The Universal Mirror (27 page)

“I was hoping Felix would give us that information,” Catharine turned to the older man, forcing a smile across gritted teeth.

“Gladly,” he said though Asahel heard a hint of anxiety in his voice.  “He keeps the maps in gilded cases carried by his assistant, an old man.  Esil.  You’ll know him by his right leg—it’s twisted, though Esil moves more gracefully than any of us could.”

Another Heresy?  Asahel mused, then asked, “Is that all?  An old man?”

“An old magician,” Felix paused.  “I think.  Tycho never admitted it, but Esil’s the only one who guards the maps.  There must be a reason for that—the Geographer does nothing without purpose, nor is he so arrogant that he’d leave them unguarded.”

“Is there anything else?”  Catharine pressured.

“I don’t know.”  He looked uneasy.  “I wish that I did.”  Felix turned his head to examine the outer walls of the Donat manor.  They were recently built, the mortar still fresh, the bricks still clean.  “I haven’t even been here myself in years.  The maps are likely to be in whatever chambers he’s been given, if the Court does as they’ve always done.”

“They’ve no reason not to.”  Asahel’s statement didn’t sound as sure as he would have liked.

“No.  Sometimes, however, Tycho takes an odd fancy.”  He hesitated.  “And if he’s ever managed to connect the three of us to one place—”

“Then we should be careful not to let it happen again,” Catharine swiftly interjected.  “We’ll leave you then, Felix.”  She stood, tugging her skirt off from where it had snagged on the rock.  Asahel reached out, offering her a coarse hand to steady herself but she shrugged him off.  It was better, however, to focus his energy on Catharine than to look at Felix and wonder what danger it was that they were sending him towards.

“Take care,” he heard Felix say, his footsteps swift as they scurried away from Asahel and Catharine.  By the time Asahel lifted his head to see him leave, the older man had already gone.  He felt the lack of Felix’s presence already as he glanced back at Catharine.  This court was unfamiliar, and both of them were outsiders to it, however brave the woman might pretend to be.

“Come.  We don’t know how much time we have,” Catharine said.  She herself cast no look in Felix’s direction but instead moved towards the opposite path.  The manor house was large enough to support stables and a pair of courtyards, from what Asahel could see—it was the smaller yard towards which she moved.  A fountain rose from its center, water flowing down and across a pair of stone birds intertwined with one another.  Her movements were so quick that he had to jog to keep up, panting as she paused at the fountain’s edge.

“Where are we going?”

“The back entrance,” she gestured.  “Or what I assume is the back.  Those aren’t nobles passing through.”  A servant girl pushed a door open with her hip, her arms wrapped around a basket that overfilled with dirty cloths.  It swung closed behind her, to the sound of barking dogs and clanging pots inside.

“Aye, it looks like a kitchen or some such,” Asahel agreed.  “But you’ve not the look of a maid to be wandering through.”  The woman frowned, the pox on her lip turning an angry red as her face wrinkled.

“Do you think they’d stop us?”

“I can’t say.”  The door had remained shut since the girl had passed through.  “If there’s not many there, perhaps it’d be alright.  But if there is, we’ll have need of an excuse.”

She glanced at him, her dark eyes surprised.  “I’m a noble at least.  They wouldn’t question that.”

“You’ve your place,” Asahel said.  “And that’s not it.  We can’t draw attention, not now.”  Not with Felix trying to ward off Tycho’s interest.  There’s too much at stake.  He turned his head, attempting to turn his focus from that problem and towards a solution.  “There.  We’ll go in through that entrance.”

“It’s for merchants,” Catharine said doubtfully.

“You’ll have an easier time of it, trying to pass there than as a serving girl.”  Asahel smiled.  “Just let your hair down so that you’re not as distinct.”  He noticed that she stiffened but obeyed the suggestion, unbraiding her hair so that it fell across her face, obscuring her features. 

He led her towards the merchants’ entrance, feeling more at ease than he had at any point of time since they’d arrived.  It had been easy to spot—it was wider than the other entrances, built so that it could accommodate the barrels and wagons that passed through.  Asahel waited for one of the wagons to roll past before stepping up on the walkway, falling behind it with the spice dealers and servants that followed.  Catharine remained quiet as she moved in tandem with him, their steps cautious even after they had entered the manor.

The ceilings were high in the storerooms that they entered, higher than Asahel thought appropriate for a man of Donat’s station.  He caught himself murmuring “How far has his station risen?” to Catharine before he cut himself off, afraid of being overheard.

“What do you mean by that?”  She whispered back, her head craning up to look at the crates of supplies stacked nearby.  It was apparent that the wealth intimidated her as well.

“Look at the amount of food here—it’s enough to feed half the capital.”

“If you hadn’t realized,” she smiled.  “Half the capital is here.”

“That’s not reassuring, aye?”  He caught her hand and pulled her towards a small hallway to the side, dropping her fingers as they entered it.  The corridors were a maze to him—the homes that Asahel was used to were more modest, but he noticed that the woman with him seemed less bothered by this than she had the stores of provisions.  This appeared to be a realm with which Catharine was familiar with, judging by the way that she barged ahead, her skirts brushing him as she passed. 

They walked quickly to the end of the hall, turning left where a small set of stairs met the wall.  She rested her palm on a nearby door, pushing it in and peeking inside before closing it swiftly and stepping back.  The woman led him up the stairs, feet nimbly taking them two at a time.

“Where are we?”

“The servants’ quarters were there.  If I’ve guessed right…. this will be for the guests.  Down the hall, that is.  I can’t imagine that he’d keep servants and guests quite that close together.”  Catharine frowned again, brushing hair away from her eyes.  “The question is, will he have placed all of his guests here?”

The carpets on the upper floor were thicker than those downstairs, the quality of each far finer than those seen in the narrow hall through which the pair had traveled.  Tapestries hung on the walls, hiding brick that was older than the outside of the manor.  On each one was woven a different story, none of them ones that Asahel recognized, and he guessed that the figures upon them were meant to be the Donat ancestors.  His fingers trailed on the edges of one, feeling the soft silken thread against his coarse skin.

“Where should we start?”  Catharine asked him, taking a few more steps down the hall.

“Listen.”  The floor should have been empty, but a faint humming came from behind one of the doors.  Asahel hesitated, then walked forward.  The noise intensified, throbbing against his eardrums.  It was unquestionably magic—the lack of comprehension on Catharine’s face told him that she could not hear it, and yet she still followed.

His hand rested on the door’s iron handle.  Warmth radiated through it and into his bones, energy prickling the hair on the back of his arms.  Asahel yanked on the handle, swinging the door open on rusted hinges.

An old man sat on the floor, his bony legs crossed on one another.  His hands were pressed against a sheaf of papers as his mouth moved, making no sound that could be heard.  The humming came from the room itself, so dense with magical energy that it called Asahel inside, his feet moving without his own volition.  As he neared the man, he could see that the papers on which he was moving were maps, lines of energy crackling between the magician and parchment.  The humming slowed, enough so that Asahel realized it was not humming at all but moans.

Death, he realized.  A hundred moans, a hundred last breaths… all coming together at once.

It was inhumane.  Worse was the look on the old man’s eyes as he lifted his head to stare at Asahel, triumph in his face.  Asahel could feel the magic welling up inside of his own skin, begging for release as he stepped forward.

“We’ve come for the maps,” he said.

“On whose authority?”  Esil stood, his back bowed and crooked with age.  It was as Felix had said—the old man’s leg was twisted and grotesque, stretched so far around that it appeared backwards.  There was a delicacy to his motion that Asahel could not have matched, however.  He was as graceful as a flower waving in the wind, light on his toes as he rocked forward towards them.

“My own.”  The magic between them flowed freely, so warm that he was beginning to sweat with the pressure of restraining it.  “The Geographer has no right to decide who is given life and who has it taken from them.”  His voice wavered despite his conviction, the result of years spent at heel.  The old man saw it and laughed, a sharp bark of sound that broke the hum in the room.

“He has as much authority as any.  You do not know, nor understand, what it is that you want.”  The laugh dissolved into a cackle as Esil reached down and rolled the maps up, bent fingers wrapped around them.

“I do.  Hand them over.”  Asahel could feel himself shaking as he said it.

“No.”  A sudden whiplash of energy crashed through the floor as the man lowered his fist, sending magic rolling towards Asahel and Catharine.  The boards themselves lifted, throwing the pair further into the room as the door slammed.  He heard Catharine yelp as her body fell against the wall, falling quiet after.  Asahel picked himself up, unsteady on his feet as he stood.

“We need the maps,” he repeated.

“No.”  Magic circled him, lifting up the dust from the floorboards and creating a cloud of dirt.  Asahel choked as the dirt flew at him, blinding his eyes and clogging his nostrils.  He clamped his mouth shut, unable to breathe as the magic took hold, the tiny granules of filth forming a wall against his nose. 

“Are you satisfied, child?”  Esil asked, leaning forward.  His fist unclenched and the cloud of dirt dissolved.  “Leave or your fate will be decided for you.”

Asahel’s throat felt swollen as he gasped, the dust from his face falling into his open mouth.  He spat it out, curling his own hands into a fist as he swallowed, staring right at Esil.  He could hear the rustle of Catharine’s skirts as she moved and he hoped that she had enough sense to get out of the way.

“I’m not a child,” he said and lifted his palms.

Instead of drawing the energy into the floor or the air, he sent it towards Esil without thought or care as to what it would do to the older man.  The long hours of practice with Quentin had given him the ability to channel magic through his own body and at objects.  He had never done as much towards a living body, however, thinking it a Heresy worse than what they had done to the dead.

That energy slammed into the old man’s chest, and he heard bones crack as Esil stumbled back.  He recovered quickly, calling magic of his own as he dropped the maps.  A bolt of carpet angled upwards as he jerked his fingers, deflecting the magic that Asahel had sent.  The smell of burnt flesh flooded the room, however, and the younger man knew that his mark had hit home.

“Heretic,” Esil hissed, drawing power as he slid towards the wall.  There was little furniture in the room, nothing but the rugs and a pair of old chairs.  It was the latter that he flung towards Asahel, magic giving them speed as they lifted into the air.

Asahel dodged them easily, arcing the magic with his own hands despite the burn and throwing the energy back towards Esil.  He was coughing still from the pressure of the air that had surrounded him, and he could see another dark cloud headed towards him as Esil clenched his fist again.  Brown hair caught the corner of his eye, and he noticed that Catharine had stretched an arm towards the maps.

Esil saw it as well and the cloud began to change direction.

“No,” Asahel whispered, knowing that she had no resistance.  He lept forward, throwing his weight into Esil’s narrow frame.  The two men’s limbs tangled together as Asahel knocked them both to the floor.  He felt Esil’s fist pound against his cheek, heavier than it should have been as magic flowed between them both.  Neither of them could control the energy passing between them now, and he pressed his elbow against the other man’s stomach, unable to keep from wincing as he heard another crack of bone.

A blow to his own ribcage forced the wind from him as his own bone gave way.  We’ll both die if we fight like this, and that’s no good to Quentin.  He couldn’t stomach the thought of being a killer but, staring into Esil’s eyes, he realized that he had little choice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he shoved the older man up into the air, calling the magic through his bones and into Esil’s.  The energy coursing through him was so powerful that he couldn’t breathe, his heart pounding with every pulsation of force, slamming into his throat.  It was too much for the other to bear, and Asahel watched in pain as Esil’s face began to bulge, his eyes protruding from their sockets as the magic filled him.  His breath gurgled as the shocks began to hit his heart and Asahel himself choked, uncertain whether he would survive.

He dropped Esil, falling to his knees and grabbing at his throat.  He felt cold hands wrap around his shoulders and drag him upwards.  The same hands slapped his back, causing waves of pain to arc through his shattered ribs.