The Universal Mirror (8 page)

He halted when he saw Quentin, hearing Felix’s breath hiss behind him.  His friend was sitting on the edge of the bed, the skin of his cheek mottled with a livid bruise.  It was lucky that the blow hadn’t broken his nose—from the blue and purple of his cheekbone, it had come close.  Yet Quent looked perfectly at ease, despite the swollen ligature marks at his wrists, swinging his bare feet lazily.

“You haven’t got any shoes,” Asahel said, feeling ridiculous after the words had come out of his mouth.

“You might try, why, Quentin, I’m so happy to see you,” he suggested with a grin.

“Maybe he’s not,” Felix snapped.

“Oh,” Quentin’s gaze turned into a glare as he caught sight of the man that Asahel had brought.  “Of all the people—well, it’s… a pleasure to see you, Felix.  Mud looks good on you.”

“And it should,” he retorted.  “There’s no mud on your hands, no, but no calluses either.

It’s a pity hard work never suited you.”  Felix’s eyes swept across the redhead, his mouth twisted in contempt.  “I assume that’s what got you here.”

“No, it’s not, as a matter of fact,” Quentin stood, his words clipped.

“What is it then?  Whoring?”

“If you—”

“Stop,” Asahel said.  He offered Quentin his hand, noticing that the other man was wavering on his feet.  Felix wrenched his head away in disgust.  “That’s not… we’ll not bother with this now.  Let’s see Quentin home, aye?  And the explanations come later.”  He noticed the way that Taggart was eying the three of them, like coins left on the street waiting to be picked up.  Whatever deal Quentin had struck, he knew it didn’t include the pair of them.

“Later,” Felix repeated.  It sounded like a threat, made more so by the look that he shot Quentin.

Quentin placed his weight against Asahel, resting his shoulder against the other man’s as they stepped out onto the street.  Felix followed behind, far enough away that the redhead could murmur to Asahel unheard.

“Why did you bring him, of all people?”

“I don’t know,” Asahel admitted.  “But he’s come and we’ve need of someone at our backs in this.”

“Which this?  The this where you snuck around like a rat and followed me when I’d asked you to come alone?  Or the this where you’ve decided that we ought to go and do the magic I suggested after all?”  He scowled.  “Because I don’t know where you stand, Asahel.” 

With you, Asahel thought.  I stand with you.

“I didn’t tell him what we’ve done,” he said instead.

“It’s a good thing.  He’d have it half over town by midday tomorrow.”  Asahel could feel Quentin’s body starting to drag as he paused, drawing a slow breath.  “At least he can get me to the door.  Catharine can see him.  You, she’d… it’s better not.”

Asahel said nothing, remembering instead how he’d felt when Felix had opened the door to him.  An invitation into a home of status—he hadn’t wanted to believe it was something that Quentin would never give but here was the proof of it.  He swallowed hard, simply nodding and supporting Quentin with a hand on the other man’s back. 

“Call him up here, will you?”  Quentin asked.  “I suppose I ought to make good with him if he’s going to watch my back.”

“I’ve got your back,” Asahel murmured.  “I always do.”

But he waved Felix forward anyhow, falling behind as the other man stepped forward.  He walked the rest of the way ten paces back, his head held low as he stumbled across the cobbles.  There was nothing to listen to but the sound of the rain as it began to fall, echoing the beat of his own good heart.

The Gredara manor was at the end of a long walkway, standing alone in its section of the city.  Walled gardens surrounded the house, the foremost wall covered in roses that had gone to thorn.  In the rain, Quentin’s home looked verdant, the greens so vibrant that the leaves shone even under the moonlight.

Asahel had walked away before they reached Talliser Row, the stretch of smooth stone that led to this place.  Quentin had noticed how his friend’s dark head had dropped near to his chest as he’d left, slinking away.  It had been too late for apologies then.

He was still thinking of Asahel’s bowed shoulders as he leaned on Felix’s arm, trying to do so with as little pressure as possible.  He didn’t want Carnicus to think that he liked him.

They stopped at the edge of the Row, the movement abrupt.  Felix pulled away quickly, as if Quentin was an insect he was trying to shake off.  The redhead blinked.

“That was low, what you did,” Felix said.

“What I did?”  Quentin was too tired to play at guessing games.  This felt uncomfortably like the dance they’d done at school with Felix sparring verbally in every classroom and in every hall.  Quentin hadn’t always lost then—he wasn’t sure he could manage the battle now.

“He’s your friend or he thinks that he is.”  Felix rested his hand on his sword hilt.  “And if he’s not, then you ought to tell him as much.  If he is… why isn’t he the one to see you here?”  His brown eyes pierced Quentin’s, glare sharp as a dagger trying to stab through his green irises.

“You aren’t one to tell me what to do.  Of us both, who was it in university who turned his back every time Laelius cornered—”

“I regret that.  But I’m not claiming his friendship.”

“You are, just by having this conversation,” Quentin spoke.  “And I’m the one he’s granted it to.”  The words hit home, he noticed.  There was something at stake here and again, he’d won it without knowing what it was.

“Make your own excuses.”  Felix’s heel scraped the walk as he turned.  Quentin took a step forward, his balance unsteady.  The other man looked back, watching as the redhead staggered towards him.  Felix hesitated, then shook his head. 

Quentin watched as Felix walked away from him, half-running.  He’s right, the man thought.  But that won’t make walking those last few steps easier.  His chest was throbbing as he shivered, rain still pelting down as he made his way to the front door.  It opened before he could lift a hand to knock, Cosimo offering him an arm to lean on as the door swung open.

“Come in before the morning’s light sees you.”

“Thank you, Cosimo,” he said.  He noticed how quickly the door was shut behind him and realized that Catharine was likely stirring overhead.  She had not spoken to him of the last night that he had spent away from home but it had not been long before.  “Is my wife awake?”

His manservant paused, then nodded.

“I think… it would be better not to see her just yet.”  His fingers touched his face and were answered by a second nod. 

“Sleep might be advisable, sir.”  Cosimo led him to his room, lighting a lamp just outside the door.  “Should I call for a physician?”  The old man remained impassive as he asked the question—he might have asked whether Quentin wanted a meal in the same tone of voice.  Quent looked down at his bloodied, bare feet, realizing that his face looked no better and shook his head.

“It’s better not, I think.  This looks worse than it is, Cosimo.”

“I’ll see that you have water then.”  He departed down the hallway as Quentin stepped inside.  It was moments later that he fell into bed, sleep taking him sooner than even he’d thought possible, heavy blankets sheltering his bruised skin.

Gentle tapping at his door awakened Quentin the next morning.  His room was already full of light despite the curtains that cloaked the windows.  It was a harsh, cold day, even for winter, and the sun was, he thought, no better.  Opening his eyelids only reminded him of how much his head still throbbed.

“Go away, Cosimo—” he cried out.  “I’m not hungry.”  His words didn’t cease the knocking.  It continued two raps after he’d spoken, then stopped.

Scowling, he stumbled out of bed.  His feet hit the floor, followed by a wince.  “Oh, alright then.  Come in and lay my clothes out at least.”  He expected the door to open but it did not.  “You’ve got the blasted keys—”  It swung wide then, a square-shouldered figure stepping inside and closing it behind her.

“You’re right.  I’d forgotten that I had them,” said Catharine.

“I… didn’t know it was you,” he apologized, scratching the back of his neck as he peered over at her, ruddy hair pointing in three different directions.  His breath hitched in his throat as it always did when she came to him, mouth dry and unable to manage another sentence.  He permitted himself a moment to look at her, focusing first on the pale curve of her neck, then the cascade of chestnut hair left loose to ripple down her back.  She cleared her throat and he forced his gaze away, knowing that Catharine hated it when he looked at her.

She didn’t comment.

“I didn’t plan to be gone last night—” he began.

“It’s not my business where you spend your nights,” Catharine said swiftly.  The sharp, short sound of her sentences shocked him.  He couldn’t help the grin that found his mouth, threatened though it was by her own answering look.

Quentin gave up.  “What is it then, Cat?”  She hated that too—her shoulders clenched at the simple endearment, making a tall woman taller still.

“We’re expected at the Gallows today, to see the Judgment.  There’s a Heretic who’s been sentenced, remember?”  She looked ill underneath her scars, red weals masking most of her fear but not all of it.  “I don’t know what he’s done but you did tell everyone at my father’s last ball that we were going.”

“I did,” he remembered glumly.  “I’d had a lot of wine by then.”

“It’s not that part they remember,” Catharine’s face went sour, her mouth puckering.  “Just the promise.”

“Of course,” Quentin sighed.  “Let me get dressed.”  He limped towards the wardrobe, opening it and staring at the racks of clothing inside.  She followed him, her skirts trailing the floor as she moved.  Catharine’s fingers plaited her hair as she walked, weaving it into a braid that made it easier to see her face, and he smiled as he looked over at her, thinking to himself that no other woman in Cercia flaunted her scars.

“I hate it when you smile at me like that.”

“Like what?”  he asked, pulling out one of the doublets that he hated most.  He never wore things that he liked to a Judgment—the memory of watching a magician punished always seemed to cling to the fabric itself.

“Like you’re so incredibly pleased with yourself.  You haven’t done anything—” Her eye turned critical and she amended, “That I know of.”  Her brow arched as he turned, holding up the yellow fabric against his cheek.  “That’s a horrible color.”

“It’s a horrible occasion.”  He leaned over slowly, stripping off his nightshirt and letting it fall onto the floor.  Catharine had turned away while he began undressing but she hadn’t left, something unusual for her.  In all of their months together, he’d never seen her fully undressed in full light.  It had seemed she was determined to award him the same courtesy, whether or not he desired it.

Quent stood there, clutching his nightshirt to his chest, as he waited to see if she’d turn.  His gaze fell on her dress, concentrating on the simplicity of its design as a way of focusing his mind.  She felt his look and her face turned, peeking over her shoulder, her cheek turning rose.

“What are you waiting for?”  She whispered, her brow wrinkling in confusion as her eyes dropped to the wadded fabric in one of his hands, the clean shirt in the other.  He stepped forward, sliding his hand across her waist.  He pulled her back into him, his hips meeting her waist.  The heat of Catharine’s slender body radiated into his own as Quentin pressed his lips against the back of her hair.

“You,” he said and he felt Catharine still.  Her entire body seemed to sigh.  He felt her fingers rest on his, the touch so light he could barely feel it.  It sent a shiver up his spine.

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” she lifted his fingers up one by one until he was no longer touching her, then stepped away.  Catharine’s braid had come undone, her brown hair wild around her cheeks as she looked at him, her expression frank.  “I’m not interested in trading spots with a whore.”  Her eyes were bright as she spoke and he saw that they were glistening as the morning’s light shone against her face, slipping in through a slight movement of the curtain.

“Catharine, I swear to you, that I haven’t been—that I would never—”

“Then where have you been?”  He could hear the hurt in her voice and it surprised him.  It matters so fiercely to her, Quentin thought, then—I matter.  “No.  Don’t tell me.  I don’t want to hear it.”  The woman strode through the door, not looking back.

“Catharine—” He tried one last time.

The door slammed.

They called it Judgment but as far as Quentin could tell, there was no justice being done at the Gallows.  The event had the aura of a late-summer carnival despite the chill of the season.  He could smell the galingale in the air, lightly sprinkled on the bread that peddlers were hawking.  It was a strangely sweet-sour smell, compounded by the sweat of the packed citizens that he and Catharine were moving past.  The energy of the people unnerved him.  Heresy was rarely committed and there was a blood-thrill in the swarm of men and woman who had come to witness the punishment.  Many of the men were people Quentin recognized from university, others from dances, but many more were strangers.  All of Cercia came out for a Judgment and it was all Quentin could do to keep sight of his wife as she slipped past him, walking further away from the Gallows.