The Universal Mirror (13 page)

“Can you love anyone when you’re six?”  He’d never been in love at all.

“Well.  Maybe not,” Quentin allowed, a sheepish grin on his face.  “But I liked her at least.  I used to catch frogs and let them loose on her head, and she never screamed, not once.  In fact, she used to put spiders in my tea when her mother called on mine.” 

“That’s… um.”  Asahel couldn’t think of much to say about that.  Instead, he switched to, “What is it that you like about her?  Besides the spiders.”

“She’s smart,” the other man answered promptly.  “And she doesn’t just sit there and—and simper.  You know how women do, fluttering their eyelashes and—and their hair.”

“I’d never noticed that,” Asahel said honestly.  “Most of the women I’ve known were too busy for much of that.”  He decided not to mention that he’d seen Quentin exhibit more of that kind of behavior just walking through the colleges than any woman he’d ever met.  Quickly, he added, “But she sounds…” What was that word he used?  “Brilliant.”

“I really didn’t think she even liked me,” Quentin mused.  “Not after…well, maybe I was wrong.”  Asahel shifted his weight, leaning on his right arm as he opened his mouth to ask another question.  The hollow pounding of wood on metal broke his concentration and his head sharply turned as Quentin asked, “What is that?”

Asahel pushed himself up off the ground and stood.  The sky was much darker than it had been and he noticed that the washerwoman had stopped singing.  It was she who was making the noise, a large ladle in her hand beating down on a pot as her children clapped their hands together.  She looked weary as her head lifted towards the sun overhead, staring at its distance from the oncoming moon.  As he listened, he could hear other noises coming from the Commons.  What Donat had jeered at him for was true, at least among the lower classes.  The Soameses had tried to rise above it, but Asahel knew that his mother, at least, likely drummed her fingers against her desk in the same sentiment.

Quentin had risen as well, running a hand through his hair.  “I remember the Plagues,” he muttered.  “I can’t believe Donat scoffed at you like that.”  He caught Asahel’s gaze and reached out, shoving him.  “Don’t look up at the sky.  I don’t care if it’s superstition—it can’t be good to see it.”  The wind was rising again, whipping Asahel’s dark hair against his brow as he looked back down to the grass.

“It’ll be full dark in moments,” he said.  “I reason we’re safe enough here.”

“Why is she beating the pot like that?”  The other man shivered.

Asahel hesitated, knowing that Quentin was genuinely afraid.  He had no desire to make it worse but he said, “There’s a story that says the Plagues… the fever.  It comes from the sun, through magic somehow.  Tradition says that if you make loud noises throughout the night, the darkness will be frightened away from your own home.”

“Is it true?”

“No.  It wasn’t any better in the Low Quarter than at Lantern Street.”  He sighed.  “The difference for us was that most of my family was out at sea.  They weren’t there to catch it.”

“Do you think—” Quentin’s face was pinched.

“Aye?”  It felt strange to be on the protective end of a conversation, but Asahel sensed that there was something about the Plagues and his family that Quentin wasn’t sharing.  It had been a bad summer for all, but he’d heard stories of the packed inner districts, of men hauling bodies into the streets to be burned without any care for burial.  To the upper classes that found their immortality in the construction of elaborate tombs, Asahel supposed it must have been beyond imagining.

“Will it happen again?”

Asahel shook his head. “No, not plague.  It was a coincidence before.  Sure, and didn’t we talk of that in lectures all last week?”  His voice was as steady as a ship in a becalmed sea, gently soothing Quentin with its deep and rocking cadence.

Quentin nodded. 

The shadow of the sun was creeping up on them, casting long dark outlines across the grass.  The pounding of ladle and pot slowed, wavering as the clapping stopped, although it still continued.  Asahel took a few steps towards the colleges, his movements slow as he waited for the taller man to follow.  He felt safer in the fields, away from the other students, but Quentin needed the security of crowds, Asahel saw.  I’m used to being afraid.  He’s not.  That thought was enough to settle Asahel in his decision to lead them both back to where they’d come from.

“We’ll go back to the college,” he decided although he knew there was no purpose in going, except to give them a plan.  The men trudged through the field, listening to the clang and crash of the people in the Commons who were trying to ward off the bloody tinge of light that now surrounded the sun.  Once they had a course, Quentin moved ahead, leading Asahel towards the building in which they spent most of their days.  His step was nimble despite the bumpy course, neatly avoiding the pits and foxholes scattered amongst the long grasses and clumps of weeds.

They had almost reached the college when Asahel saw four figures ahead.  He stopped.

“Quentin!”  There was no mistaking Donat’s voice, not to one who dreaded it.  “We wondered where you were—have you been hiding from this racket?  The sun’s almost gone.”  Quentin stiffened as he took a step in front of Asahel, blocking his companion from view. 

“He’s looking for trouble,” he whispered.  “Let’s just try and stay out of it.”

“Aye.  Let’s.”

Quentin gave Donat a curt nod, then he and Asahel quickened their pace towards the college.  Neither looked behind them.  Asahel didn’t stop and ask Quentin why he’d decided to move on ahead when he and Donat had known one another for years.  He knew, as well as Quentin had, that Donat was looking for something.  He, however, thought it blood and not just trouble.

They were within sight of the college when Asahel felt something snag his ankle.  A bramble caught his boot and he sprawled out across the ground, coughing as the wind knocked from him.  Quentin knelt down, his hand quickly supporting his shoulder as he tried to pull him up.  He was hissing in Asahel’s ear, “Come on, hurry.”

Asahel limped up.  The four men were not far behind.  Donat appeared to be weaving his way through the brush, followed by Tammas and two others that he didn’t know.  They appeared to be twins, their blue eyes almost colorless as they narrowed.

“Why are they following us?”  Quentin snapped, irritated pitch breaking the air.

“They’re not following you,” Asahel said quietly.  “They’ve been drinking and they want their bit of fun, I reason.”  The other man’s eyes darted to him, then he leaned down, reaching for a rock.

“Reason?  There’s no reason about it.”  Quentin’s fingers curled around the rock as he waited for Donat to approach.  It was almost full dark now and the sun overhead was on fire, streaks of light like bloodstains on the blackening sky.  Asahel reached out and pushed Quentin’s fingers down, holding his hand back.

“Just go.”

“You’re mental.”  He held his ground as the four men came up.  Asahel pulled away from Quentin as they surrounded his body, clearly ignoring the man who they thought of as one of their own.  Donat reached out and shoved a flat palm against Asahel’s chest, pushing him back until he was against the wall of the college.  Asahel fought to remain calm, not able to see Quentin behind the other student.

“You’re out of your place, Soames,” Donat said.  “Talking out of turn at the taverna, sitting with us, and now?  We’re your betters and you shouldn’t even be at the colleges.”  He balled up his fist, swinging his elbow back and up.

Before he could strike, a rock flew through the air, slamming into the middle of his back.  He jumped, a yelp breaking the air before he turned.  Tammas and the twins were staring at Quentin, who stood there, his fingers reddened from clenching the stone.

“Very funny,” was all Donat said.

“Actually, it wasn’t.”  Quentin’s jaw stiffened as he drew himself to his full height, looking down on all of the men.  “I’m your better, Donat, and that of Tammas, and of any—” He stared at the twins, then spat out, “Garas that ever was.  And if we’re calling rank by birth now rather than ability, then I’m telling you to get out.”  His expression remained deadly as he added, “And if it’s by ability, then Soames will tell you the same.  Asahel?”

Asahel blinked, then swallowed, drawing in enough breath to deepen his voice.  “Leave.”

Donat looked between the two men, then at the students he’d brought with him.  He spoke but the words disappeared between the thundering sounds of singing that suddenly drifted out of the windows above them, followed by a series of handclaps.  His mouth closed, tightening so harshly that he no longer looked delicate.

“I’d ask you to repeat yourself,” Quentin said fiercely.  “But I don’t think it’s worth hearing.  Leave.” 

The twins moved first, turning in unison for the pathway, followed by Tammas and Donat.  None of them looked back, although Donat spat on the ground before walking away.  The men were out of sight quickly, the blackness of the sky covering them from view.

“That won’t be the end of it.”  Quentin turned back to Asahel.  His eyes were thoughtful for a long moment as the sun came back into view, sliding away from the moon.  Then he grinned.  “I’d guess you’d best stick close to me then.”

“I guess,” Asahel said doubtfully, then they both laughed.

“Come on.  Let’s get back to that old place with all the grass.  There’s a few abandoned buildings at the edge of the field.  Maybe we can find some quiet there.”  Quentin smiled.  “Show me how you manage to call that much magic and all.”

“I don’t do anything.  But… why not?”  He was still smiling, although he knew that this was not the end of trouble for him and Quentin Mathar.

What he hadn’t known at the time was that it was only the beginning.

Whenever Quentin entered the threshold of the small cottage, he remembered the first day he’d taken any note of Asahel.  It had been this small dwelling that they’d ended the day in, sitting on its dirt floor and talking through the evening.  Asahel hadn’t spoken much but he’d listened.  That had been enough for Quentin then—it meant even more now.

He leaned against the windowsill as Asahel busied himself with the table they’d brought in.  The shorter man had been scrubbing it for some time, rubbing at the wood with a cloth that was now coated in dust.

“I think you’ve cleaned enough,” Quentin said, staring out the window.

“It’s something to do.  I’m not right sure we ought to be doing this.  Aye, not here.  Not so close to the colleges.”  The redhead tilted his head as he heard Asahel’s voice quicken, noticing that his friend’s face was red and puffy, that his dark curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“Asahel,” he sighed, muttering under his breath.  “I wish it wasn’t so blasted obvious when you’re nervous.”  The red of Asahel’s nose deepened, the rest of his skin following shortly after.  “Where else can we call that much magic and have it go unnoticed?”

“I don’t like it,” Asahel repeated.  “Not after that letter we got.”

“Hold that thought—they’re coming.”  A small parade of figures was marching over the small footbridge that crossed the stream running just in front of the cottage door.  Quentin recognized the trio quickly as Taggart, Meg, and Pig.  Embr was conspicuously absent, a fact that didn’t disappoint him.  Taggart and Pig were struggling with a large burlap bag on Taggart’s back.  The bag was flopping from side to side as the older man jounced down the walk.  Pig kept lurching forward as if to adjust its weight, then shrinking back in disgust.

Meg, Quentin noted, had no such encumbrance.  In her arms, she carried a wooden box nearly the size of her chest but seemingly lighter than the bag that burdened her father.  Her expression was serene in comparison to the two men in front of her.

What’s in there?  He asked himself.  Tools?  I didn’t order any tools.  Asahel was now standing behind him, watching their progress with wide brown eyes.

“Do you think we ought to go out and help them a bit?”  He asked Quentin.

“No, not at all.  If they get stopped, it’ll be hard enough to get ourselves out of it without being seen in their midst,” Quentin frowned.  “I told them to wait until an hour after dark, at least.  Fools.”

“I doubt they’ve a water clock,” Asahel pointed out as he returned to the table, giving it a last, fierce scrub.  “Or any kind of clock, for that matter.”  Quentin hesitated, then nodded, and the two men remained silent until the procession landed on the doorstep.

The knock, at least, was quiet.  Quent opened the door to admit the bedraggled trip, visibly gagging himself as the scent of their cargo flooded the tiny room.  Asahel winced, leaning under the table and taking out a small pot he’d brought with him.  Opening the lid, he poked his finger inside, rubbing a bit of white paste on his fingertips.  Quentin watched as Asahel smeared the concoction under his own nostrils.  He then offered Quentin the pot, gesturing for him to do the same.

What is this stuff?  The redhead wondered as he followed the other man’s lead, smearing under his nose, then passing it over to the grave robbers.  As he inhaled, a cloying, floral scent seemed to swallow up the air.  It was sickeningly sweet, but preferable to the smell of death and piss that clouded the tiny cottage room.