Mirrorworld (18 page)

Marcus shivered, shaking the man’s hand. “That’s not how I’d have put it. Can we just agree that I need to find out as much as I can about.. you know, the whole Grim Reaper thing?”

“Very well,” Burgundy said, and dropped his book on a nearby table with a hefty slam. “
I should warn you, this is a rather touchy subject. You see,
we wizards don’t really like to talk about death in any form. For us, we see magic as a form of life energy, an immutable, living force that we just, sort of, bend to our will. Death is opposed to life, so we just don’t really get along, you know?”

“Er,” Marcus said.

“Oh I am sorry,” Burgundy said, “clearly that’s not what you wanted to hear. Well, we might not like it, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know about it. This book..”
-
he indicated the mighty tome that he’d dropped – “is ..an encyclopaedia of sorts, a collection of all the legends and whatnot we know about the personifications of the Mirrorworld. Anywhere in particular you want to start?”

Marcus peered at the book. The title appeared to be
Grim Fairy Tales.
“Personifications?”

“Aye,” Burgundy said, fingering his beard. “Personifications. Incarnate forms for what might otherwise be considered abstract, natural processes. It doesn’t mean much to the layman, of course, but the Mirrorworld is an intrinsically magical place, so why not walking skeletons and suchlike?” He flipped
Grim Fairy Tales
open to the contents page, and
ran a gnarled finger down it. “
See? There are the traditional ones, like the old horsemen and other really ancient superstitions, and then we get into the more abstract concepts, like Happiness, Dream, Desire.. Just ideas, really. Death himself, however, is something of an urban legend. We know lots about him. Look, he has his own chapter.”

“Okay,” Marcus said, sitting heavily on a nearby chair. “So, how does he work?”

Burgundy didn’t reply straight away, instead turning to, presumably, Death’s chapter, and flipping through it for a few minutes. Eventually, he straightened up and turned back to Marcus. “Right,” he said, collecting thoughts. “What you need to understand is that death, essentially, is a force. It’s a thing that happens. Got that?”

“Oh yes,” Marcus said.

“Okay. So out there in the world, death is happening. And also, out there in the world, is Death. There’s the process, and the personification, but they’re not the same. Yes?”

“Erm, yes?”

“Good. See, according to the legend, and indeed our modern understandings of the personifications, they’re more the figurehead for the process; they keep going, representing, as it were, and that allows the whole thing itself to keep going. Do you think death visits everyone?”

Marcus frowned. “Is this the person or the process?”

“Ah, sorry,” Burgundy smiled, “I’m not very good at talking in capital letters. I meant Death the person – although I’d hardly suggest he could be called that. The walking, talking, black-cloaked, scythe-wielding skeleton – he has a sword too but it is suggested that’s more ceremonial and not his weapon of choice – does
not
turn up for everybody. Rather, he has a book – imaginatively known as the ‘Book of Deaths’ – I guess the chroniclers of old weren’t too fond of flashy names, hey?”

Marcus, who was becoming aware that Burgundy was the sort of person who always required input from others even though he was the one with all the words, nodded.

“So, the Book of Deaths is a sort of middleman; certain deaths appear listed in it, and these are the names of the souls that Death himself is obliged to visit personally. In doing so, he maintains the ‘balance’, if you’ll allow, and the actual general process of death, that little clause in existence that runs the cycle of fade and renewal.. it all keeps ticking over nicely.”

Marcus took this all in. It made sense. “This is definitely how it works?”

“Well,” Burgundy said reproachfully, “it’s as true as true can be. You see, sometimes reality is shaped by legend. Personifications are ultimately what we see them as, so they appear as we expect them to. Maybe once upon a time someone decided that this was the way Death should be, and so, that’s the way he is. Nonetheless, this information comes on good authority, from our own Archmage Frost. Quite the story, that. An informative tale, but also a cautionary one.”

“What happened?” Marcus asked.

“I’m glad you asked,” Burgundy said jovially, “because it is a
great
story. Frost was an Archmage of limitless ambition; his dream was to know everything, and it was fear of dying before he could absorb all the knowledge of the world that drove him to this. Now, I won’t demand your reasons for wanting to know about Death, but I’ll wager they’re much the same as his. He wanted that knowledge for its own sake, of course, but more so for his own. So he devised a ritual that could summon Death and bind him, so that he might interrogate him and see if he couldn’t find a loophole.”

“Did it work?” Marcus asked with some urgency, because this seemed very relevant.

“Only in part,” Burgundy conceded. “Like I said, the very idea of death is in opposition to our magic, which taps into the life force of the world. Frost discovered to his cost that Death the person is this too, except even more so. He summoned Death, but all of his carefully prepared bindings that would keep him safe were instantly shattered, and he was essentially at Death’s mercy. Like all sad stories, the problem is glaringly obvious in retrospect; he was summoning his own death, what did he think would happen? Such is the folly of blind ambition.”

“So he died, then,” Marcus said with a sigh.

“That he did,” Burgundy agreed, “but not immediately. By Frost’s own account, Death was somewhat taken with the sheer cheek of this mortal man who would dare to face him, and allowed Frost to interview him. That’s where all of the knowledge in this book comes from. Apparently they got along rather well, and in the end Death conceded to Frost as follows; that if the Archmage could beat him in a game of chess, then he would make an exception, and let the man go free. As for how
that
turned out.. well, Frost’s own words end this tale better than any I could muster.”

Burgundy held the book upright for Marcus to see; the final sentence of the chapter was a short one.
Apparently,
it read,
Death is really good at chess.
On the opposite page, an illustration showed Death and Frost hunched over a chessboard, Frost’s frown of concentration a sharp contrast to Death’s infinite, unchanging grin. It was a good likeness.

“Well,” Marcus said, sitting back, “that’s that, then.”

“That is that,” Burgundy echoed. “Frost couldn’t quite cheat death, but he gave it a shot, and if he didn’t quite manage to learn all of the knowledge in the world, then at least he was able to leave the rest of us with some that we didn’t have before. Thanks to him, we know about the Book of Deaths, sword and scythe, and that Death isn’t necessarily merciless. Useful information, I’d say.”

Marcus had to agree. “So,” he ventured, “if we take it that the Book of Deaths essentially runs the show.. what would happen if one of the names in it
didn’t
get taken? What if someone sort of skipped out on Death when he came to collect? What would happen then?”

Burgundy laughed. “What, seriously? I have no idea. You’re talking about cheating death – very Frostlike, and look where that got him. We can’t possibly know what that’s like.”

Marcus grimaced. “Well, what do you
think
would happen?”

“Well...” Burgundy was silent for a moment, running his fingers through his beard again - it appeared to be an unconscious habit. “If it were possible to
skip
death, as it were, then I guess that means the whole idea could, in theory, come undone. It means things wouldn’t have to be as they were. More importantly, though, it means the active incarnation of Death isn’t doing its job properly, and that might have effects on the passive death. Hmm.”

“Effects like what?”

“Who knows? Perhaps people would stop dying? That’s quite extreme, I suppose. Maybe passive death would turn back on itself, attempt to go around again and get who it missed? Heh, perhaps there would be no effects other than a really annoyed Grim Reaper.” The wizard chuckled. “Seriously, we’re way, way out of the books thinking about this. They say that the very act of observation changes a thing, so imagine what kind of effects the presence of someone who is supposed to be dead might have on any given situation. We couldn’t even empirically test any of these hypotheses, because we’d have no way of knowing what was supposed to happen, and what might have been changed by this person’s presence. A fascinating logical paradox.”

Marcus took this in, several thoughts jostling for his attention. His initial encounter with Lambert on Rice Street – had that been coincidence, or death coming back around for another shot? Killing Lambert had not been part of death’s plan; his own glimpse at the Book of Deaths had shown him that. By being in that place, still alive and wielding Death’s own weapon, Marcus had usurped control of death, inadvertently sparing the life of whoever had been crossed out in Lambert’s place. If that
had
been death coming back around to claim its tick mark.. then he’d beaten it there, too. It came back to the scythe; it really was more than just a weapon. It was his lifeline. Whether the threat of death came around again by accident or design, he could fight it off. It might make a bigger mess of the book, but who cared for the paperwork? Marcus knew of at least one talking skeleton with a fondness for bureaucracy who might have something to say about that.. but as long as he had the scythe, he had a line of defence. And if Death had been willing to make a deal once before, then maybe he might be persuaded to take such a stance again, for mutual benefit..

“Are you alright, Marcus?” Burgundy’s voice floated into his reverie.

“Yes,” Marcus said, “I think I might be.” He paused. “Did I tell you my name?”

“Not as such,” Burgundy said cheerfully, “but my old buddy Eustace told me not an hour ago to keep my eyes open for a lost-looking man with a funny staff by the name of Marcus, whom for some reason the Viaggiatori are greatly interested in and whose whereabouts they’d love to know.”

Marcus groaned. “And you told them, I suppose?”

“Well, when that junior librarian of mine came up to me blathering about some madman with a staff asking about Death and atlases, it seemed a fair assumption. I sent him off at a brisk jog – it’ll do him good to get out in the fresh air. He should be back any second, actually.”

On cue, Marcus caught flashes of purple cloaks down the nearby aisles. The junior librarian popped out from the aisle directly behind Burgundy, looking smug but slightly terrified. He was accompanied by a man Marcus recognised, if not by his long hair then by the size of his fists – the Viaggiatori from the alleyway, Helm’s friend from the first day.

“Please don’t knock me out,” Marcus said quickly.

“I won’t if you come quietly,” the man said.

“I was just coming back anyway,” Marcus lied.

“Well, consider me your honour guard then. So you don’t get lost.”

“It’s really easy to get lost in an unfamiliar city, you know.”

“I’m sure it is. You’re making an art form of it yourself.”

Marcus considered making a run for it, but he was tired of being chased. Being caught by the Viaggiatori was much preferable to being caught by Death; at least in this situation he could switch out his bin bag bed from the night before for the marshmallow soufflé that would hopefully still be waiting for him at the House of Viaggiatori, and so rest, if not easier, then at least in comfort. That in mind, he let fate have this one, sighed, and went quietly. He thanked Burgundy for his help, and the wizard beamed at him some more, shook his hand and told him that he hoped he’d found what he’d been looking for and that he should feel free to come back any time.

“Is Eira very upset?” Marcus asked his escort as the wizard waved them off.

“Well,” the Viaggiatori said, striding towards the exit, “she was in session with the council when I left, so.. almost definitely.”

Damn and blast. Everything was going completely
not
according to plan.

Eira was back in her study, having successfully extricated herself from the meeting with the council. She was currently engaging in the act of emptying in her in-tray with one hand by angrily screwing up and tossing its contents in the general direction of her bin, and manipulating her coffee stocks with the other so as to continue the supply of caffeine to her face. She did these things with unconscious effort born of practise, leaving her mind free to pore over the list in front of her.

It was an interesting list. It held the names of all the currently active members of the Viaggiatori, with annotations for those who were currently in Portruss, and what their Talents were. That was the most important part. Talents were the Mirrorline’s gift to the Viaggiatori, whether they wanted it or not. Anyone who touched the Mirrorline did not do so without being touched back; they were all marked by that strange force that in some way changed the very nature of who they were, providing a new ability that became more pronounced for the time spent working between worlds.

Eira worried about it, when she had the time. She worried about the philosophical inclinations. She worried whether Talents made the man, or whether man made the Talent. In accordance to the random nature of the Mirrorline, the awarding of Talents seemed to lack any rhyme or reason, but there were undoubtedly some that seemed to make sense. If she had not found herself in possession of the remarkable ability to go on and on when she should have died of fatigue months ago, would she have been appointed Master of the Viaggiatori? Would she have been appointed on her own merits, or had her Talent been the main selling point? And if so, what did that mean? Had the Mirrorline itself deemed her worthy and so awarded a Talent that would help her on her way? That was but one scary question in a mighty multitude that had no answers, a hopeless quest of thought to understand the impossible or at least highly implausible that was frankly a waste of time, so she tried to avoid worrying about it. Luckily, her life was one of distractions, and it was with one such that she was concerned now.