The Mansion of Mirrors, page 21
“Sunni, listen to me. We’ve had you since you were two years old. I’ve raised you as my own, and I’ve seen the incredible things you’re capable of.”
“I have too,” Lisa interjects, remembering the promise she made to Elias. “And even though this is a lot for me as well, I trust you.”
“But I don’t want to be a guide,” Sunni says, burying his face in his hands. “And I don’t want to be trained by Erik. If I have to be trained, I want you to do it.”
Elias reaches out and gently runs his hand over the boy’s head.
“You remember Beaufort?” he asks.
Sunni says nothing, but he lifts his head and stares at his granddad, as though he’s afraid that the fever has finally short-circuited his brain.
“Good gods, that dog could drive me crazy sometimes,” Elias says. He smiles again, and for a brief moment, the glossy death mask fades, making him look like his old self. “Do you remember how it used to put on a show when Mary made soup?”
“Yeah, it whined,” Sunni says.
“Whined, you say?” Elias scoffs. “That wasn’t whining. It wailed and squawked like a group of sirens at high tide. And it never let up.”
“That’s not true. Grandma could get it to settle down when she brought out the green blanket.”
“Mmm, that’s true,” Elias admits. “You ever notice that she still puts that blanket out in the mudroom when she makes soup?”
Sunni nods.
“Do you know why she does that?”
The boy wipes his eyes and nods slowly.
“She says she can still hear it howling the moment the soup starts boiling.”
“Do you get what I’m trying to tell you?” Elias asks.
Sunni nods again.
53
Right on the other side of the mountains turns out to be a very generous interpretation. It’s a long walk, and by the time they reach the town that Starck spoke of, Michael and Lisa are on the brink of total exhaustion. They didn’t get much sleep last night, and the midday sun couldn’t care less about their water bottles having been empty for nearly two hours.
To make matters worse, the mountains have marked yet another dramatic shift in Urari’s ever-changing landscape. This time, it has reverted to a dry, desolate desert, and what few patches of yellowish vegetation are still in sight appear lifeless, caught between rocks and gravel.
The town—another generous description—turns out to be a small, horseshoe-shaped cluster of no more than thirty buildings. The entire area is enclosed by a metal fence, the kind you’d typically see around an outdoor sports court or a military base.
The first building they pass inside the fence is a stable. Next to it is a house that could very well be the farmer’s residence, and just beyond that is a long wooden building with a large porch—a tavern from the looks of it. The tables on the porch are covered with tablecloths that were probably once bright and colorful but have since faded under the relentless sun. Every now and then, the wind grabs them, making them flap against the table legs with the sound of flag ropes snapping in the breeze.
There aren’t many people on the street. Two older women stand together a couple of houses to the left of the tavern, chatting as they hang up laundry. A stern-looking elderly man watches Michael and Lisa from the steps of a closed barbershop, and half-hidden in the shadows behind an open gate, a group of young boys sits on the ground, rummaging through an old cardboard box.
In many ways, it feels as if time has stood still in this place. If not for the fence and the flatbed truck propped up on a stack of pallets to the right of the barn, this town could be the perfect backdrop for a classic Western movie. Even the obligatory well in the middle of the town square is there—a charming stone structure, covered by a small roof made of weathered wooden planks.
When Michael and Lisa spot the well, they stop in their tracks and exchange a brief glance, as if to confirm with each other that it’s not a mirage. Then, almost without him realizing it, Michael’s fingers loosen their grip on the gas can, letting it drop to the ground.
“Do you think it works?” Lisa asks, and before Michael can even start to answer, she takes off in a staggering run.
As she grips the handle of the well’s winch and starts to turn it, curiosity stirs among the town’s residents. The two women set down their laundry and move over to the picket fence in front of the house. The old man on the stairs adjusts his vest, takes a few steps down, and crosses his arms. In the windows behind the tavern’s porch, curtains are drawn aside, and a few pale faces emerge from the darkness—floating like disembodied heads.
Are we offending them? Michael thinks. Should we have asked for permission first?
Slowly, he walks over to Lisa, while discreetly studying the faces of the townspeople. He doesn’t see anything wrong with taking a bit of water from the well, but who knows what the norms are in a place where people go to the trouble of fencing in a town that’s smaller than the average FullCart shopping mall? Besides, the town is located in Urari, where all the rules are new to them.
Apparently, Lisa is starting to share his concern. At least, she suddenly looks incredibly self-conscious, standing there with the bucket in her hands and water droplets on her chin.
As Michael reaches her, she hesitantly hands him the bucket, both of them stealing glances at the older gentleman on the barbershop stairs.
Whether it’s his crossed arms, the unyielding expression, or something else is hard to say, but something gives Michael the sense that this man is the one who calls the shots around here.
After a few long seconds—where the wind seems to howl the way it always does before a shootout in a Western—the man offers them a brief nod. Then, hooking his thumbs into his belt, he strolls toward them.
“The water is free,” he says. “But if you’re hoping for a meal, you’ll have to pay. It’s been a tough year for the crops, and it’ll be three weeks before the next shipment comes in from Baixa.”
“That’s alright,” Michael replies. “Right now, we’re just grateful for a sip of water. But thanks.”
“Sure. If you change your minds, head on over to Dolores’ place.” He nods toward the tavern. “She doesn’t take too well to strangers, but if you pay upfront and mind your manners, she’ll do the same.”
The man’s lips curl into a smile, but the chuckle that escapes them sounds forced and ominous. Maybe even threatening.
“Water is just fine,” Michael repeats. “I’m Michael, by the way, and this is Lisa.”
Lisa smiles and extends her hand, but the man just stares at it blankly until she lets it drop back to her side.
Oh, it’s like that? Michael thinks. Seems the tavern lady isn’t the only one who doesn’t like strangers.
“Where are you headed?” the man asks.
“Soto.”
“On foot? That’s a long way.”
“We have a car, but we ran out of gas on the other side of the mountains. We were hoping—”
“Are you gonna cause me trouble?”
The question comes out of nowhere, leaving them both dumbstruck.
“Trouble? No, we—”
“You look like trouble,” the old man says, eyeing them up and down.
Michael looks down at himself—and suddenly, the man’s reluctance doesn’t seem strange at all. There are smudges of soot on his jeans, his forearms are scraped and bruised, and his shirt has a long tear on the left side—from when the giant grabbed him and hurled him through the rows of shelves at the gas station. Lisa doesn’t look much better, and he considers whether he would invite strangers into his home if they looked like this.
“It’s not our fault!” Lisa sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. “Ever since we got here, we’ve been shot at, attacked by psycho animals, and chased by a bunch of lunatics who either want to kidnap us or kill us!”
Michael nods and adds, “We’d be really grateful if you could help us get some fuel—and maybe even some painkillers for our friend, who’s badly injured. That’s all. No trouble.”
“And you’re not hiding any mirrors in that thing, are you?” the man asks, his tone so serious you’d think he was accusing them of smuggling weapons.
Except that mirrors are worse than guns, Michael thinks. In this world, they’re far worse.
“Because if you are—”
“No mirrors.”
“Good. The Devil’s Glass was banned in Pai two years ago when the war started, and we wanna make sure it stays that way. Especially with the stories going around these days.”
“Noted,” Michael says, while his mind lingers on the man’s choice of words—not the Devil’s Glass, that part is pretty self-explanatory, but the war? Starck described it as a political conflict. Is it actually an all-out war?
Starck is just using you for his own agenda, Crane’s voice whispers like a distant echo in the dry desert wind.
“Fuel, you say?” The old man rubs the back of his neck and coughs before gesturing toward the ground, where a wide trail of hoofprints forms a circle around the well. “As you can see, we’re more of a four-legged transportation people. Although if you’re lucky, there might be some left in the tank of the truck.”
He turns around and strolls casually toward the jacked-up flatbed truck they spotted when they entered the town.
“It belonged to an outsider who got stranded out here about six months ago. He said he’d send someone to pick it up, but we haven’t seen anyone yet.”
They were lucky. Not only did the abandoned truck still have fuel in its tank. The old man also found a rubber hose inside the barn that they could use to siphon it into their can.
As for medicine, the goddess of fortune wasn’t as generous. The closest they got to a painkiller for Elias is a grainy salve that one of the laundry-hanging women makes herself. That, and a small bottle of liquor.
These items now sit at the bottom of Lisa’s bag, along with two full water bottles.
“Looks like we’re just about ready,” Michael says, nodding toward the full gas can in his hand. “We really appreciate this.”
The elderly gentleman stares at them silently for a while, holding the same posture as when they arrived in town—thumbs hooked into his belt, eyes sharp and watchful. Then, for the first time, his lips curl into a genuine smile.
“That should be enough to get you to Soto,” he says. “Now you’d best get moving before Dolores catches wind that there are outsiders in town.”
Michael smiles and nods after which he and Lisa start walking back the way they came. However, they don’t get far before he stops again and turns around.
“One more thing,” he says. “The war you mentioned. You said you hear stories?”
“Probably just rumors,” the man says. “Often is out here. But word has it that Crane has found himself some empaths he intends to court.”
“Empaths?”
“People who carry the Devil’s Glass in their eyes. The ones who don’t need the mirrors.”
Lisa and Michael exchange a nervous glance.
“What does he need them for?”
“I don’t know . . . but surely nothing good. It goes without saying that it would be bad for all of us if someone carrying the mirrors’ abilities were to join Crane.”
“But there’s no reason to think that, is there? That the empaths would want to join him, I mean.”
“A noble thought,” the old man says, offering them a cryptic smile. “Also, a bit naive. Crane chooses his followers, not the other way around—and he can be very persuasive.”
He lowers his gaze, pausing in thought. When he looks up again, his eyes are narrowed.
“How are you sleeping at night these days?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the ones he’s after, aren’t you?”
“We really don’t know what you—” Lisa starts, but Michael raises his hand, stopping her.
“I should have known,” the man mutters, biting his lower lip. “You’re headed for the mansion, I reckon.”
Michael nods.
“You got help?”
“We have a guide with us.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“We really need to get moving,” Lisa says. She clearly doesn’t like Michael openly laying their cards on the table like this. But she’ll just have to deal with it—because this old man holds knowledge that Michael wants. And unlike Starck, he’s willing to share it without withholding details.
“There’s one thing I can’t make sense of,” Michael says. “Not long ago, we were attacked by a group of Crane’s men, but it seemed like they were only interested in me. If we’re both empaths, wouldn’t Lisa be just as important?”
“Divide and conquer,” the man says coldly. “That’s my guess. Empaths always come in pairs, and they’re strongest together. So, I’d wager he’s trying to separate you to make things easier for himself. He is known to be a manipulative bastard who stops at nothing to get what he wants.”
Michael hears the words and nods, but at the same time, he’s surprised to realize that he isn’t as outraged by Crane’s actions as he probably should be. Because no matter how he looks at it, he shares something with Crane. Both of them have felt the searing pain of losing a child. And though Michael isn’t proud of it, he carries some of the same anger. The one that drove Crane to set the world on fire. It’s always there, a flickering spark just beneath the surface. He can only pray it’ll never get enough air to ignite.
“He, um . . . he claims that my son is trapped in the mansion. My son, who . . . who I thought I lost in a car accident. Crane says he’s trapped in the Mansion of Mirrors.”
“Your son?” The old man whistles softly, staring at Michael for a long, timeless moment. “And what does your guide say?”
“That the chances are very slim . . . and that I should prepare for the worst.”
“I see,” the man says, nodding. “But when it comes down to it, that question isn’t meant for me or him.”
“It’s the mirror,” Michael sighs. “There’s a mirror waiting for me in there . . . a mirror with my son’s name on it, isn’t there?”
“We’ve all got one in there. Whether we like it or not.”
He makes a gesture in front of his chest, tracing what looks like an invisible circle with a vertical line running through it. What the divided circle is supposed to symbolize, Michael doesn’t know, but he guesses it’s the equivalent of Christians making the sign of the cross. However, this ritual ends quite differently. Instead of an amen, the man closes his eyes and murmurs:
“Fucking Devil’s Glass.”
“We couldn’t agree more,” Lisa says, shooting an impatient look at Michael, who answers with a nod.
“Yeah, we better get going. Thanks again for your help.”
The old man doesn’t reply—he just gives a courteous nod before strolling back toward the stairs where he was standing when they came into town.
Michael has a strong feeling that’s where he spends most of his time.
54
Tom is on the verge of exploding with anger. Not only did Crane force them to wait until the next morning to go after the crybaby’s crew; Tom also has to put up with sharing the back seat with Jack.
Ever since Petturi kicked the bucket, that snot-nosed brat has been parading around like a self-appointed king just waiting for his coronation. And now, the asshole has outdone himself—spending the last half hour with his upper body poking out of the car’s sunroof while he alternates between howling like a wolf and belting out songs to which he doesn’t even know the goddamn lyrics.
But that’s not even what pisses Tom off the most. What really sends him into a blind rage is the fly. The fly in Jack’s pants that he keeps rubbing against Tom’s shoulder—while that ridiculous smiley face on his T-shirt laughs at him.
I could take the glass shard out of my pocket, Tom thinks. I could pull it out right now and cut off his fucking ball sack.
He stares at the tiny black eyes on Mr. Smiley’s yellow face. They’re jumping and dancing in random patterns every time Jack moves.
What do you say? he asks the ever-grinning face in his mind. You think he’d do better as a castrato singer?
Now Jack spins around up there, bumping into Tom’s shoulder once again—this time with his hip.
Tom’s fingers find the glass shard in his pocket, caresses its edges.
One more time, he thinks. Do it one more fucking time.
Jack doesn’t. He does something much worse. He pulls his head down through the sunroof, glares at Tom, and says:
“Really, man? Give me some space here, alright? I’m flattered and all, but poop pushing isn’t really my thing. I’m more into chicks.”
And then he pouts his lips, making a duck face.
A fucking duck face.
Tom’s fingers grow warm and wet inside his pocket, and his vision is filled with tiny sparks as if someone had lit sparklers at his temples.
Without the slightest thought about the consequences of his actions, he pulls the glass shard from his pocket. He’s just about to stab when Hain unexpectedly slams on the brakes, bringing the car to such an abrupt stop that Tom’s head smacks into the seat in front of him.
“Jeez!” Tom roars. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Look there!” Hain says, pointing out the windshield. “I think we found them.”
“Seriously?” Jack sticks his head back up through the sunroof. “Damn, you’re right. It’s them!”
Tom leans in between the front seats. This time, he pays no attention to Jack’s crotch pressing against his ear.
He narrows his eyes. Yup, no doubt about it. That’s Starck’s blue station wagon parked up ahead where the road narrows before a mountain pass. And the slim figure standing beside it—definitely the girl. A little farther to the right, the others are making their way toward the vehicle. The little rice muncher is in the lead, followed by the crybaby, and closing the procession are Starck and the watchmaker that Tom shot in the back.
