The Universal Mirror (14 page)

“That’s the one,” Taggart said approvingly, jerking his finger at Asahel.  “I’d never’ve thought of it myself.  It’s thanks to you, sir.”  Asahel nodded weakly, shifting in place as he stared at the canvas bag.  The two male grave robbers took his look as a command, hefting their bundle onto the table.

“He’s rather stiff,” Pig apologized as his nimble fingers worked at the twine around the edge of the bag.  “You did say you wanted a fresh one.”  Quentin blanched as Pig’s hand jerked on the rope, opening the bag wide enough to reveal a single toe.

“That’ll… do,” he managed.  “I think we can take care of the rest from here.”  He saw Pig’s chest fall with distinct relief.  Meg set her box on the table, wiping her palms together, then rubbing them against her dirty wool skirts.

“What are you to do with it?”  The woman asked, her eyes lively.

“Him,” Quentin heard Asahel whisper in the background.  Meg took no notice of him.

“I don’t pay you to ask questions,” Quentin answered her, his tone sharp as he reached into his pocket and handed Taggart a single coin.  It glistened a burnished gold as the old man held it up to the candlelight.  He bit the metal, then smiled, placing the payment in his pocket.

“Good man,” Taggart said, pushing his daughter towards the door with a hard shove.  “There’ll be no questions from us.  Not with rewards like these, any road.”  Meg coughed into her sleeve.  His hand shot out and gripped the fabric of her dress by the shoulder, bunching it up so that it tightened around her throat.  She shook her head in mute agreement, but Quentin noticed that her eyes still watched the room, drinking in every detail.

Did she send the letter?  It’s not likely that she can read.  He frowned and her glance dropped, her face lowered so that he could not examine it.

“When do you need the next, uh, delivery?”  Taggart let his grasp on Meg slacken as he asked the question.

“I don’t yet know.  Another fortnight, perhaps.”  It took force of will to prevent Quentin from looking back at Asahel.  He hadn’t yet discussed delivery—or even the continuation of their work—with his friend.  It was once that Asahel had agreed to, one experiment only, and Quentin didn’t know if the other man would consider a second attempt.  He took small comfort in the fact that Asahel remained silent still.

“Aye.”  A loose-toothed smile was Taggart’s answer.  “We brought you something.  Being our first agreement and all.”  Pig, still near the table, thumped the wooden box that Meg had left upon it.  “Plenty more where that came from.”  He paused, looking back at the long sack resting next to the box.  “And the other too.”

What is the proper etiquette for dismissing a man who’s just brought you a stolen corpse?  Quentin thought wildly.  The aura of the room was incredible—Taggart clenching his daughter by the arm and Asahel glowering behind the table.  All of this as a man named Pig beamed at him with pride because of an odd wooden box the grave robbers had carried along for no reason that he could see.  He didn’t know what to say, and the silence lingered until the low sound of Asahel’s voice cut into it.

“Thank you, Mr. Taggart.”  How odd that he uses the formal address, Quentin muttered to himself as Asahel spoke.  “We’ll be in touch with you before the end of the fortnight, aye?” 

Taggart’s head continued to bob.  Quentin realized that something more decisive was required.  Neatly, the redhead opened the door, sweeping down into a mocking bow.  The grave robber seemed unaware that he was being teased.  He responded in kind after administering a sharp jab to Meg’s ribcage until she collapsed into a curtsy.

“It’s been a pleasure.  A real pleasure,” he told the magicians as he exited.  Pig added a nod and bow of his own before following Meg and Taggart out the door.  Quentin’s magic reacted to their departure of its own accord, drawing energy from him and sending a short gust of wind towards the entrance as his fingers twisted.  It slammed shut as he sighed.

He stared at Asahel, the two men locking eyes in silence.  Then they both began to laugh, the lunacy of their own venture catching up to them.

Another hush fell over them both when the laughter ended.  There was little light in the room now that the sun had fully set.  A candle flickered in its sconce near the table, throwing shadows across the swaddled body that rested there.  There was little else to see in the cottage but the outline of his best friend, moving quietly near the bundle.  Asahel’s hands reached out for the rope, then stopped.

“What if we know—knew—him?”

“How do you know it’s a him?”

“The toe.”  Asahel gingerly poked at it.  “It’s enormous.  Did you ever know a woman who had feet like that?”

“Several,” Quentin replied glibly.  “That’s why half the women at court are miserable dancers.”  Asahel frowned, then leaned over to pick at the knot.  It came free more easily in his hands than Quentin thought the grave robbers could have managed.  “Where did you learn knots like that?  Untying them, I mean.”

“I might not be allowed to leave the island, but I’ve still a fleet of ships to care for,” Asahel murmured.  His hands moved again, more graceful than their size and shape implied, unwinding the fabric around the body.  What Quentin had assumed was a bag appeared instead to be a simple shroud.  He stepped over, helping to hold the corpse steady as Asahel untangled it from the material.  Quentin held his breath as much as was possible—the scented tincture they’d used didn’t entirely protect them from the smell now.  His stomach was lurching despite his tightened mouth.

When the shroud was completely removed, Asahel froze.  Quentin could see that there was a glimmer of water on his lower eyelash, trembling there before his friend blinked it away. The figure that lay before them was an old man, shriveled up from years of hard labor.  His face was as gnarled as a broken tree, his jaw still slightly open.  Asahel lifted up the man’s left hand, gently holding it with his own as he looked down at the brown spots that dappled papery white skin.

“He reminds me of my father,” Asahel whispered.  Quentin knew that Asahel had barely known the man—he’d been told once that the man had died years before the two friends had met.  But the strength of Asahel’s feeling was apparent on his face, and Quentin wondered to himself if Asahel would decide that this was too much for him. 

We can’t, he thought. Not now, not when we’re so close.

“He’s not your father, “ Quentin said, his voice harsh.  Asahel let the hand drop but he didn’t move away from the corpse.

“I… I know.”

Asahel looked ashamed as his head dropped, cheeks flushed.  For a moment, Quentin felt a little embarrassed himself for having spoken so sharply.  But it would do them little good to back out now—it was too important that they keep going, now that they had crossed the obstacle of attaining the body.  He steeled himself and stepped next to the man on the table, his hands hovering just over the cold skin of his chest.

“No one’s ever done anything like this before,” Asahel whispered as Quentin concentrated on the energy welling up beneath them, magic buried in the earth itself.  “What can we do?”

“I don’t know.  I want to heal, you know that.”

“He’s dead.”

“It’s a start.”  Quentin’s brow furrowed as he struggled to pull the energy forth, his fingers curling up.  “We need to know how magic affects the body.  No one knows that.”  He could feel a ripple of energy starting to come though him.  As magic always was for him, this was faint, little more than a hum as it coursed through his spine and warmed his hands.  Light shot from his fingers, bathing the body in front of him for a moment, then fading.

The two men looked down.  Nothing had changed.  The brown spots were still there.  His hair was still sparse, his arms as rigid and cold as they had been when Asahel had taken his hand.  Quentin felt his throat tighten.  Is this it?  Is there nothing, for all our magic, that we can do to stop death and sickness and pain?  Do they call it Heresy to keep us from knowing that we have so little power, in the end of it?

Asahel reached out to the dead man, his fingers gentle as they touched his forehead.

“Try it,” Quentin said, suddenly certain that Asahel could do what he could not.

“I…”

“You can’t hurt him now.”

“Can I help him either?”  Asahel’s dark eyes met his, challenging him to say something.  Quentin did not, knowing that he’d pushed the other man as far as he could have.  His head turned away, glancing instead at the wall.  “I’ll… try.”  The answer surprised him, as quickly as it had come from Asahel.

He turned back to see Asahel’s hands still resting on the other man’s forehead.  Magic worked through the movement of the body, Quentin thought.  Asahel knew it just as well as he.  He frowned as he felt the energy around them, flowing more furiously than it had when he’d tried to call it forth.  The air went static, the magic that Asahel was drawing on fiercer than that he had summoned.

The shorter man remained focused, his dark eyes staring at the dead man’s closed eyelids.  The hair on the back of Asahel’s neck was rising, the waves of motion reddening his skin so quickly that he was blistering on the back of his knuckles.  Quentin started to cry out as he saw a red glow flickering around Asahel’s body but the air in the room compressed, choking the words from his lungs as a flash blinded them both.

The corpse bucked as the magic entered it, his head jerked up as his eyes blinked open.  The hiss of air erupted from the old man’s throat, the small room filling with the acidic smell of the death gases within his chest.  Asahel spasmed, his body flying into the wall as he broke the connection between himself and the old man.  The brilliant flare of magic was too bright for Quentin to trespass, and he stared, unable to comprehend, as the man twitched twice more, then fell silent.

He touched the body and felt its warmth fading out.  Then he saw Asahel, crumpled on the floor.

“Sweet Briere,” Quentin breathed as he knelt next to the other man.  “Tell me you haven’t cracked your head, Asahel.”  Hands reached out for shoulders as he tried to keep himself steady, realizing that his friend was not conscious.  Asahel’s skin was still hot with the stir of magic and it crackled when his skin brushed Asahel’s cheek, stinging slightly. 

I can’t take him to a physician, he realized, head pounding.  What am I—

Asahel’s eyes opened, dazed but aware.  Quentin’s fingers slipped against the back of his friend’s head, feeling a bump near the back.  The black curls were matted with blood and he murmured to Asahel, “Stay there.  Don’t move.”

“The man—”

“It’s fine, Asahel.  Just stay still until you can think straight.”  He could smell the burn in the air now.  Quentin realized that they wouldn’t be able to use the cottage again.  There was too much risk to it.  He shook himself, startled that he was already thinking in terms of the next time.  Asahel could have killed himself and you with him.  But then the other thought slipped into his mind, unbidden.  Catharine.

“I can think straight,” Asahel protested quietly.  “It’s walking I’d have the trouble with.”

Quentin laughed unevenly, the jagged notes betraying his worry.

“What happened?”  The injured man pressed.  Asahel’s hand reached up, batting away Quentin’s fingers.  He slowly pushed himself off the wall, his eyes unfocused.

“You… I don’t know.  You called the magic through you—through him.  He sat up for a moment.”  Quentin frowned.  “But it wasn’t life.  He was animate and I can’t determine if that was through you or through him.  I didn’t feel anything when I made my attempt.”  He noticed that Asahel was shivering and stood, unbuttoning the coat that he wore.  He draped it over the other man’s shoulders.  It was a poor fit for a man who was much broader than he, but Quent had nothing else to warm him.

“Thank you,” Asahel said, his voice barely audible as he tried to close the coat around himself.  The effort failed, but Quentin pretended not to notice.

“It’s…” he shook his head, unable to express what he was feeling.  Disappointment at himself for being unable to accomplish anything was mingled with regret for having dragged Asahel into the venture. 

“…the first time.”  The completion of the sentence by his friend made Quentin sit up.  Asahel smiled weakly.  “Why do you want to do it, Quent?  Be honest, aye?” 

“Catharine,” was all he said before he twisted his face away.

“That’s what I thought.”  There was a hitch in Asahel’s voice.  “What if… we can’t do what you want?  Healing her—that’s what you’ve a want to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”  It was a hard thing to admit.

“Aye, well, what if you can’t?  What if we can’t?”  He tilted his head, watching Quentin curiously.  “It’ll not—there’s no guarantee, not when we’ve no way of knowing how.  We could spend our whole lives going about it, trying to fix people.  And perhaps it’s not even possible.”

“It is,” Quentin said.

“You don’t know that.”

“It is,” he repeated. 

Asahel shivered again.  “Then we haven’t got much choice about it.  There’s a fair bit of good we could do in the world.”  His face became dreamy as he stared into the corner.  “I’d like that, I reason.  For all that magic we learned in university… it was all about ourselves, wasn’t it?  Doing things to make lives simple—how to light a candle or how to shut a door.  How to lift an object.  But never anything important.  Never anything that helped anyone but yourself.”