, this is a matter for the Inquisition to review, not the local constabulary. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

Isik went pale as he saw Heath’s silver eyes.

“You’re from Rivern,” Isik gasped.

“So you know my reputation.” Heath smiled. “This incident… never happened. I hope I can trust your discretion.”

“Fuck this.” Isik threw up his hands. “I want no part of it.”

“Great. So sorry to trouble you… Isik Vadyrov, son of Petr.” Heath tossed a bag of coins onto the slab. “Maddox, let’s get you home.”

Maddox said, “We should consider working with the local authorities. There’s a—”

“Tell me on the way home,” Heath insisted.

“I need to get dressed.”

“Public nudity is totally accepted in Dessim,” Heath countered.

“You’re being an ass,” Maddox said, finding his trousers on a table next to his tunic and cloak, which were gore soaked and ripped to shreds.

“And you’re being unprofessional,” Heath said.

Maddox jammed his legs into his trousers. “I don’t work for you.”

“I can leave,” Isik offered.

“We were just leaving,” Heath and Maddox said in angry unison.

As they made their way out of the morgue, Heath whispered, “The fuck happened to you?”

Maddox rolled his eyes and shouldered his way past Heath. “Don’t even
fucking
worry about it.”

F
OUR

Desperate

S
OREN

93. Many of the most popular novels in Dessim start with characters of humble beginnings. To those of us writers who are literate, it can be hard to capture the abject desperation that many young men suffer when turned from the workhouses or into the mines. It would be tempting indeed to seek out such people to expand one’s experience.

However, a good novelist knows that truth is best served in small portions. Few who read books have experienced the inconvenience of begging for food or the embarrassment of lacking adequate clothing. In the Mirrored City, many of these wretches flee to Baash once they are of age to avail themselves of charity rather than work to improve their situation.

When writing about the less fortunate, one must not make the protagonist so unfortunate the reader loses sympathy. Best to allude to misfortune and continue on to the story of how he rises from adversity.

—101 WRITING TIPS FOR A GUARANTEED BESTSELLER,
5
TH
EDITION, SEXIMUS BOSWELL

SOREN SAT OUTSIDE
the steps to the bathhouse with his dirty palms extended in front of him. He wore a ragged vest and tattered trousers. His bare callused feet were dark with street filth. His blond beard and disheveled hair made him look older than his years. His ribs showed through his deeply tanned and peeling skin.

“Spare a ducat for a bath?” Soren muttered halfheartedly as people poured into the bathhouse. “Ducat?”

People marched on, some of them avoiding the side of the steps where he sat, plaintively begging for money. The people of Dessim weren’t heartless, but they took a cynical view of beggars too old for the orphanage and too young to be unfit for mining work. He tried, he really did, but the headaches and dizzy spells made it impossible to work the long hours.

“Soren?”

An unmistakable voice broke him from his ruminations. Keltis stood in stunned disbelief as he placed his hand against his chest. He was a striking young man with black hair and wore a fabulously tailored ivory and silver embroidered coat over a silk shirt and velvet trousers. His neck was laden with fine golden chains. “Seriously? You’re
homeless
?”

Soren laughed weakly. “And you’re… what? A Bamoran merchant?”

Keltis smirked. “It’s Thrycean jacquard, love. It’s all the rage these days now that the trade embargo has lifted with the Southern Isles. But seriously, what in the five hells happened to you? Is this some sort of scam you’re running? Because, darling, there are much bigger fish to catch than the minnows who use
public
baths.” His face sneered slightly.

“I’m hungry and I’m dirty,” Soren said. “Help me out or fuck off.”

Keltis sighed. “I know we weren’t exactly friends at the orphanage. I admit that was mostly my doing. I was younger then and insecure. I was threatened by your good looks and may have lashed out. But I obviously had nothing to worry about.” He preened the lapel of his coat. “Of course I’ll help you.”

“You know what, keep your gold. I’d rather die of starvation than take your money.”

“And I’d rather die than give it to you,” Keltis scoffed. “No. I’m going to help you fix your busted, messed up wreck of a life by showing you how to survive on the streets. Lesson number one—a hustle is always about a good story. Watch and learn.”

Before Soren could respond, Keltis marched over to a pair of women in nice clothes and stopped them.

“Excuse me, ladies. I hate to impose, but I was hoping you two might be carrying some coin. You see, that wretched beggar over there was a dear childhood friend and he’s in desperate need of a bath, clothing, and a barber. An easy solution to a simple problem, however… I didn’t think to carry coin outside the house, and I live far from the public baths. I’d be willing to trade one of my necklaces for a handful of ducats to help my poor friend.”

The older of the two peered at his neck, appraising the jewelry. The younger and more shapely slapped her arm. “Don’t be silly. Here, have them with the blessing of the Host, in hopes that karma smiles on me the next time I forget my coin purse at home.”

Keltis accepted several coins graciously. “May the Host watch over you.”

“And you as well.”

He walked over to Soren and tossed a ducat into his lap. “It’s not mine, so you don’t have to feel like it’s charity.”

“She gave you more than one,” Soren said.

“It’s not charity,” Keltis reiterated as he shoved the rest in his pocket. “These are the cost of your tuition. Now are you ready to continue your lessons?”

“Why are you doing this?” Soren asked warily. Keltis was always open about his opinions and had never liked Soren. Pretending to be nice was outside Keltis’s usual repertoire of mean tricks.

Keltis crouched down eye level to Soren. “I was a shithead in that orphanage. Not just to you. To everyone. Because I felt I needed to break other people down to survive or be adopted or whatever. You know how much any of us would have given to have a family. Turns out that was all bullshit. I’m not just surviving. I’m thriving. And you can, too. I owe it to you to make up for all the horrible pranks… and the other stuff. At least get yourself a bath.”

Soren grabbed the ducat and slid it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

Patting him on the arm, Keltis quickly pulled his hand away, wiping it on a silk handkerchief. “I want to earn your trust and your forgiveness. Look—go clean up. Don’t even bother putting those clothes back on. You’re better off going nude. Find me at Dancing Star in an hour or so if you want my help. Otherwise… best of fortune.”

Keltis stood and spun back toward the street, his coat trailing behind him majestically.

Soren pulled the ducat out of his pocket and studied it. It had a unicursal seven-pointed star on the back and the portrait of whoever had chaired the Grand Assembly when it was minted on the obverse. Another coin fell into his lap.

An austere older man in a tall hat and flowing robes walked past, barely acknowledging Soren’s presence.
He saw Keltis give me coin.

A copper coin fell next to his leg as a younger girl skirted up the steps.

Soren shook his head. All it took was one person.

Soren walked into the baths with three ducats, two silvers, and seven coppers. He paid a ducat to the balneator and walked into the main natatorium to find the men’s undressing room. People splashed and frolicked in the cool water, the laughter of children echoing off the concave mosaics that arched over every set of four pillars bordering the pools.

Soren made his way to the warm baths. A shirtless seal mage with an insignia of fire emblazoned across his chest shot a stream of flames into a fountain that spilled water into the pool, keeping the water warm. He was sweating profusely.

Soren jumped into the pool, which was laden with fragrant oils and soap. Wet, naked, and no longer filthy, he looked no more out of place than any of the other bathers as they went through their individual cleansing rituals. Bathing was sacred to many gods in the Host, and each had a different ritual. Soren just thanked the Host that he could finally feel clean. He continued to soak as bathers came and went, moving to hotter pools or cooling off.