Mirror Sight

  To his surprise, Yolandhe did not object. Yap, in contrast, looked jubilant.

  “Well done, sir! The right thing. I am sure of it!”

  Amberhill thought so, too. He felt no different, though, just pleased with himself for making the decision to stay free and unencumbered. Until he realized he was twisting a ring around on his finger, as had been his habit. He glanced at his hand, then Akarion’s. Akarion’s boney finger was bare. Amberhill’s finger of living flesh was not.

  “No,” he whispered.

  Yap wailed.

  “It is your birthright,” Yolandhe said, “and your inheritance. It is a gift of greatness.”

  NEWS

  As tired as Karigan was, she spent the remainder of the night twisting and turning in bed, speculating about whatever the professor and the opposition had set in motion, and about Cade. Mostly about Cade, as it turned out. What had possessed her to kiss him?

  Well, he certainly wasn’t hideous to look at or anything, and they’d been so close, actually in contact on the floor. How could she resist? Was it so wrong for her to crave the touch of another? She had been denied it for so long. The man she loved was unattainable. King Zachary had offered her the opportunity to become his mistress, a practice that was more or less an institution in aristocratic circles, but she had refused him. Soundly and without regret. She thought better of herself than that, than being used by any man. She still loved him, though. Couldn’t help it.

  When last she’d seen Alton just before heading into Blackveil, she’d hoped for . . . What? They’d pick up where they’d once left off? Companionship? Love? Something to fill the loneliness gnawing at her? Only to be rejected because he’d found Estral.

  I am lonely, she thought, her eyes moist. She pressed her face into her pillow.

  She’d been snatched away from family and friends and everything that was familiar. She wasn’t even in her own time. Raven’s presence helped, but it was not the same as that human touch. Lorine was almost a friend, but that barrier between servant and the served could not be breached. Karigan certainly could not confide in her. There was no one else. Not even the professor, who was too caught up in his opposition movement. He had little time to spare for her.

  But Cade seemed to accept her company, want it even. He knew her true identity, and she could be herself with him. He had responded to her kiss.

  Karigan sighed, and with that, she finally fell asleep, only to be awakened what felt like just seconds later by Lorine.

  “Time to get ready for breakfast, miss.”

  Karigan peered blearily at her from beneath the covers. “Are you sure?”

  “Very. The bell for seven hour rang just a short while ago. Are you ill?”

  “No, no.”

  Karigan forced herself out of bed, grimacing at the soreness of her ribs, and got on with her morning ablutions. Residual memories of the kiss made her smile, and then, while Lorine brushed her hair out, Karigan thought about whatever it was the professor had said was supposed to have happened at two hour in the morning. He’d said that if the opposition succeeded, they’d hear news and rumors of it in the morning.

  Karigan opened her mouth to ask Lorine if she’d heard anything but stopped herself in time realizing she’d never before asked such a question of her, and it would be too obvious if something had, in fact, happened. She did not believe Lorine an operative of the empire, but a wrong word to the wrong person could prove disastrous.

  So while Lorine stroked the brush through her hair, Karigan sat in quiet suspense, hoping Lorine would mention any unusual news without prompting. She did not.

  It was not until Karigan presented herself at breakfast that she began to get some inkling. The professor and his students rose to greet her, Cade barely looking her way. When all were seated once again and served breakfast, it was as though she’d ceased to exist. It wasn’t just the food that claimed the attention of the young men but an undercurrent of excitement, their voices a little too loud requesting the pepper to be passed, their movements sharp, and they appeared to wolf down the food without even tasting it. Then there was the conversation, seemingly picked up midstream by Mr. Stockwell.

  “I say it’s some kind of drill.”

  “That much is obvious,” Mr. Card replied. “That structure up on the summit looks like a drillhouse, and I hear there is an engine to power it.”

  The professor hid behind his paper of news. Karigan wondered if it reported whatever the opposition was supposed to have done.

  “Not your usual archeological tool, a big drill like that. A bit heavy-handed.”

  “Figured that out by yourself, did you?”

  Mr. Stockwell ignored the jibe. “If it’s not for an archeological dig, what is it for? Why, it could damage all kinds of relics.”

  The question was met with gravid silence.

  The usually quiet Mr. Philips looked up from a book he was studying and asked, “Why did the rebels blast the road? If they wanted to do real damage, they should have blown up the drillhouse or engine.”

  Karigan waited, transfixed, for an answer.

  Mr. Card deliberately stabbed a piece of ham with his fork and examined it. “How angry would you want to make Dr. Silk?”

  Silence fell once again as the students considered.

  The professor had indicated that the opposition could slow down Dr. Silk’s excavation by attacking the worksite, which it sounded like they had done by putting holes in the road. The drill itself, he and Cade had said, would have been too well protected. These other things, the drillhouse and engine, sounded like they would have been excellent targets, but not destroyed because the opposition feared reprisal. Extreme reprisal. Despite the professor’s chilling words about “sacrifice” and “collateral damage” last night, it appeared he did not wish to spark the annihilation of innocents.

  The professor still held his paper taut before him. Cade’s gaze was fixed on his breakfast.

  “I heard the Inspectors have rounded up just about every blastman in the city for questioning,” Mr. Ribbs said.

  The others nodded as if they’d heard the same thing.

  “Professor,” Mr. Stockwell said, “do you have any idea why the rebels would try to ruin Dr. Silk’s road? And what’s he after with a drill that big?”

  The professor slowly lowered his paper, his eyes shadowed by his bushy brows. “Of the latter, it is no doubt the emperor’s business Dr. Silk is about. I’m sure all will be revealed in time and in proper scholarly fashion, or not, as the emperor wishes. As for the former, I haven’t the faintest.”

  After a pause, he added, “It is best for all of you boys to keep your thoughts and speculations to yourselves, and to remember that Dr. Silk is an esteemed leader in our chosen field of archeology. Gossiping about his intentions is not becoming of young gentlemen like yourselves. Especially for those of you who wish to make your names in the field. Never forget that Dr. Silk can make or break you.”

  Karigan shuddered at the double warning in that last sentence.

  “Do I make myself clear?” the professor asked.

  There were muttered, “Yes, sirs” around the table and the professor hid himself once again behind his paper.

  Mr. Stockwell moved his food around on his plate with his fork until finally venturing, “Professor, aren’t you the least bit curious about it all?”

  “Of course I am, but I am also patient and have my own business to attend to, as you have your studies. And if I’m not mistaken, exams are in two weeks, and I think preparing for them ought to be your primary concern, especially considering everyone’s marks to date.”

  At this response, all the students looked glum, and breakfast became a subdued affair with the earlier agitation of the students now worn off. Karigan shook herself when she realized she’d been so engrossed by the conversation that she hadn’t touched her brea
kfast. She rectified the matter before anyone noticed.

  As each student finished his meal, he excused himself and left the table, giving her a quiet, “Good day, Miss Goodgrave.” When Cade stood to leave, he did not meet her gaze and barely gave her a nod.

  What was that about? she wondered. Did he suddenly decide she was nothing to him? Was he embarrassed? Or, she thought more hopefully, was he trying to make sure none of the servants became suspicious of the two of them behaving in too familiar a way? Whatever Cade’s reasons, she found herself vexed. There was no invitation for her to meet him for an evening in the mill. When would she be able to be with him again, and alone?

  “My dear,” the professor said from his end of the table, startling her. He gazed at her with intent eyes, and she wondered if he guessed at where her thoughts traveled.

  “Yes, Uncle?” she asked.

  “I was wondering what plans you have for the day.”

  Plans? Since when did she ever have plans? “I’ve nothing scheduled,” she replied. “Nothing I’m aware of, at any rate.”

  “Good,” he said. “As you may have perceived, there is some unrest in the city—lots of Inspectors in the streets looking for those who did the appalling damage to Dr. Silk’s road. I’d like you to remain home and out of their way until the criminals are apprehended and the city is quiet again. Er, work on your needlepoint or whatever it is you young ladies do.”

  Needlepoint? Karigan almost laughed out loud. He’d forgotten about her broken wrist, and he had no way of knowing what a disaster she was with needle and thread. However, she gave him credit for a performance well done, delivered for the benefit of the staff who attended them. He never forgot they had ears.

  His admonition for her to stay home was clear enough. She would not be riding Raven today, not even disguised as Tam Ryder. Even if she’d been born of this time and place and was really the professor’s niece, heading out onto streets full of Inspectors and their unnatural Enforcers did not sound palatable.

  “I will . . . stay home,” she said, the disappointment in her voice unfeigned.

  “Very good, my dear. It is for the best. Now I must catch up with those students of mine. There will be no digging today. The Old City is off-limits for the time being, so I shall have to come up with an assignment with which to keep them busy.”

  He bade her farewell, and only Karigan remained with her tea. The professor, she noted, had left behind his paper. Usually he took it with him. No, not usually, but always. He’d left it on purpose. For her. Servants moved in to start clearing dishes. When one reached for the professor’s paper, she forestalled him.

  “May I have it, please?”

  He nodded and brought it to her.

  “Thank you.” She had no idea if it was deemed proper for young ladies to read the paper, but she didn’t care. Besides, the servant hadn’t shown any surprise, hadn’t even flinched, when she requested it. She hadn’t thought much about the professor’s papers before because he’d downplayed their importance. “Rags,” he had called them. “Propaganda” for the empire.

  Curious, she unfolded the paper and saw that its title, in bold fancy lettering, was The Mill City Imperial Sun. A quick look over the front page showed her what she was looking for, a story with the heading: “Traitors Sabotage Archeological Endeavor.”

  It amazed Karigan that the publisher of this paper could produce and distribute an article so quickly about an incident that had happened just hours ago. The presses of this time must fly compared to those of her own.

  The article told of how Dr. Silk’s imperially sanctioned archeological project in the Old City had been attacked in the deep of night. There was no mention of the goals of this project, just that the doctor sought items of “great antiquity.” Karigan was not surprised by the omission since the paper was a mouthpiece of the empire and could reveal or conceal information as the empire wished. The article stated that Dr. Silk’s watchmen had been cold-bloodedly murdered, and that portions of the road that had been so carefully laid out and built with imperial funds had been purposefully damaged.

  These traitors to the Empire used black powder to render the road impassable for Dr. Silk’s equipment. Dr. Silk states that his project will go on as scheduled. “My work is important to all citizens,” he told The Sun, “and I shall be tireless in my efforts to see it through.” The doctor requests that if any of the good citizens of Mill City have any information or suspicions about who committed this crime, or aided and abetted it, please report it to the nearest Inspector Station immediately.

  Nothing like using citizens to inform against one another, Karigan thought. If kept in discord, they were less likely to unite against the emperor. The rest of the paper did little to diminish this impression, even in its reporting of mill productivity, proclaiming those named on the low end “a disappointment” to the “shining ideals of the Empire.”

  Lesser stories covered house fires and the unveiling of the latest statue of the emperor. Nothing terribly enlightening. There were some advertisements, and she gazed at these with interest. There was hair cream for “gentlemen of discernment,” guaranteed to grow back a full head of hair within a month. Rudman Hadley’s Great Imperial Circus occupied a quarter of a page, but the black and white etching of clowns and the big top tent did not look terribly jolly. “Coffin Openings at every evening performance!” The advertisement proclaimed. “See the mysteries of death revealed!”

  The people here had a strange idea of entertainment. It did not help that she’d been unwittingly made a participant in that entertainment.

  Beneath the advertisement for the circus was a notice for a slave auction for later in the week. “Strong males and females of all ages. Good, fertile breeding stock.” Her gorge rose, threatening to spew her as yet undigested breakfast. She shoved the paper down the table in revulsion. A servant glanced curiously at her, then collected the paper along with a stack of teacups and saucers, and left the room.

  This world, Karigan thought in despair. The professor was right to oppose the empire.

  She was roused by the rush of skirts that announced the entrance of Mirriam into the dining room. “There you are!”

  Karigan steeled herself against whatever she was going to be accused of this time.

  “Lingering over breakfast, are we?”

  Karigan glanced at her plate as though the leftover crumbs of her meal proved her guilt.

  “Miss Goodgrave! Have you lost your tongue?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Well, it is time to get moving.”

  “Get moving?” Karigan asked, bewildered. “Get moving to where?”

  “Why, to your bed chamber. Mender Samuels is due here any moment.”

  “Mender Samuels?”

  “Honestly. Doesn’t your uncle tell you anything?”

  “No,” Karigan said, with feeling.

  Mirriam actually chuckled, unexpectedly easing the strain between the two that had been present ever since Karigan had stood up to Mirriam about Cloudy the cat and other matters. “Well,” the housekeeper conceded, “the professor can be rather forgetful. Come, child.”

  Karigan rose and, grabbing the bonewood, followed Mirriam out of the dining room. “What does Mender Samuels want with me? I’m not sick.”

  Mirriam glanced at her in surprise. “No, I daresay you are not. In fact, I’d even say you are . . . robust. It is unseemly in a refined young woman of your status. I can only guess it comes of your being reared in the countryside.”

  Karigan tried to digest the housekeeper’s skewed logic. Should she try to be more sickly in order to fit in? Would being “robust” somehow reveal her true identity? “Then why is Mender Samuels coming to see me?”

  “Miss Goodgrave,” Mirriam said as they began to mount the stairs to the second floor, “you did not expect to be wearing that cast on your wrist to the end of your
days, did you?”

  TIME

  Karigan gazed at Mender Samuels with trepidation and tightened her grip on the bonewood.

  “Put that down, silly girl,” he admonished her as he polished what looked like the blade of a bone saw.

  “You are not coming near me with that,” she informed him.

  He paid her no heed and simply checked his blade gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through her window.

  Mirriam heaved an exasperated sigh. “He isn’t going to saw your arm off, Miss Goodgrave, just the cast.”

  Karigan raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Put your stick down and come sit at the table so I may do my work,” the mender said.

  She reluctantly set the bonewood aside, figuring it was just as well the mender did not know how lethal her “stick” could be. She sat at the little table as he directed and placed her forearm on top, pulling up her sleeve to reveal the cast.

  The mender looked at it in dismay, wrinkling his nose. “Have you been dragging your arm through a pig sty, Miss Goodgrave?”

  Mirriam loosed another great sigh. Karigan knew she had been Mirriam’s very trying responsibility, and perhaps she found some vindication in the mender’s recognition of her ward’s incorrigibility.

  Karigan watched closely as the mender sawed through her cast, plaster dust collecting beneath her forearm on the table. When he removed the cast in sections, her relief that he hadn’t even nicked her skin, was replaced by repugnance at the odor that rose up reminding her of dead fish. She saw, for the first time in several weeks, the pale thin thing that had once been her forearm. A current of cool air rippled across flesh that hadn’t felt a breeze for a month or more, and she sighed then, to have it finally free and in the open.