The Mirrored City (2 page)

“Give me the Sword,” Maddox pleaded. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Heath stood. “No. I’m not giving you that sword ever again.”

Maddox looked confused.

Heath clarified. “You can start getting it yourself.”

Maddox groaned and lolled his head to where the Sword rested against the wall, a large red heartstone resting in the hilt and crossguard. Feebly, he reached out for it, but his hand fell to his side.

Heath sat down at his desk and started reviewing paperwork, ignoring the noise. During his time in the Inquisition, he had learned to tune out the cries of the people he tortured, and he knew Maddox’s plaintive moans sounded worse than they actually were. The papers contained every bit of information Heath could find on the seven ruling families of Baash. Normally, hereditary rule was forbidden by the charter of the Protectorate. The Ohanites, headed by those same seven families, had found a loophole: tell their faithful whom to vote for.

Heath heard the clang and skitter of the Sword as it dragged across the floor. He heard the chair topple over and dump his friend onto the ground where he could presumably reach the weapon.

“Fuck,” Maddox, now possessed by Sword, said. He climbed off the floor and whirled the blade in his hand. “You can’t keep doing this to us, man. You don’t know what it’s like for him every time you separate us. Hells, it sucks for me, too, because I remember it happening to him.
He
doesn’t want it—”

Heath turned in his chair. “You’re going to have to give him back his life eventually, Sword.”

Maddox rolled his eyes. “You keep saying that shit, like the gestalt is a bad thing for both of us. I’ve never been such a badass in either of my lives since the Long Night. I’m
effective
now. And he has the rest of eternity to get himself right in the head. I don’t understand why you’re pushing so hard.”

Heath tilted his head back and sighed. “I don’t know how much time I have or if these remedies you concoct are even working. I have a suspicion that if I don’t make this happen, you’ll never let him go. He needs to make that decision when he’s not hurting so badly he doesn’t have a choice.”

“Since when are you so concerned about my vessels?” Maddox scoffed. “Kondole may have invested you with the power of a Stormlord, but that doesn’t make you a fucking saint. Wringing your hands over my temporary crisis of personal agency does not wash away the blood of the untold dozens whose choices you removed by
murdering them
to achieve your own objectives. Or the lies you tell people to get them to do your dirty work. At least I’m helping someone.”

Heath raised his hands. “You’re right. You and me—we’re bad people sometimes. I’m going to do some very terrible things to get the Grand Assembly to ratify an alliance with Thrycea. It’s why we’re here. But Maddox was never a murderer, and he’s going to have to live with the memory of the choices you make. Forever.”

Maddox frowned.

“The people you’ve taken before—they died when you separated. How well do you think Catherine would sleep after all the things we showed her? Humans are fragile, Sword, and one day that body might become the next Achelon with the power to enslave all of creation. Do you really want him to turn out like us?”

Maddox rubbed his temple and then sighed like a scolded child. “No. I suppose not.”

They stared at each other in silence for a while.

“You need me for any of this?” Maddox waved at the papers.

“No.”

“Good. I’m going to go get wasted.”

Heath sighed and returned to his papers as he heard Maddox clomp out and slam the door shut behind him.

Heath drew a lot of attention as he made his way through the streets. He was of Bamoran descent, which meant darker skin and, with it, an uncomfortable legacy of oppressing the lighter-skinned Turisians who made up half the city. He also had silver eyes, a hallmark of the Thrycean Stormlords, the sworn enemies of all the Protectorate stood for.

The people of Dessim were Omnitheists, believing in all gods as part of a collective Host. In Rivern, he had been transformed by the physical manifestation of the deity Kondole, the Father Whale, who was a peaceful representation of weather magic. The whale motif was currently in fashion, with representations of Kondole painted on colorful murals, whale medallions, and alcoves carved into walls like miniature altars. People either ran toward him to receive blessings or ran the other way.

Heath smiled and took it in stride as he made his way to the Guild of Correspondents. The building was a large open hall with a winding queue of people snaking their way to a panel of tellers at a long wooden counter. Behind them, seal mages in brown cloaks scribbled on sheets of paper at rows upon rows of writing desks. Off to the other side was a row of private numbered booths. Heath strode toward number thirteen and entered. It was a small coffin of a space, but it muffled the sounds of the hall.

A ginger-haired seal mage with a pimply complexion regarded Heath from behind a small desk, a mesh partition between them. Heath took a seat.

“Heath?” the seal mage asked.

“Yes. Jessa?”

The seal mage’s eyes fluttered closed. “I am Gantrick Bower. The mage of record on the other side is Edwin Turnbull. He is corresponding with Sireen. Are you ready to begin the pass through?”

Heath nodded. “I am.”

The mage sighed and rested his head for a moment. The change in demeanor was unsettling when he raised his head. The bookish scholar leaned forward seductively and twirled an imaginary strand of silver hair. “How’s the Mirrored City?”

“More ridiculous than I remember,” Heath said. “Where’s Jessa?”

“She’s breastfeeding so delegated me to this task. Besides, I’m going to be of more use to you. Have you made contact with the Inquisition?”

“What’s the passphrase?”

The scholar’s head tipped back as he laughed. “Mistrustful to the last. The passphrase is ‘new dawn.’ Satisfied?”

Heath crossed his arms, wondering if Turnbull was imitating the gesture on the other end. “How’s the baby doing?”

“Oh, Torin’s adorable. But lately the only way he can sleep through the night is to be submerged in a cauldron. It’s something Satryn apparently did to Jessa as a child. I can’t speak for my late sister’s parenting ethics, but it seems effective.”

Heath shrugged. “I met with Abbot Argus yesterday. He was none too pleased to see me, but he isn’t as powerful or treacherous as Daphne. He handed over information on the seven houses of Baash. They’re religious fanatics, Sireen. Their whole government basically comes down to one Patriarch, and he does not support an alliance.”

“Anything juicy in the Inquisition’s records?”

Heath made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “Not sure yet. Nothing screams blackmail if that’s what you’re asking.”

The scholar stroked his chin sensuously. Heath found it amusing to see Sireen’s fluid movements enacted by a gangly teenager.

“They present a unified front, but in any faction there is always tension. Look to those with the least prestige first, find out where they’re unhappy, and provide a solution. There have to be rivalries you can exploit. You should meet with everyone, especially those who would not meet you. That alone will raise suspicions.”

“So I should destabilize.”

“Exactly.” The scholar leaned forward. “You may have only recently become a Stormlord, but you take quickly to this. Create a crisis in leadership while providing an opportunity for one of the weaker houses to step forward. The real art will be getting them to trust that your interests align.”

Heath smiled. “I can be extremely persuasive.”

The scholar bit his lip and brushed his hand over his clavicle and down to a nonexistent bosom. “Mmmm. I’m sure. Let us know if you need anything from our end.”

“I will. And Sireen?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for your advice. You’ve been a revelation in this whole crisis.”

The scholar flipped his hand flirtatiously. “We both just want what’s best for my niece and her baby.”

“I’ll update you when something happens.”

“Likewise.” He blew Heath a kiss.

Then the scholar’s demeanor shifted back to his reserved, clerkish expression. “Magus Turnbull ended the correspondence.”

“Gantrick?” Heath asked.

“Um… yes?”

“I need your personal assurance that this discussion will be kept confidential.”

Gantrick pulled at the collar of his tunic. “Of course. The guild prides itself—”

Heath flashed a broad smile. “Scholar Bower, I know you’re working here to repay thousands of ducats in loans from the Magesterium for your education. On behalf of Empress Jessa I’d like to wipe your debt clean in exchange for your discretion.”

“I don’t know if I can accept that—”

Heath steepled his fingers. “The alternative is that I kill you. Ultimately, I will have your silence. I prefer to make threats a secondary motivation. It’s a more civilized way, don’t you agree?”

Gantrick nodded. “I understand completely… sir.”

“Thank you. The funds will be transferred in three weeks, you have my word,” Heath said as he walked out of the booth.

Sireen had given him a lot to think about.

T
HREE

The Salon of Forgotten Gods

M
ADDOX

Nizyai:
A woman in a brown frock with straight brown hair. The goddess of dogs; keeper of the kennel. Her offerings are animal bones, tossed sticks, and table scraps. Her favor grants kinship with dogs, the prevention of canine messes, and the health of dogs.

Tallius:
A man in black, holding a red quill. The god of brutal honesty; the unpleasant dinner guest. He can be invoked by making insulting remarks before a mirror bearing his inscription. If pleased, he will appear in dreams and tell his petitioner exactly what she does not wish to hear.

Whirling Angel, The:
A spinning woman with long white braids. A goddess of spinning in place; the dizzy mistress. She can hear the prayers of anyone whirling in place for several minutes. She sometimes answers.

Urineptune:
A golden merman riding a yellow wave. The god of male public urination; patron saint of the pee shy. His offerings are urine. His favor allows for the free flow of piss whilst others are watching. Answers frequently.

Dirt Creature, The:
A filthy thing no one likes but is older than all gods. God of dust; the god that will outlive everything. It accepts no offerings and is deaf to prayer. It is constantly intervening and nothing can stop this from happening.

—
SELECTED
EXCERPTS FROM THE
DICTIONARY OF DEMIURGES: VOLUME 3
, A SACRED TEXT FOR THE OMNITHEISTS

MADDOX HAD BEEN
in the city for only a week and had yet to find the truly perfect watering hole. The Backwash of Rivern was a squalid, dangerous district where people died on a regular basis. By every account it was a hellish place, but he missed the feeling of adventure and possibility. The Salon of Forgotten Gods was the closest thing he could find in terms of something out of the way that offered refuge to people just wanting to get sauced with a small hardcore group of crusty drunkards.

The bar took its name from the assortment of idols set around the place. They were archeological finds of possible religious significance. Until recent events, Kondole had been a fixture above the bar. But with his newfound popularity, that spot was occupied by a crudely carved round stone idol. The Sword’s memories guessed it was likely a slave god of the old Sarn empire. Slaves during the Second Era were bred in deep underground pens for magical experiments—they never learned language, but still, somehow they created their own religions.

“Hey, Titus,” Maddox said as he pulled up his barstool.

“Maddox. Bad day?” The bartender was a Patrean, with neck and arm tattoos denoting an impressive military service. He rarely spoke about his past or why he was running a bar instead of serving as Warmaster. Maddox had stopped asking.

“You ever have a person you cared about more than anything in the world, and then all they do is piss you off? And you just want to say, ‘Buddy, I would die for you, but I can also fucking kill you with no effort whatsoever.’”