Mirror Sight

  Shortly, Mr. Howser escorted the messenger down, an Inspector with his red uniform made dusty by the road. Silk did not see the dust, rather he smelled it, along with the stench of sweat and horse.

  “Report,” Silk said. He did not turn up the light.

  The man recounted the casualties of the mill fire. Six Inspectors dead, four Enforcers destroyed, and of course Bryce Lowell Josston. Once Silk’s very close friend and his adversary.

  “You found no other remains?”

  “Not so far,” the Inspector replied. “It will take time to sift through the ruins. They’re still smoldering.”

  “And you are taking care to look for . . . evidence?”

  “Yes, sir. But if I may say so, the fire and explosions did a very thorough job in destroying anything useful.”

  Silk did not doubt it. If the professor had been storing illegally obtained artifacts and secrets, he’d find a way to destroy them totally if need be.

  “So,” he continued, “no sign of additional bodies so far, which means Mr. Harlowe and Miss Goodgrave may still be alive.”

  “I have more news on that front, sir.”

  Silk raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  As the Inspector told his tale, Silk was pleased to note Mr. Starling had been doing his job and doing it well. When the Inspector finished, Silk mulled over everything for a moment, issued instructions to both the Inspector and Mr. Howser. “Do we come to a bridge soon?” he asked.

  “Gracy Bridge,” Mr. Howser replied. “It’s one of the ones where we’ve posted relays.”

  “Good.” Silk consulted his chronosphere, its display glowing with ethereal light. “If you disembark at Gracy Bridge, Inspector, you’ll be able to send my instructions back to Mill City to your commander and Mr. Starling. Remind the messengers to ride hard. They must reach the city as soon as possible.”

  He dismissed the men and was left once again with his ruminations. He steepled his fingers before him thinking that Cade Harlowe had made a grave error if he thought he could pick up where Bryce Lowell Josston had left off and lead Mill City in an uprising. With its network of informants and spies, the empire could not be duped so easily. It would soon be in hand.

  And, oh yes, he would let Cade Harlowe and his companions come directly to him. Directly, and without hindrance. With that comforting thought, he once again picked up the odd portrait of Miss Kari Goodgrave and turned up the light. Was she one of Harlowe’s companions, perhaps disguised? Or had she perished in the mill fire? He possessed no evidence either way, but his gut feeling was that she had not died.

  Who was she, really? he wondered. He’d sent a request to the asylum in her home town for information on her, but even in this modern age, it still took much time to traverse the land with messages. The emperor’s artificers were working on devices that would permit rapid communication that did not require the physical travel of a human being. That day could not come soon enough.

  Odd how these captured images made the subjects look less alive, deadened, Silk thought. So still, trapped in a moment of time. No wonder there was such good business in death portraiture. If well staged, you could barely tell the difference between the living and a cadaver.

  He tilted the portrait trying to divine new details, but none were forthcoming. He rather suspected Kari Goodgrave had never been in that asylum, and it was unlikely she was even related to Josston. This much he had suspected from the very beginning, knowing Josston’s proclivities.

  On impulse, he stood and took the portrait with him through the dining room, forward to the much smaller sitting room near the bow and the cabins of his servants and “guests.” The child and her governess were reading to each other from one of the books borrowed from the boat’s library. They looked up at his entrance.

  The governess hastily veiled her face and stood. Even through the veil she could not look at him, and she nervously pressed her skirts smooth, gazing at the floor. What was her name? Morine? Lorine? He had learned she’d been a slave the professor had rescued and freed. Admirable, Silk thought, but pointless. There were always more slaves to take this one’s place.

  In contrast, the child, Arhys, stared openly at him. Bold, that one, a street brat the professor had also taken in, and spoiled. Silk learned quickly that it only took promises and bribes to make her behave.

  “Lorine,” Silk said, using a gentle tone. He knew doing so would be more effective with this nervous woman than bullying her. “Do you happen to know the person in this portrait?”

  He showed it to her, and she looked hard at it, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the lady’s face is too faded out.”

  The child looked too, and her reaction was almost immediate. “I know her! That’s Miss Goodgrave. I hate her.” Lorine placed her hand on the child’s shoulder as if to quell her outburst.

  “Lorine?” Silk said. “Your young charge appears to recognize the person in this image. Are you sure you can’t tell?”

  “It could be Miss Goodgrave, sir, but it’s just not clear enough to say.”

  Silk nodded. Most likely the truth. While he knew who had sat for the portrait, the child, at least, confirmed that the image was becoming more visible and it wasn’t just his imagination. He had questioned the two about Miss Goodgrave, but they’d only told him what he’d already heard.

  “I want a portrait of me!” Arhys declared.

  “And you shall have it.” And much more, Silk thought.

  Arhys twirled and clapped. “You are much nicer than the professor!”

  “Then you shall not be dismayed to hear that your professor is dead.”

  Lorine stumbled back raising her hand to her mouth. Arhys watched her uncertainly. Silk turned on his heel, not interested in witnessing the wailing of females that was likely to begin as soon as his words sank in.

  Now that he knew the portrait was becoming more identifiable, another impulse led him to leave the comfort of the cabin for the outside world. He stepped out on deck and paused to take in the air, which was moist and heavy. A mist drifted up from the smooth water of the canal, hazing the running lights of the boats. The thrum and splish-splash of the chug were louder outside. The still water carried snippets of conversation back to him. Frogs chorused along the banks. Others on duty outside cursed as they were bitten by insects, but the biters never seemed to bother Silk.

  He made his way back to the stern. The freight barge floated quietly behind, though the coupling that joined it to his packet squeaked intermittently. The circus wagon, a rectangular shadow in the night, was tied down to the barge’s deck. Guards and boatmen moved about in the light of deck lamps, the mist swirling around them. Mostly he saw just pinpoints of light and silhouettes. Unlike boatmen who agilely leaped from the stern of one boat to the bow of the next, Silk required a more cautious course.

  “Boatman,” he called to the nearest man on watch.

  “Yessir?” The fellow was little more than a boy.

  “I require the bridge and a light.”

  The boy sprang into action, lifting the wooden arch bridge and securely setting it from the stern of the packet to the bow of the freighter. Another boatman on the freighter helped place it. Bridges were generally for the use of ladies and the elderly, but Silk felt no shame in using one himself. After all, he was a gentleman, and an important one. He did not have to prove his manliness.

  He accepted a lantern as he stepped up onto the bridge. It was wide enough to make the crossing comfortable. Once on the other side, he went straight for the circus trailer and slid open a viewing panel on the near end. He focused the light of the lantern so it shone into the depths of the wagon.

  The Eletian sat cross-legged on straw in the middle of the wagon, his eyes open and unblinking, his stillness uncanny. Silk did not know if it was simply a trancelike state the creature went into, or more like a torpor. He had shed most of
his armor, which Silk had carefully packed away for later study. The underlayer of black cloth was stiff with the dried membrane that had clung between the armor and the Eletian’s flesh. The cloth itself was tattered, looked moth-eaten. The Eletian appeared to be deteriorating day by day, his aura diminishing.

  Still, he was beautiful, the aural light still radiating from him. Perhaps it was dimmer, less vibrant, but it was still ethereal, the embodiment of magic.

  “Eletian,” Silk said. The creature did not stir.

  “Eletian!” Still nothing.

  “Allow me to give it a try, sir,” said one of the boatmen. Without awaiting permission, he walked down the length of the wagon and battered its wooden side with a club. The drubbing echoed up and down the canal. It was enough to rouse the dead.

  “Stop,” Silk ordered. He’d punish the boatman for his insubordination, but the tactic appeared to work. The Eletian’s eyes focused. His aura became . . . more contained.

  “Eletian,” Silk said, “look at this picture. Do you know the person in it?” He held the portrait up for the Eletian to see.

  The Eletian gave no hint he understood, but his gaze shifted subtly, narrowing in on the picture. Outwardly he showed no sign of recognition, but in Silk’s vision, his aura pulsed, almost urgently.

  “You do know her,” Silk murmured. The Eletian’s sight had to be extraordinarily sharp to see the image from that distance. “Who is she?”

  The Eletian, of course, did not answer.

  “You may be interested to know she died in a fire last night.” Whether or not it was true, it had been worth saying for the effect on the Eletian was startling. His gaze dropped and his aura either faded out or turned to some dark shade that Silk could not discern. Otherwise, there was once again no real outward sign the creature had heard a word Silk said.

  Silk nodded to himself and closed the panel. That would give the Eletian something to mull over. So, the Eletian knew Miss Goodgrave. Could it be that she, like the Eletian, was out of step with time? He’d known there was something special, different about her from the beginning—the uncanny glimpse he’d had of dark wings about her. When they found her, and he still felt strongly she had not perished in the fire, he would have many questions for her. Many, indeed. No wonder the professor had laid claim to her.

  As the banks of the canal slipped by, it also occurred to Silk that she would make an excellent additional gift to the emperor. Silk’s immortality was all but assured.

  THE BELLS OF MILL CITY

  Karigan snarled and batted away the dark hands of the shadow beast that reached for her. She kicked and heard a very human grunt.

  “Stop!” The shadow beast sounded like Cade. Was it a deception, or . . . ?

  “Wake up,” he told her.

  She opened crusty eyes, shivering as a layer of sweat cooled on her skin. Cade stood nearby, only a little blurry.

  “You’ve been having nightmares,” he said.

  Yes, nightmares.

  Wan daylight pooled in from unshuttered windows. Karigan’s head pounded dully, and she felt as unrested as though she’d been fighting monsters all night.

  “Too much morphia can do that,” Cade said. “Give you bad dreams.” She noticed he kept his distance.

  “How are you doing otherwise?” he asked. “We’ll be meeting Luke soon to head out.”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Well, uh, Luke brought you an extra set of clothes from his son if you want a change.”

  Karigan got up and staggered around the bunkhouse, bumping into beds and chairs as she readied herself for the day. Her head felt full of a pea soup fog, and she trembled from weakness. Cade looked like he wanted to offer his help, but to his credit he did not. Still, he watched her with an uncomfortable vigilance, and it was a relief when she made it into the privy and slammed the door behind her.

  Afterward, Cade convinced her to eat some porridge and drink water before they left, but she managed only a little. When they met Luke by the wagon, he said to her, “You look terrible.” Then he added in a whisper, “All the better for our ruse, eh?”

  Karigan ignored him and patted Raven, then climbed up into her place on the wagon. Already her fresh change of clothes was sodden with sweat. She could not stop shaking. She closed her eyes and napped fitfully as the wagon rumbled along the road. Sometimes she awakened to see the jagged rooflines of some town, its chimneys reaching for the heavens and soiling the sky with black smoke. Now and then they passed beneath a tall statue of the emperor, Amberhill in some heroic posture gazing into the distance.

  After a time, their road paralleled a canal wide enough for odd, tubby boats to travel two abreast. They were propelled by what looked like mill wheels, starboard and port, and she wondered what everyone back home would make of it all. When she told them of her adventures and all she’d seen, would they believe any of it?

  Now and then she became aware of the wagon stopping and of Luke being questioned. He always answered with cheerful aplomb and a level of charm she had never known he possessed. Papers were demanded, bribes given and received. Karigan once opened her eyes to find a man in Inspector red peering down at her, the eye lens of his Enforcer whirring at her. She had to clamp down a scream. Maybe it was all a nightmare. Maybe this whole future world was some sort of dream. She must still be in Blackveil. Surely she must, but the dream kept going on and on.

  Cade woke her at midday, and she was sorry because she’d finally fallen into a more restful, dreamless sleep.

  “It is time for a break,” Cade said, leaning against the tailgate of the wagon. Raven stood next to him and both watched her.

  “Where are we?”

  “Roadside tavern in Appleton.”

  The name meant nothing to her. They were pulled to the side of the road with a couple of other wagons, next to a clapboard house with a sign that simply said, “Tavern.” Across the road, beyond a copse of trees, a canal gleamed. No boats passed by at the moment.

  “Luke said he’d send out some food,” Cade continued. “I think he is enjoying his role a little too well.”

  And no wonder, Karigan thought. His “servants” must wait outside for him while he took his time and dined in the comfort of the tavern. In the meantime, Karigan drank some water and stumbled her way to the privy, this time a simple shack that almost made her ill with the stench and flies.

  The short walk back exhausted her. How was she to be of any help to Lhean, or herself for that matter, in this condition? She managed to climb up into the wagon without help, but just barely. She rubbed perspiration off her forehead.

  Cade took little heed of her. He gazed toward the canal, but more into space than at anything in particular. When a bell rang a little ways back down the road toward the village, he tilted his head. The bell rang only once—the first hour of the afternoon. Cade then paced, not seeming to know what to do with himself. His agitation caused Raven to paw and side-step. Karigan spoke softly to the stallion to comfort him.

  She asked Cade, “What’s wrong? Raven can tell something is bothering you, and it’s upsetting him.”

  He paused and looked at her, his face ashen. “Whatever happens in Mill City from this hour forth is my responsibility.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “The rebellion has begun.”

  Mirriam and Jax sat in silence at the table in Jax’s small cottage, taking tea. The sand in the hourglass trickled out, and Jax turned it over, starting the countdown of another hour.

  They waited anxiously, straining to hear, but the city bells did not ring.

  They stared at the hourglass transfixed as if willing the bells to ring, but they did not. Jax’s tea cooled untouched.

  Finally, Mirriam could no longer help herself. “Is your hourglass accurate?”

  “Very,” was Jax’s gruff response.

&nb
sp; If the bell did not ring, the slaves would not be let out of quarters to return to the mills. If the slaves were not let out, then they could not do their part. Carefully selected members of the rebel group, mill workers who had access to both slaves and keys, were to unlock the manacles. The slaves would then make a bid for freedom as they wished.

  Slaves running free would force the Inspectors to run after them and meanwhile the rebels were supposed to take over key imperial holdings—Inspector stations, the city gates, the office of the city master, and the armory. The rebels would hold and defend Mill City in the face of whatever the emperor sent their way. All to buy Cade and Karigan time, all their hopes pinned on what a Green Rider out of the past could do.

  A Green Rider addled by morphia, Mirriam reminded herself.

  As the top half of the hourglass drained itself of sand, the two of them stared at it. Still, no bells rang. Jax did not bother to flip the glass. He slowly moved his gaze to Mirriam, eyes full of fear.

  “If the bells are not ringing,” he began.

  “Then they have learned of our plan,” Mirriam finished.

  She had hardly finished speaking when the door crashed in. Inspectors swarmed the cottage, muzzles of weapons leveled at her and Jax.

  They had failed.

  In the dark, stifling slave quarters that belonged to the Greeling Textile Mill, the restlessness of the slaves indicated knowledge that something was amiss. They sat on rough benches, their meager midday rations long gone. It was far past time for the bell to ring that was supposed to send them back to work.

  The General watched the foreman from the corner of his eye. The man paced in nervous circles near the entrance to the long, squat building. Once or twice he paused to stare at The General, then continued his pacing. The General sat hunched on his bench as if nothing unusual was going on. If the bells were being withheld, then the Inspectors had to know something was afoot. A clever tactic, that, preventing a rebellion by withholding time.