The Mirador (12 page)

Gideon was there, an ink-smear across his forehead and his fingers knotted in his hair, wrestling with another of his thorny theoretical problems. Despite the Mirador’s refusal to admit him, he pursued his researches as fast as Felix brought him books from the Mirador’s myriad libraries or the bookshops which lined the side streets off the Road of Horn.

His delight at my arrival was patent; he shoved all his theorems and diagrams out of the way, and unearthed the wax tablet and stylus he used for conversations.
What brings you here?

“Boredom,” I said with a vast mock-sigh and entertained him with a scurrilous and vindictive version of Bartholmew and Susan’s decampment, finishing by saying, “So, you see, I have nothing better to do for the next two days than bother my friends and interfere with their work.”

The benefit is all ours,
Gideon wrote.
Are you waiting for Mildmay?

“Will I annoy you?”

Not if you will talk to me,
he said with a wide-eyed ingenue’s look.

“Yes, because
obviously
you’re dying of boredom.”

He grinned.
No, but it does get a little lonely.

“With Felix gone all day, I imagine it must.”

Even when he’s here.
He gave me a semidefiant glower.

“Are you fighting again?”

When are we not?
He shrugged, although it was an uncomfortable, twisted motion, as if he were trying to get out from under some invisible hand.

“Same old subject?”

It hardly matters. He would far rather fight with me than give me a single scrap of the truth.

“The truth about what?”

I don’t know.
He stared at the sentence for a moment, then changed the period into an exclamation mark.
Something is eating at him, but he obfuscates it endlessly.

“Maybe he doesn’t know himself?”

No, that’s Mildmay.

He caught me off guard. I should have turned the conversation, but I said, “What do you mean?”

He raised his head and looked at me.
The things he claims he doesn’t remember.

“You think he’s lying?”

No. I don’t think it’s that simple. But I think if someone pushed him
—
But Felix won’t, and I see you won’t either.

I broke eye contact and didn’t answer. After a moment, the stylus started scratching again.
Felix thinks he has destroyed Mildmay.

“Felix is prone to melodramatic nonsense,” I said, parrying desperately.

Is that what it is? Think of Mildmay as you first met him. Can you find that man in him now?

“You should have been a dissector for the Medical College in Aigisthos,” I said, still trying to turn the conversation, although it was plainly too late.

Answer my question. It is important.

“Important to whom? I didn’t think
you
cared.”

His head jerked back a little.
I consider him a friend. Don’t you?

I couldn’t find an answer fast enough.

Why are you so surprised? Do you really care so little about him?

“You know that’s not true,” I said, but it was a weak defense. I was trying to find something better when Felix and Mildmay walked in.

Gideon had the presence of mind to close the tablet and drop it back into his pocket. I got my expression clear before I turned, but the way Gideon looked at Felix was like a man staring into some deeply desired hell. Mildmay gave us one swift, unreadable, green glance. Felix said, “Mehitabel! What are you doing here?” with every evidence of surprise and genuine delight. But he was a good actor, and I wouldn’t have liked to bet that he’d missed the signs.

Felix—tall, beautiful Felix, as molly as de Fidelio’s dormouse—wasn’t as difficult to read as Mildmay, but I’d found that his skew eyes made his face unpredictable. I even had a conceit, half fancy, half uneasiness, that his yellow eye and his blue eye governed different expressions.

I gave Felix and Mildmay the same version of events I had given Gideon, and when I had finished, Felix said, “Let me guess: this means you want to borrow Mildmay for the night?” The blue eye was gently teasing; the yellow eye had a spark of malice dancing in it.

“If it won’t inconvenience your lordship too greatly,” I said, giving him an ironic little curtsy—showing offense only made him worse.

“I think I can manage without him for tonight.” Felix was looking at Gideon, but he turned his head to say to Mildmay, “Go on. Have fun.”

Mildmay did that horrible thing he did sometimes to conversational gambits: let it drop to the floor and lie there twitching. After a very long pause, he said, “That an order?”

For a moment, I thought Felix was going to respond in kind, but then he quite visibly deflated and said, “No, only a wish. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” I said for both of us, and dragged Mildmay out the door.

:I am impressed,: Gideon said sardonically. :You passed up an opportunity for a fight. Does this mean you won’t argue with me tonight either?:

:Not if you keep that up,: I said, groping for the person I was supposed to be. :Arguing with Mildmay’s no fun, anyway. No challenge.:

:Am I meant to be flattered?:

:Only if you want to be. Gideon—:

He waited, eyebrows raised.

:There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there?:

:Yes,: Gideon said gently. :But you know that.:

:Yes,: I said, abruptly too weary to deny it. :Malkar.:

Gideon said nothing; I turned away to stare blindly at the bookcases. “
Damn
him. Even dead . . .”

:It is often said in Kekropia, to comfort the newly bereaved, that the dead person is not
truly
dead until the last person who remembers them dies.:

“Oh.” I pressed my fingers to my mouth to try to stem a tide of lunatic giggles. “What a . . . what a
horrible
thought.” It was no use; the laughter would not be stopped, and it was nearly a full minute before I could calm myself again.

When I turned back to face him, Gideon said, at his driest, :It is not a theory I subscribe to,: and that nearly set me off again.

But there was a question I wanted to ask, a serious one. :What
do
you believe? About the fate of the dead?:

:You want to talk about theology,: he said slowly, clearly wondering if my interest was genuine.

“I want to talk about the dead. And why they . . . haunt us.”

:Literally or figuratively?:

“Sorry?”

:You understood me. Do you want to talk about ghosts or do you want to talk about why Malkar Gennadion continues to plague your brother—and you—nearly two years after his death?:

Gideon’s eyes were too damnably sharp. :I suppose I want to be certain they are not the same question.:

:Do you believe you are being haunted by the ghost of Malkar Gennadion?:

His tone was neutral, but the question still stung. “No, of course not!” I said, pacing across the room to stare into the fire.

Into the silence, Gideon said, :But you are afraid.:

“I’ve been afraid of Malkar half my life. It’s a hard habit to break.”

Gideon crossed the room to stand beside me. :Mildmay is not being haunted by any but the specters in his own mind. I know the signs of haunting.:

:But he doesn’t remember what Malkar did to him. He says so.:

:And how much effort is it costing him to keep Malkar safely forgotten?:

I said nothing.

:Felix—: He touched my arm lightly, as if he was afraid I would only move away from him. :Have you
talked
to him? About Malkar?:

I didn’t move away. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even raise my head. :I kept expecting him to shake it off. To be himself again. And when I realized that wasn’t going to happen . . . I don’t know what to say! I don’t know how to reach him, or even if it’s possible. Frankly, I don’t know if I have any right to try.:

Because it was my fault. But Gideon didn’t need me to tell him that.

He said, :You are the only one who does.: I started to protest, but he cut me off. :
Because
you are to blame—and because you are his brother. Because you were . . . what you were to Malkar Gennadion. You’re the only person who can understand.:

:Simon—:

:Mildmay won’t talk to him. Do you think Simon hasn’t
tried
?:

“I know,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “But I’m afraid . . .”

Gideon waited.

“What if he won’t talk to
me
?”

Gideon started laughing.

I wrenched away from him. He said, :You must be the only person in the Mirador who hasn’t realized Mildmay would walk on knives for you.:

:Yes, but he’d find that much less unpleasant.: I took a deep breath, raked my fingers through my hair. :What do you want, Gideon? Shall I promise to try?:

I could feel his gaze on me, although I refused to look at him. :This is not about what I want, although I realize it would be much easier for you if it were.:

“Stop it,” I said and was horrified to hear my voice shaking. “Just . . .
stop
.”

He sighed and after a moment moved away from me, back to the table and its piles of books. :What would you prefer to discuss? The weather?:

I struck back viciously. :Why don’t we talk about the Bastion?:

:And her refugees in the Mirador? Yes. Let’s.:

:Do you think Gemma Parsifal’s offer of amnesty is sincere? : I asked, before he could say anything about Isaac, and it stopped him.

:No,: he said bleakly. :The Bastion does not—
cannot
— forgive. It relies too greatly on loyalty.:

:So does the Mirador.: Anything to keep him away from the subject of Isaac Garamond and where I went when I left the suite at night.

:No, not . . . I misspoke. It isn’t loyalty at stake. It’s
obedience
. And if the disobedient are not punished, then how can the obedience of the rest be commanded?:

I shivered at his tone, dull, flat, as if he was too weary to be horrified at what he knew.

:Once you have run,: he said, grimly pursuing the question, :you
cannot
be welcomed back. There is no abasement great enough to erase your sin. I don’t know if Gemma knows she’s lying, but she’s lying all the same.:

:Then why make the offer?:

:To get us back,: Gideon said and bared his teeth in something that was not a smile. :And to wring every last scrap of information about the Mirador out of us that they can.:

He cut off my protest before it was even fully formed. :Don’t think anything has changed. Gemma is far more politically astute than old Jules Mercator, but that doesn’t mean that if you scratch her, she’ll bleed a different color.:

:You sound as if you speak from personal knowledge.:

:I do.: He gave me no chance to ask further, but said, :The Bastion wants to see the Cabalines fall. They want the Mirador for themselves. And Lord Stephen having been such a great disappointment to them after the disasters of Jane’s and Gareth’s reigns, they are becoming less and less choosy about the means they employ. I am only afraid that some of the younger wizards may be foolish enough to trust Gemma’s pretty words.:

:You could speak to them.:

:What need? Thaddeus and Eric between them will say all that can be said.:

:I am given to understand that Thaddeus tore up his letter of amnesty on the spot and threatened to feed it to Aias Perrault.:

:That’s Thaddeus,: Gideon agreed. :Subtlety is ever his watchword.:

:He’s probably already urging Stephen to declare war.:

:Expel us all as spies. He’d love to ship me back to the Bastion in a box.:

:You’re never going to tell me why he hates you, are you?:

:No,: Gideon said and smiled at me sweetly. :The same way you’re never going to tell me anything except exactly what you want me to hear.:

:Gideon—:

:Don’t start,: he said fiercely. He sat down, opened one of the books, and bent his head over it in a fashion clearly intended to rebuff conversation.

I stood and watched him for some time before I said quietly, “I’m going to bed.” It took all my willpower not to allow my retreat to be a skulk or a scuttle.

It was much later when Gideon came to bed. Although I was awake, I said nothing, and although he knew I was awake, he did not try to touch me.

I’d never exactly given up my room in the Mirador; no one had asked me to—it wasn’t as if they needed the space—and Mildmay and I found it very useful. Neither one of us had much privacy in the normal way of things.

I was very careful with him—there were too many things I didn’t want his terrifyingly sharp eyes to see. He came willingly enough to bed, and once there it was easy. Easy because he made it easy. The gentle expertise of his hands made a lie of the sullen silence he gave to the world. He let me take what I needed— almost flinched away when I tried to give in return.