This Isn't What It Looks Like

  “Yeah right, sure,” said Max-Ernest.

  Then he thought again about what Pietro had said. Was he too quick to discount the possibility of real mental telepathy? Pietro had suggested that Max-Ernest should be more open to things he didn’t understand.

  Besides, if there was any chance that Benjamin knew something about mind reading, Max-Ernest had to find out what it was; Cass’s life was on the line.

  “Wait a second. Who told you I wanted to be a magician?”

  “Oh, everybody knows.”

  “Yeah, but who told you?”

  “Like I said, everybody—”

  “That’s exactly what you said about how you knew Cass was in the hospital. And maybe everybody knows I want to be a magician, but not everybody knows about Cass. Almost nobody knows that.”

  “So? What are you trying to say?”

  “You’re—”

  “What? What am I?”

  He couldn’t say it. It sounded too incredible.

  Max-Ernest decided to try an experiment.

  You’re reading my mind, he thought as clearly as he could. You can actually read minds.

  Benjamin didn’t say anything for a moment, just studied Max-Ernest through his monocle. Then he nodded. “Yes, old chum, I can.”

  Max-Ernest stared. Here was proof, if any more were needed.

  “You need not look so surprised. It’s just like your friend Pietro says about things that appear to be magic. It’s not that mental telepathy cannot be explained. It’s just that it hasn’t been explained yet.”

  “Don’t tell me—you read that in my mind, too?”

  Benjamin nodded. Max-Ernest shook his head in amazement.

  “OK, explain telepathy, then. Does it have something to do with your synesthesia? Is that how come you can do it?”

  “Not directly, no. At New Promethean they trained me in mind control. It’s amazing what you can do if you concentrate hard enough. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “Because you don’t really know how you do it or because you’re not allowed?”

  “Both.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “Special teachers,” said Benjamin vaguely. “Experts.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  “Sorry. No can do, old chum.”

  “Well, is mind reading more like reading or more like seeing?” Max-Ernest asked with more than a hint of desperation. “Can you at least tell me that?”

  This question had been plaguing Max-Ernest ever since he read the book on second sight. If mind reading was a kind of reading, then there was hope; it meant there was a code he might crack. If mind reading was a kind of seeing, truly a sort of second sight, well, he wasn’t sure how he would go about it.

  “Hm…” Benjamin paused. “You have to see words to read them, right?”

  “Not if you’re blind and reading Braille—then you touch them,” Max-Ernest pointed out. “Or somebody could spell a word for you out loud. Then you’d be hearing it first. And I even know of two brothers who spelled words for each other with smell signals.* How ’bout that?”

  “How ’bout that?” echoed Benjamin.

  “So which is it, then? Do you look into somebody’s mind or do you read it?”

  Benjamin shrugged. “Both. Neither. It’s too hard to say.”

  To say Max-Ernest was frustrated is an understatement. Here at last was somebody with a proven ability to read minds, but he, Max-Ernest, was no closer himself to being able to read Cass’s mind!

  Aargh, he thought. What am I going to do?

  “Well, I could do it for you,” said Benjamin calmly. “I mean, if you’d like.”

  Max-Ernest almost jumped, he was so startled. He was going to have to be more careful of his thoughts in the future.

  Benjamin laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t usually look into people’s minds without their permission. Or read them, I mean. I consider it very impolite.”

  “That’s… good… I… guess…,” said Max-Ernest. “So you really think you could read Cass’s mind, even though she’s in a coma?”

  Benjamin smiled. “I can try.”

  “Would you?” asked Max-Ernest, a flicker of hope lighting up his eyes. “I’m… I’m really scared she’s not going to wake up. Pietro—er, somebody I know—thinks getting into her head is the only way.”

  Benjamin removed his monocle and examined it thoughtfully.

  “Are there a lot of people around in the hospital? That might be a problem. I think it would be best if I were alone with her.”

  “We could try to get in after hours. There are still night nurses around and janitors and stuff, but it would be easier to get a few minutes by ourselves…. The problem is, we won’t be allowed in ’cause we’re not family.”

  “We could create a diversion,” suggested Benjamin.

  “And then slip in when they’re not looking? That could work.”

  “What if we cut off the electricity in the hospital for a few minutes? The darkness would give us cover and we’d have time to get to her room.”

  Max-Ernest shook his head. “Too hard. How would we ever cut off the backup generators? Besides, there are patients on life-support machines. We don’t want to kill anyone, do we?”

  Benjamin furrowed his brow as if this were a real question. “No, I suppose not. That might cause problems….”

  “Hey, I know, maybe I could create the diversion!” said Max-Ernest excitedly. “I could pretend to be having an epileptic fit. Then all the nurses would have to help me, and you could sneak into Cass’s room. How ’bout that? I’ve seen a couple epileptic fits before. I think I could make it look pretty realistic.”

  Benjamin looked impressed. “I think that’s a capital idea!”

  Max-Ernest’s heart sank. “Oh wait, then I wouldn’t be able to be in the room with you. Forget it.”

  “You know, I hate to say it, but that… might be better,” said Benjamin hesitantly. “No extra brain waves to distract me. Believe me, you have a lot of brain waves.”

  “I do?” asked Max-Ernest, curious.

  Benjamin nodded. “Most I’ve ever seen.”

  “Hm. I guess that makes sense,” said Max-Ernest, flattered. “Not to brag or anything, but I always have a ton of thoughts in my head. Sometimes it drives me crazy.”

  “I know the feeling.” Benjamin extended his hand. “So it’s a deal, then?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  They shook hands as solemnly as jewel thieves planning a heist.

  Later, as they discussed the finer details—drawing floor plans, diagramming exit strategies—Max-Ernest wondered if what he was doing was very wise. Saving Cass was supposed to be his job, after all, not Benjamin’s. Pietro hadn’t said anything about somebody else going inside Cass’s head.

  What if Benjamin saw something he shouldn’t see? Cass was hunting for the Secret. If she’d found it, would it be visible or readable or whatever-the-word-was to Benjamin?

  Max-Ernest pushed the thought aside. Benjamin might be listening in.

  Not only that, Benjamin was on their side—he had to be. The Midnight Sun had kidnapped him and nearly sucked his brains out. Cass and Max-Ernest had rescued him from a fate worse than death. If Benjamin suspected that Operation Mind-Read had anything to do with the ongoing battle between the Terces Society and the Midnight Sun, he would only be inspired to help out that much more. As for the Secret, there was no reason to believe Benjamin had ever heard of it. And if by some quirk of fate Benjamin found the Secret in Cass’s head, chances were he’d have no idea that it was of any consequence at all.

  Besides, Max-Ernest half-acknowledged to himself, it was a nice feeling, having a partner again. A friend.

  And he didn’t want it to end.

  I must say, it was a stroke of bad luck that Max-Ernest didn’t look at his e-mail that afternoon.

  As it turns out, at the very moment that Max-Ernest and Benjamin were shaking hands, Yo-Yoji was replying to t
he e-mail Max-Ernest had written earlier about Benjamin. Here is the subject line of Yo-Yoji’s reply:

  Subject: DUDE, YOU BETTER READ THIS RIGHT NOW!!!

  Unfortunately, Max-Ernest wouldn’t see Yo-Yoji’s message until late that night. Of course, I could reproduce it for you now. But I think it’s best that you experience events in the same order Max-Ernest did.

  This book is much more fun that way.

  At least for me.

  For you, I imagine, it makes the book much more stressful.

  An axe crashed through the cell door.

  Anastasia stepped through the splintered wood, holding a candle in front of her. Next to her: her bewhiskered colleague, Thomas, holding his axe.

  “Burnes? Gatewood? Are you in here? I told you they couldn’t keep you two for long!” Anastasia called into the darkness, eyes glinting above her mask. Her long hair fell heavily over her shoulders.

  The Jester blinked, obviously surprised to see this mysterious woman standing in the cell doorway.

  “Sorry, m’lady, it’s just me and—” He looked in Cass’s direction but of course didn’t see her. “Just me.”

  “And who is this Just Me?” Anastasia looked at the Jester sitting there with his hat askew. “Please tell me you are not a jester and that that is just a disguise! Does the King dare insult me by locking up my men with fools?”

  “Do not worry,” said the Jester dryly. “I’m not a real jester… anymore. The King saw to that.”

  “Come on. Nobody’s in here—,” said Anastasia’s bandit colleague.

  “That’s right, Thomas. Nobody. Merely a tool of royalty who is now abandoned property. This is the thanks he gets for making a monarch laugh while his subjects starve? Well, just deserts, I say! How does the saying go? If you lie down with dogs, you will rise with fleas?”

  “If you saw how comfortably the King’s dogs lie, you would lie down with them, too!” declared the Jester. “Their pillows are very fine indeed. As for the royal fleas, they do not bite but merely scratch when you complain of itch. They are but servants in miniature livery.”

  Cass stifled a laugh. But Anastasia did not appear to be listening. With a last contemptuous look at the Jester, she swung her hair around and left, leaving the cell door open.

  “Let’s go!” whispered Cass.

  “What? Oh. Yes,” answered the Jester, his eyes still focused on the spot where Anastasia had been standing. “I’m glad you’re here. I thought maybe I’d imagined you after all.”

  “No. I’m right here. In the flesh. Well, in the invisible flesh—”

  She gave him a tug.

  Outside their cell it was chaos.

  Every door in the dungeon had been opened in the search for the captured bandits, and the cheers of the escaping prisoners rang through the corridors so loudly, it sounded like they were in some kind of underground sports stadium.

  Cass hesitated before following the other prisoners out of the dungeon.

  “Ugh. Those poor guys…”

  All the prison guards had been thrown into the central cesspool. Mouths gagged, hands bound, they stood up to their shoulders in muck, watching with mute rage.

  The Jester chuckled. “Why the angry faces, gents? Are you not slugs in your native element? That smelly mud to you should be mother’s milk!”

  A few of the guards lunged toward him—only to slip deeper into the cesspool. From the looks in their eyes, the guards were all thinking about what they would do with the Jester if they ever got their hands on him again. And they weren’t planning to pat him on the back.

  “C’mon—”

  Cass clutched the Jester’s hand as they ran up the stone stairs and out into the moonlit night.

  Just outside the exit, the bandits were waiting on horseback, a few riderless horses at the ready.

  “Look—let’s get on that gray one over there!” whispered Cass, pointing to a horse standing by a wall a few feet away. The horse whinnied invitingly.

  The Jester hesitated. “I have a terrible fear of horses….”

  “Oh great,” Cass groaned. “Could you be more like Max-Ernest if you tried? I don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. There’s no time to be afraid. We have to get out of here!”

  “Don’t worry,” said the Jester, standing tall. “I conquered the fear long ago. The first time I escaped from prison—”

  “You were in prison before?” asked Cass, alarmed. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I was referring to my parents’ house. It was far worse than this place—”

  Unexpectedly agile, the Jester hopped onto the gray horse and pulled Cass up after him.

  Anastasia reined her black steed next to them.

  “You, Jester—what are you doing? That’s not your horse!”

  The Jester laughed. “You’re a fine one to talk, Madame Thief! I would bet a king’s ransom that that horse you’re sitting on is not yours, either. But if you like, I will give this one back after we have escaped.”

  Anastasia was about to offer a retort when a dozen soldiers on horseback appeared from behind the palace, heading in their direction.

  “Very well,” she said, displeased. “Follow us. But if you lose that horse, you will pay with your life. Men—!”

  She whistled, and the bandits took off in a thunder of hooves.

  Cass woke with a stiff neck and with a sharp twig poking into her back. Above her, a maple tree made patterns of green and gold. It was day.

  Raising her head slightly, she spied a few burlap tents and a trail of smoke wending upward. Instinctively, she reached for the Double Monocle, then remembered it was gone. Oh well, she had survived without X-ray vision in the past (or rather the future); she would have to again. Rubbing her eyes, she looked out at the campsite in the old-fashioned way.

  It was the bandits’ campsite, she deduced when she saw a surly-looking man, Thomas, striding toward her, his black mask hanging around his neck and his axe swinging on his thigh. She was about to greet him when he walked right past her, humming in the way one does only when one is alone. She’d forgotten for a moment he couldn’t see her.

  Feeling like a spy, she watched him stop at a tree a few feet away. When a tiny stream started trickling in her direction, she had the awful realization that he was relieving himself of the previous night’s drink.

  She scooted to safety just in time.

  As the bandit returned to camp, the Jester walked up to Cass. Or rather to his hat, which was sitting on a rock five feet away from her. It was the first time Cass had seen him bareheaded in the daylight. His orange curls sprang up in all directions like coiled wires.

  “Cass?” he whispered to the hat. “Are you up?”

  “Yes, but I’m over here to your right,” she whispered back.

  “Where?” He looked around, confused. “I left my hat as a marker.”

  “I move around a lot when I sleep. Wait. Stay there….” She got up and walked over to him.

  “Here I am,” she said, picking up his hat.

  The Jester stepped back in surprise as the hat appeared to fly into the air and land on his head.

  “Ah, I see that you are,” he said, recovering. “I brought you breakfast.”

  He held up a metal cup full of some kind of gruel-like porridge.

  “I wasn’t sure if you ate real food or if you only needed invisible sustenance,” said the Jester, watching the cup move in the air.

  “I’m starving. But this is disgusting. What is it?”

  The Jester laughed. “Do they not have frumenty where you come from…? Well, enjoy it. Those selfish thieves have a pile of treasure that would be the envy of dragons, but I had to beg and plead for that little tin cup.”*

  “They’re not selfish. They steal from the rich to give to the poor. Like Robin Hood.”

  The Jester laughed. “Who? All I know is that I’m poor and they aren’t giving any treasure to me. I think the only reason they let me have
that cup was that it was stuck to their lodestone. Have you ever seen a lodestone?”

  “I don’t think so….”

  “Marvelous thing,” said the Jester. “Metal sticks right to it as if it were glue.”

  “You mean it’s a magnet?”

  The Jester’s face froze. “Quick, give the cup back to me!” he whispered.

  “But I’m not done!”

  “Just give it to me—Anastasia’s coming.” He grabbed the cup so hard he spilled frumenty all over himself.

  “Practicing for a comedy?”

  Anastasia regarded the Jester with arched eyebrows. Without her mask, she was even more beautiful, but no less formidable. “I think next time perhaps you should use an empty cup for rehearsal.”

  “It’s not the same,” said the Jester, playing along. “I need to feel the spill to play the role.”

  “And yet you need not a real actor with whom to say your lines? I saw you talking a moment ago. He is very talented, I thought. He who can speak to the air.”

  “Watch and I shall pluck a whole world from the air. My comedy is my magic, my jokes are my spells.”

  “Perhaps,” said Anastasia, turning serious. “But your spells have no place here. They do not protect us against the King’s men. Nor do they clothe the poor.”

  “Yes, but they feed the soul.”

  “We want to feed the hungry. That is our only goal.”

  “Must their food be so somber? Do not the poor deserve a merry dinner?”

  “So they can forget their hunger? Forget injustice?”

  “No, so they can laugh at it. ’Tis not the same.”

  The bandit shook her head. “The men and I have agreed, you must go. On foot. Do not forget, the horse is ours. You have five minutes. If you are not gone when I return, we shall remember how close you were to the King and we shall be much less generous with you.”

  The Jester watched her leave, uncharacteristically quiet.

  Cass looked from the big porridge stain on his shirt to the glum expression on his face. “Sorry if I made you look silly. I should have given you the cup back faster.”

  The Jester shrugged sadly. “To her I will always be silly, I think, no matter how I look.”