The Universal Mirror (19 page)

“We can’t.”  Asahel spat the words out, feeling nothing but hollow inside.  “You asked me to do this because you said we could save lives.  We’ll not do it by taking those of others.”

“Do we have a choice?”  There was no less contempt in Quentin’s voice.  “What if we save hundreds because of the knowledge that we gain?  We don’t know that Taggart’s done anything wrong.  You’re jumping to assumptions because he hasn’t told us where he took the corpses from.  Why would he take them from the Thana?  Think about it.  It was blasted foolish of us to try it—the odds that we’d be caught—I don’t know how we managed not to be.”

“You know there’s something to what I said.”

“We have no proof, Asahel.”  Quentin sighed.  “Think of it—if it is murders, who’s been murdered?”

“What do you mean by this?”  His eyes narrowed.

“We have to start finding a way to put this to use.  We’ve managed to do some good—we know that we can change minor hurts, or we think that we can—and what if that leads to helping people who’ve…”

“Who what?  Who deserve it?”  Asahel shook his head.  “Quentin, we haven’t got that right.”  His fists clenched.  He couldn’t prove that there was wrongdoing involved, not if Quentin wasn’t willing to see it.  What Zuane had told him was no guarantee of murder.  It was only rumor until he had evidence.  He swallowed, then said, “We can’t do this again.  I’ll not do it, not until we’ve proof that they’re not murdering.”

“You’re looking for an excuse.  How can I possibly prove that?”  Quentin asked, frustrated.  His fist hit the table, rattling the wood underneath Asahel’s knuckles.  “They can’t just go and buy the bodies.  Unless…”

“Unless what?”  There was nothing good in Quentin’s face, Asahel thought.  Nothing at all.

“We’ll pay people.”  He made it sound as if they’d be buying flowers at the markets.

“I don’t follow.”  Asahel’s brows knitted.

“We’ve got to start trying to heal people while they’re still alive,” Quentin said simply.  “We’ll pay them for it.  It won’t cost any more than a body will and it’s not like we’ll have to dispose of them.  Most of the poor would be glad to do it for a few coins.”  Asahel felt himself still in horror, his stomach roiling at the casual manner in which his friend had just suggested this new plan.  “It’ll be good for them. They can earn a bit of money and we’ll know whether or not this magic is doing any good.  And it might, after all.  In which case, we all win.”

“And if we don’t?  If we fail?”  He heard himself stutter.

“The city’s crowded enough.  We’ll just make sure they understand the risks, that’s all.”

“Understand the risks,” Asahel repeated. “I don’t think you understand.”

“I know that they could report us, if that’s what you mean.”  Quentin murmured.  “But if we pay enough—”

“No,” he snapped.  “That’s not it.”

Quentin watched him, his hand flattening out on the table.  Asahel stared at the golden ring that it bore, delicately crafted with the sigils of House Gredara and House Mathar.  It was a ring that no man on Sailors’ Row could buy, not if he worked day and night, and yet Quentin owned many like it.  The embroidery on his sleeve was delicate, woven by the blunted fingers of women who would wear the same dress for a week.  Asahel could see in his face that Quentin understood none of this, and that he never would.  Years of friendship had only been tempered by the fact that Asahel moved between that world and this, but Quentin preferred to recall it only when he had need.

“We find another way,” Asahel said.  “We practice on each other, on a volunteer… but we don’t go after the poor.”  Quentin’s hand slid off the table as he folded his arms.  “Promise me that, Quentin.  If you won’t promise me the other, promise me that.”  It was a sick compromise he was making, and Asahel’s stomach began to roil again.  You’ll find a way out of this, all of it, he thought. You’ll make Quentin see that it’s wrong and things’ll go back to the way that they were.

“I promise.”  It was too easily given.  Quentin kicked his leg out, away from the table, and took a large step towards the window.  The air in the room seemed stagnant now, musty with the smell of dirt and decay.  Asahel could feel it pressing down against him, choking out what he wanted to say and replacing it with a slow, soft exhalation.

The redhead leaned against the windowsill, staring out into the fog.  It clouded the pane, so dense that Asahel wondered what it was that Quentin was looking at.  His green eyes were active, clearly focusing on something that Asahel couldn’t see.  “What do we do now, then?”

“I don’t know,” Asahel admitted.

“If we’re going to do this, practice magic on one another, who’s first?”  His finger traced a crescent moon in the condensation on the glass.  “You or I?”

They hadn’t settled the question, in the end.

All that Asahel felt as he walked down Lantern Street was unease.  He wove his way through the fog by rote, using the hanging lights as his guide through the heavy white clouds.  It was early morning, yet it no longer seemed wrong to reach out and knock at the door to the Carnicus Manor.  Compared to everything that he had embarked upon with Quentin, this was only a minor transgression.

Not even the drawn-back lip of Felix’s manservant gave him pause, so heavy were the thoughts upon him. 

“Yes?”  The man asked, taking in the sight of the thick woolen peacoat and the tarnished silver buttons that adorned it.  Not for a man of the docks, embroidery and golden thread.  As a spice merchant, Asahel looked more a sailor than a scholar.

“I came—” And it was then that Asahel realized the ridiculousness of his visit.  He shook his head, the dark waves of hair falling against his brow.  “I’ve no idea why I’ve come.  I… I’ve found the wrong house.  I’m sorry.”

“Tadeus?”  He heard Felix’s voice calling out from the hallway.  “Who is it?”  Asahel turned on his heel to leave but was stopped by the same voice.  “Soames?”  He could hear the surprise in his name but also a fond note that surprised him in turn.  He glanced back over his shoulder to see Felix stepping up behind his servant. 

“He’s found the wrong house, sir,” Tadeus clarified.

“Oh, he always says that.  And apologized too, I’ll bet.”  Felix grinned.  “But for once, I’ve got my sword already buckled, so I think I’ll be going for a walk.”  Tadeus bore it calmly, stepping aside so that the younger man could move out to the street.  The door closed quietly behind the pair, removing any hope Asahel had had of escaping the conversation he’d entered by impulse.  They began the walk at a swift pace, Felix’s long legs covering ground easily as Asahel scurried to keep up alongside him.

“Do you carry that everywhere?”  Asahel asked, gesturing at the sword.  It was better than allowing his fears to drive the discussion.

“Yes, I always have.”  His hand slipped around the pommel, gently caressing it.  “I was never able to call magic like you or Quentin, you know.”  The sentence made Asahel shiver.  He doesn’t know what you’ve done, he reminded himself, knowing that Felix often noticed his smallest gestures. 

The shiver didn’t go unnoticed, either.  Felix squinted at him, then said, “There’s nothing wrong with using a sword, or anything else, as a conduit.  Provided, of course, one doesn’t use magical force on or against another living being.” 

Asahel’s breath hitched as he heard Felix speak.  His chest tightened as he stopped next to one of the lanterns.  It bobbed in the wind, the thin light of the candle barely visible in the fog.  Felix came closer to him then, so close that they were almost touching.  He could see the troubled look in Felix’s brown eyes, normally so cavalier when it came to heavy discussion.

Felix said nothing. 

“I only come to you when I have a problem,” Asahel whispered, feeling ashamed.

“I had noticed,” he replied.

“I’m sorry.  I tried to turn back.  I hadn’t really meant—”

“Don’t be sorry.  I enjoy a problem, Soames.”  Felix’s hand still gripped his sword pommel but he relaxed the grip a little, blood rushing back into pale knuckles.  “Especially when it’s not my own.”

“Not this one.”  Asahel reached for the lantern-post to steady himself, leaning his weight into it.  The lantern rocked, casting light into the fog.

“Why not?”  Felix’s hand left the sword, hanging limply at his side.

“It could get us all killed.”  He bit his lip, realizing that he’d already implicated Felix in his mind as co-conspirator.  You’re giving him a trust that could kill him.  Asahel tried not to shiver again at the thought as Felix again walked closer to him, trapping him with the lantern-post so that he couldn’t back away.

“Killed?”  Felix quirked an eyebrow.  “Interesting.”

“Don’t take it so lightly, aye?” 

“You haven’t given me a reason not to.”  The older man answered.  “Anything could get us killed.  Standing under a lantern-post, for one.  What if a horse was to hit us?”  He shrugged slightly, a grin on his face.  “Being dramatic isn’t going to make me stop asking, Soames, or stop you from knocking at my door.  I’m already involved.  You involved me on the night you asked me to help you save a man I dislike intensely from a fate he wasn’t about to suffer.  Can you understand why I might be a little skeptical?”

“Aye.”  Asahel hesitated, his head falling.

“Don’t look like that.”  The sentence was followed by a sigh.  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.  I just want to know what you’ve gotten into.” 

This was the moment where the lying could all end. 

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, about to speak.

The sound of the door closing after Asahel barely registered in Quentin’s mind.  It was the promise that crowded his thoughts, the promise and what it meant to them both. 

“He might as well have asked us to stop practicing magic,” he said quietly, staring at the table that had brought them to this.  His fingers touched the wood, running across the knothole at its border and feeling it catch on his skin.  It wouldn’t be long until Taggart came, checking as he so often did to see if the magicians needed his services.  There was little doubt in Quentin’s mind that Taggart and his crew were capable of murder—the only thing that was likely to have stopped them was the possible threat of discovery.  It made sense, then, that they were going after sailors.  Few on Cercia knew nor cared who the men were who sailed their trade ships.

It was Catharine whom he thought of next, his scattered mind focusing on the way that she’d slipped close to him during the dance.  It was she who had brought him to this and, he knew, she would remain his reason for making the choice that had to be made.

“Asahel will understand.”  Quentin spoke his thoughts out loud again, as if saying them to the air would make his wishes truth.  “He always does, in the end.”

He walked over to the old chair in the corner and settled himself down in it.  His heels perched on the edge of it so that he could draw his knees up close to his chest.  Catharine would wonder why he hadn’t come home again, he knew.  The price that he would pay would be worth the reward in the end, however.

A brash knock on the door interrupted the nodding slumber Quentin had fallen into.  His head jerked up, recognizing the sound of it.  Asahel wouldn’t knock, and there were few others who knew the warehouse existed.  “Come in.”

“Good night, sir.”  Taggart came shuffling in.  His beady eyes registered Quentin and he snatched his battered hat off his head and clutched it tightly with both hands, fingernails digging into the fabric.  He drew into a low bow, clearly imitating a gesture that he’d seen on the street.  Quentin’s mouth quirked as he sat up but he managed not to smile.

“Hello, Taggart.”  He didn’t know whether or not to address the question that Asahel had brought up.  Would he tell me the truth if I did?  I rather doubt it.  I wouldn’t.  Quentin tended to judge others by his own reactions to their situations, however vast the difference between himself and them.  “Have a seat.”

There was little else in the way of furniture in the room.  Taggart found a stool in the corner and plopped down on it, apparently thinking nothing at all of the fact that he’d been offered a seat when there wasn’t one to be had.

“I just thought I’d come round.  See if you had need of our services.”  His head bobbed as he spoke, eager for the business.  “It’s been a while, you see, so it has.”

Quentin nodded slowly.  Taggart waited, clearly expecting an answer but the redhead said nothing. 

“Not a lot of trade in what you ask,” the man said finally.  “If it’s not to be a regular business, we can’t go round waiting.”  Taggart rubbed his ear, reddened from a crisscross of flea bites.  “Surely you must need something by now?”

“My…” What to classify Asahel?  “My friend told me that there’s been a rash of murders by the docks.”

“It’s not murders, it’s disappearances, sir,” Taggart answered swiftly.  “There is a difference.”

“And that is--?”

“Murders is people who get caught.”  There was an unmistakable note of pride in his words as he sat up straight, his chest puffing out as he continued, “Now, if it was murders, there’d be a lot more howling about it, sailors or not.  They was sailors, weren’t they?”  Another nod answered his question.  “Any road, can’t see what it’s got to do with anything.”