The Mansion of Mirrors, page 24
“Can we even drive on that thing?” Lisa asks, pointing down at the bridge’s crossing path. It’s made up of a series of horizontal beams stretched between two railings of braided steel cables.
She glances at Starck and catches the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Not a fan of heights, huh?” he says.
“I just don’t think it looks very stable, and I’m not exactly eager to end up in the water while sitting in a car.”
“Just don’t look down,” Sunni says from the back seat.
“Thank you so much, oh wise sage, for your brilliant advice,” she says. “I’ll make sure not to look down when we plunge to our deaths. I feel much better now.”
She actually does feel a bit better. This is one of the only times since the mountain pass that Sunni, by his own initiative, has taken part in a conversation, and it gives her hope that he might be starting to feel a bit better.
Through the windshield, she sees two guards approaching the car. Since these two are closer than the ones stationed in the towers, she can make out a lot more details in their uniforms—and doing so stirs a sharp, aching sense of homesickness in her gut. They’re impressive and fit the surroundings well—that’s not the issue. It’s just that they’re so strange, so extremely different from the world she knows. Back home, outfits like that would belong at a Renaissance fair.
Shoulder plates.
Chainmail armor.
Helmets.
Costumes, she thinks. The kind Andy wears when he heads into the woods with his role-playing buddies.
The image of a bunch of nerdy boys running around the woods whacking each other with latex swords stirs a deep, and honestly unexpected, wave of longing. For the first time, she finds herself missing the school and her classmates even though she never really felt like she was part of the group.
And that, she tells herself, is one thing that’s going to change when she gets back home. She’s gonna be a part—a real part—of the group. Someone who gets secret notes from a friend slipped into her hand during class.
“Greetings!” a deep voice booms through the side window—and without even giving Starck a chance to respond, the guard it belongs to adds, “Errand and reason for entry in Soto?”
“We are here to request an audience with the Council of Guides,” Starck replies in a solemn tone that makes Lisa and Michael exchange a surprised glance.
“And the reason?”
“We bring news from Attica, near the northern perimeter.”
As he speaks, Starck slips his hand down behind the collar of his shirt. When it reappears, he’s holding the pendant of a necklace, which he turns toward the guard.
After studying it for a moment, the guard mutters a word Lisa doesn’t understand. To her, it sounds like a magic spell straight out of a nursery rhyme.
“Salamin,” Starck confirms.
“Passage granted,” the guard says. After that, he takes a few steps back and turns to face the other guards in the towers. Then he raises his arm and gives a wordless signal.
Lisa feels her stomach tighten as she follows his gaze and sees the guards lowering their rifles.
“Oh my,” Anton says. “They really stepped up security, huh?”
He sounds nervous, and for a brief moment, it runs through the back of Lisa’s mind that maybe he sounds too nervous. However, she lets the thought pass, telling herself it’s only natural to be a bit on edge after having been at the center of a handful of rifle sights.
60
For obvious reasons, Starck parks the car along the curb on a small side street once they’ve passed through the city wall. The uneven cobblestone streets aren’t suited for motor vehicles, and even if they were, getting around on foot would still be faster, since every street and alley is packed with people.
That Soto is a central trading city would immediately be clear to anyone, and the intricate network of canals that channels the waters of Abhainn through it means that the dominant trade commodity is fish. This fact is underscored by the countless stalls they pass as they make their way through the streets. Nearly every vendor has at least one salt tub filled with various kinds of seafood.
It’s also a large city—much larger than it seemed from the other side of the wall. It’s made up of clusters of timber-framed houses built closely together on a series of small islands, all separated by the canal network. To move between them, you have to cross one of the many stone bridges that connect the islands, completing the spiderweb-like pattern you’d see if you observed Soto from the mountains to the west.
“They completed the entire foundation first,” Starck says, answering the question Michael was about to ask. “Otherwise, it would’ve been impossible to create such precise symmetry.”
“How old is the city?”
“Well, as you know, time is a somewhat relative concept in Urari—you’ll understand all of that better when you get back to your own world—but it roughly lines up with the 13th century in your way of measuring things.”
“I swear, I’m never going to get used to how different it all is,” Lisa says.
“Yeah, about that,” Starck says, shaking his head slightly at the fourth fish vendor trying to wave them over. “There are a few things we need to talk about before we talk to the council. As you probably noticed when we crossed the bridge, there’s a certain code of conduct you have to follow when dealing with the aristocratic leadership here in Soto. A sort of etiquette, you might say.”
“Salamin.”
Starck raises his eyebrow and stares at Lisa, then gives her an approving nod.
“I’ll be the first to admit it feels old-fashioned and awkward. Nonetheless, it is what’s expected.”
“So, what you’re trying to say is that you’d like us to keep a low profile and let you do the talking,” Michael finishes for him.
Starck shrugs and runs his gaze across their faces, making sure everyone’s on the same page. Once he has gotten a nod from each of them, he turns to Sunni.
“You ready to show them what you got?”
“I think so.”
“I believe in you.” He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And so did Elias.”
Those are weighty words, and Michael wouldn’t have been surprised if they had made the boy break down in tears—but Sunni holds it together, answering with a solemn nod.
After letting go of the boy’s shoulder, Starck moves over to Anton, who has been walking some distance behind the rest of the group.
“And you’re aware that we’ll be going our separate ways soon? We can take you to the council’s headquarters, where they’ll probably house you with the other refugees from Attica. But after that, you’re on your own.”
“Of course,” Anton says, fiddling with a loose button on his shirt. “That was the deal. I almost can’t tell you how grateful I am that you chose to bring me along.”
“We’ll keep our fingers crossed that you’ll find your family,” Michael says.
“Certainly,” Starck agrees. “But who knows—maybe we’ll get the chance to meet them. If things go the way I’m hoping and the council is open to my proposal, we’ll need help from the refugees. In that case, this might not be the last time we see each other.”
61
Stepping into the huge, covered passage that serves as the entrance hall to the Council of Guides’ headquarters feels, in many ways, like entering a cathedral. Just moments ago, they were bombarded by the noise of street vendors and had to raise their voices just to be able to talk to each other. Now, as they walk along the wide river of light cast onto the marble floor by the overhead windows, even the sound of their footsteps echoes loudly through the space.
Beyond the sudden shift in acoustics, the Gothic architecture of the passage also calls to mind churches and cathedrals. It’s lined with towering arches, ribbed vaults, and columns. Marble and gold.
“We’re heading for the second floor,” Starck says, pointing toward a wide staircase that leads to a landing before splitting into two separate flights.
“It’s, um . . . really fancy in here,” Lisa says, glancing toward a fountain on the right side of the passage. Standing beside it are two men, deep in conversation. Both are dressed in formal suits, wearing them with the kind of solemn air that often comes with such attire.
As one of them catches Lisa looking at them, he shoots her a disapproving look that makes her glance down at herself, suddenly feeling very self-aware.
Starck must have picked up on this, because at the same moment he moves to her side, gently grabbing her elbow.
“Don’t even for a second think that you don’t belong here,” he says. “I’d like to see one of those snobs handle even a fraction of what you’ve been through.”
Lisa feels her cheeks flush. Not just because of the words, but because Starck is speaking to her with something that resembles fatherly pride. That’s something she hasn’t experienced in the past year—and, well, to be honest, not really before that either. Robert Swann was a lumberjack all his adult life, and when it came to expressing emotions, he was about as gifted as the trees he cut down. And on the rare occasions when he did show some warmth, it was always Emma who was on the receiving end. She was the one who got his attention, who went on fishing trips with him. She was his favorite daughter, while Lisa was just . . . there.
There is no jealousy, no bitterness in this thought. Maybe there ought to be, but for Lisa, it’s just a fact. Something to observe and acknowledge—nothing more.
“We turn here.”
She looks up and is surprised to realize that they’ve already reached the landing where the staircase splits in two directions. They take the path to the right, which leads up through a narrow corridor with small, open windows overlooking yet another street lined with market stalls.
When they reach the top, they step into a room that, for a brief moment, takes Lisa back to the foyer of Attica’s theater. The floor is covered in the same deep burgundy carpet as the theater, and in front of a reception desk in the center of the room are three metal posts topped with gold knobs. Strung between them is a velvet rope—just like the one they used to tie up Tom.
Behind the desk sits an older gentleman, writing in a small notebook. His writing tool, a fountain pen, dances back and forth across the paper, guided by skilled fingers. Every now and then, a wisp of silver hair slips down in front of his glasses and lingers there until he juts out his lower lip and blows it away.
The man is so deeply focused that he doesn’t even notice their presence—at least not until Starck puts his hand on the silver bell sitting on the countertop. The sharp ring jolts the man upright with a start, causing him to drop his fountain pen to the floor.
“Oh, would you look at that,” he mutters to himself, starting to bend down to retrieve the pen. However, he freezes halfway through the motion when he realizes who the rebellious bell-ringer is.
“Erik? I thought you’d retired.”
“Honestly, I kind of wish I had.”
“Yes, things haven’t exactly cooled down,” the man says, his gaze drifting over Starck’s companions. “Something tells me that’s not news to you.”
“Actually, that’s what brings us here.” Starck nods toward the large brass door behind the desk. “Is Bernard in?”
The man adjusts his glasses, pulling them down to the tip of his nose as he looks at Starck.
“He just got back from a meeting. But he is not in a good mood.”
“What else is new?”
The man pulls his lips into a smile, revealing a crooked set of tobacco-stained teeth.
“Shall I let him know you’re requesting a meeting?”
“Actually, I was hoping for a meeting with the full council. The sooner, the better.”
“The full council?” the man exclaims, his eyes resting on Starck for a moment before drifting back to Michael and Lisa. “Are they who I think they are?”
Starck nods.
“I’ll ask Bernard to assemble the council,” the man says, getting up from his chair. “Hopefully, he won’t bite my head off. He’s rarely very thrilled about short-notice meetings.”
“I owe you one,” Starck says. “There’s one more thing before you go, though.”
“I’m listening.”
“Can you help our friend here?” Starck asks, gesturing toward Anton. “We picked him up on the way here. He fled Attica when Crane attacked, and he’s hoping to request asylum, but he doesn’t know where to do it.”
“I most certainly can.”
The man turns to Anton, his expression shifting into something more formal—and when he speaks, it’s clear he’s now using his professional tone.
“It’s located in a separate building a few streets from here. I can have someone escort you there, if you’d like.”
“No, that isn’t necessary,” Anton replies, shaking his head.
“Are you sure? It really isn’t a problem.”
“Yeah, if you, um . . . if you just tell me where it is, I’ll find it. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”
“As you wish.”
The man bends down and disappears behind his desk for a moment. When he reemerges, he’s holding the fountain pen he dropped when Starck rang the bell.
“Would you at least allow me to sketch out the route for you?”
Anton smiles and gives a small nod.
62
It’s almost a shame. The chairman’s secretary put real effort into drawing the route on the sheet of paper he tore from his notebook—and the first thing Anton did once the door closed behind him was crumple it up and toss it out the window. Now he is standing in the narrow stairwell, feeling a slight pang of guilt as he watches the paper ball float along the canal that runs parallel to the street outside. It manages to drift about thirty feet before slipping under a stream of water from a drainpipe and sinking to the bottom.
But Anton really has no use for that piece of paper. He knows exactly where he’s going—and it certainly isn’t the refugee camp for those who fled Attica. Christ, he was partly responsible for sending them running in the first place, so his welcome probably wouldn’t be a warm one. Besides, the idea of facing them—and by extension, his own deeds—isn’t very appealing. After all, he’s not exactly proud of having played for the team that burns cities to the ground and tears families apart.
So no, Anton isn’t going to the refugee camp. He’s going downstairs. He’s going to find the room they use for the Guide Trials, and once he’s there, he’s going to do the thing that Crane asked him to do.
With that simple agenda in mind, he steps away from the window and heads down to the landing where he can get a better view of the passage that runs between the council’s buildings.
Standing there with both hands on the railing and an innocent expression on his face, he squints and scans the area. The light streaming in through the skylights reflects off the marble floor, casting a bronze-gold road down the center of the passage. It’s a stunning sight, but it also makes it hard for him to tell the doors on the opposite building apart.
From the corridor behind him, he hears muffled laughter, and it makes beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Starck and the others stayed behind with the secretary after he left, but they could come walking this way at any moment—and if they see Anton standing here, they’re bound to start asking questions. Moreover, he has about as much desire to face them right now as he has to join the refugees from Attica.
Anton has barely finished this thought before his eyes finally land on what he’s been looking for. A small, gilded door knocker shaped like a lion on the third door from the right. That’s the one Crane told him to look for.
He lets go of the railing and starts down the stairs, while, in his head, going through the next steps in the instructions Crane gave him.
In fact, he’s so focused on this that he doesn’t even notice the guard by the fountain, whose eyes are tracking him with growing curiosity.
The basement beneath the Council of Guides’ buildings is, just as Crane had warned him, a maze-like tangle of narrow corridors. The only sources of light are a series of oil lamps mounted on the walls at roughly thirty-foot intervals. From them comes a strong smell of kerosene that tightens Anton’s throat and intensifies the claustrophobia he’s lived with for as long as he can remember. The fact that the hallways seem to grow narrower the closer he gets to his destination doesn’t exactly help either.
Almost there, he tells himself. If you haven’t screwed up, the trial room should be at the end of the hallway behind that corner up ahead.
Somewhere behind him, he hears something that makes him twitch. It’s a faint sound, barely audible—but it’s enough to tell him he’s not alone down here in the gloomy maze.
He glances back over his shoulder. There’s no one in sight; but then again, the flickering light from the oil lamps is very weak, so he can’t be totally sure. Besides, his imagination insists that the massive shadow-pyramids cast on the walls between the lamps could be hiding all kinds of horrors.
With the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end—and with a very strong urge to run—he rounds the corner and covers the final stretch to the door.
In, do what you gotta do, and get out of this tomb as fast as possible, he thinks, pressing down the handle and pushing the door open. The sooner the better.
The room is much smaller than he expected. And worse, there’s far less stuff in it than he had imagined. He pictured a chamber filled with mysterious artifacts—scepters, altars, and whatever else might be part of the secret rituals of the guides. However, there’s nothing of the sort here. In the center is a round stone table with two matching chairs, and to the right of the door, there is a shelf built into the wall. A narrow, reddish-brown rug stretches across the floor in front of it, running from wall to wall. That’s all he has to work with. The shelf is even empty.
