The Slanted Worlds

by Catherine Fisher

  He gazed out at me. The blue lenses of his glasses hid his eyes, and that made him so difficult to read. But with dismay I became aware that he was not as devastated as I had hoped.

  So I said, “I am quite aware that you are using my séances as a cover for some fiendish device to trap me. Your men are continually watching my house. Really, it’s ridiculous.”

  He looked amused. “My men? You really don’t understand anything, do you?”

  I looked smug. “I have hidden all the evidence about my father’s device in a safe place. You will never find it.”

  He shook his head. Then he said in a voice as silky as poison, “Alicia, you are perhaps the most foolish old woman I have ever met.”

  I bristled. “Well, I’m not the one in the cage,” I snapped.

  “Ah yes. The cage. So may I ask what you intend to do with me?” he asked softly.

  In truth, I had no idea. We had expected David, or Jake. We had expected to be able to demand the bracelet in exchange for their release. But I merely shrugged. “I have my plans,” I said, deadpan.

  His smile was fixed. “Indeed. Well, so do I, madam. And here they come.”

  The mirror hummed. I leaped to my feet and stood well back, hastily grabbing the remaining china dog and hugging it to my bosom.

  The whole room seemed to collapse. A terrifying vacuum opened deep in the heart of the mirror.

  My hair was torn from its pins, my skirts snatched and whirled, my very soul enticed. And I saw, for one appalling second, the blackness that lies at the heart of the universe.

  Maskelyne turned the pages of Sarah’s diary with his long fingers, reading silently. Behind him, Piers fidgeted impatiently against the table. “So you see? She’s been in contact with Janus all this time! And it says children. What children? Those replicants?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Well, we know what to do about that.” Piers fished a great bunch of keys out of his striped waistcoat and hurried to a small wall safe. Opening it, he brought out a cellophane-covered package and carried it carefully back. Maskelyne, hearing the rustle of the plastic being unwrapped, looked up.

  Piers was holding the glass gun that could kill replicants.

  “That’s mine,” Maskelyne said at once. He put the book down and took the weapon firmly from the little man’s nervous grip. “Don’t handle it unless you need to. It’s a very dangerous thing.”

  Piers made an odd grimace. “Don’t want to. It makes my skin itch.” He sidled closer, watching Maskelyne check the weapon, slide open a panel in it, adjust a small glowing dial in there. “Is it still working?”

  “Yes.”

  Piers shivered. “Good. Because something tells me we’re going to need it.”

  Outside, the crack and slither of earth seemed to shudder through the damp walls.

  Maskelyne placed the gun carefully on the table. “Listen to me, Piers. From what Sarah writes here, these replicants have appeared to Jake. Been targeting Jake, I would say. Janus has been implanting prophecies in his ear—only too easy to do, if you come from the far future.”

  Piers crowded closer. “What prophesies?”

  “The Black Fox will release you was the first. That came true. Then The Man with the Eyes of a Crow.” He frowned. “Given the dates on the mirror, I have an idea what that may be. But what is this Box of Red Brocade? It contains something vital, that’s clear. Something Janus wants and can’t get, so he needs Sarah to get it for him. Therefore something she desires.” He looked up.

  Piers stared back, eyes wide. “The Zeus coin! Yes, but Janus can reach anywhere in time. If he knows where it is, why not get it himself and . . .”

  Maskelyne began pacing, a lean, dark figure in the gloomy lab, lifting a hand. “Stop talking, and just think about it. The coin—if reassembled—will destroy the mirror. Janus doesn’t want that, so he needs to keep the two pieces safe and apart. Who knows, maybe he’s got the left side himself. The box must hold the right half of the coin, the piece Sarah gave to Summer. That must mean it’s in the only place, the only dimension Janus cannot access. And it needs to stay there.”

  They looked at each other across the malachite labyrinth.

  “The Summerland,” Piers said gloomy.

  “The Summerland.” Maskelyne stood in front of the mirror, gazing at its blackness. “That’s where it is. That’s where it’s safe. If Sarah brings it out . . . that’s exactly what Janus wants.”

  For a moment they were silent. Then Piers said, “What about you. You don’t want that either.”

  “No. I don’t.” Maskelyne put the gun on the table and they stared at each other over it.

  “Venn needs to know,” he said.

  Sarah turned and saw Wharton slide through the door and shut it with a gasp. He smiled at her.

  “Sarah! Thank heavens!”

  She stared. “George? What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Good question! Venn came after you and I came because . . . well, I was worried about you.” He turned and stared at the smooth white wall behind him. “What happened to the door? What is this place? What the hell is going on?”

  “I wouldn’t trust him,” the bird breathed softly in her pocket. “Ask him a question only he knows the answer to.”

  Sarah sat on a cushioned sofa. “We seem to be trapped in Summer’s house of mysteries. When you met me at the British Museum, George, what sandwiches did you buy me?”

  He stared at her as if she had gone out of her head. “Good Lord, Sarah, how am I expected to remember that? And what on earth does it . . .”

  “Just try.”

  Annoyed, he blew out his cheeks. “Egg? Definitely egg. Egg and cucumber.”

  She smiled.

  “Was that some sort of password?” He came forward, light on his feet. “Sarah, we have to get out of here, we have to find Venn and Gideon. Why on earth did you come here anyway? What are you looking for?”

  “Don’t say.” The bird’s words were less than a breath on the air, but Wharton tipped his head instantly. “What was that? Did you hear something?”

  “No. So you want to know why I’m here? Why not make Gideon tell you?”

  “Gideon?” he gazed around, baffled. “I left him with Venn. What . . . ?”

  “No wonder you’re puzzled.” Sarah stood, wandering along the row of sumptuous sculptures, her feet sinking into the deep carpet. “You don’t know what would make me come so deep into the Shee country, do you? What could be so important. That’s what worries you. That’s what’s tormenting you. Because you’re not Wharton at all, are you. You’re Summer.”

  George Wharton giggled.

  Then he began unraveling before her, his arms becoming slim and white, his boots shriveling to bare feet, his coat blanching to a turquoise-and-purple feathery dress with panels of lace. For a moment he was a patchwork being, part man, part woman, inhuman, un-Shee. Then he was Summer, and she was throwing herself full length on the sofa and giggling with glee.

  “Oh your face, Sarah! And I thought I was doing so well! Such fun! Tell me, what did I get wrong?”

  Sarah felt only a weary irritation. “If you must know, it was the cucumber.”

  “Really! Your mortal food is all very confusing, I really don’t know why you bother about it at all.” Summer stretched bare toes and pointed them. “So, do you like my house, Sarah?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s a cobwebby, dark, damp hovel. Sometimes a cave under the sea or a temple on a hot green island. It can be anything I want it to be.”

  Sarah kept her hand on the box in her pocket. “It must be boring. Always changing, always staying the same.”

  For a moment she was scared; a sliver of venom crossed Summer’s face. She said, “Oh I’m never bored, Sarah. Now. You have someth
ing of mine. I want it back.” She held out her hand.

  Sarah was calm. She had rarely felt so alert, her mind sparking with plots and lies. It was like the day they had broken through all the wire fences and electrified corridors into Janus’s lab and entered the mirror, not caring if they were caught; the sheer audaciousness of it exhilarated her. She took the box and held it out to Summer. “I came for this. The prophecies told Jake about it, and I came to find it, because I thought it would help me defeat Janus. But I can’t reach what’s inside it.”

  Summer raised a perfect eyebrow. She snatched the box and opened it and the bird unfurled itself, preened a green feather, and uttered a burst of tuneful song. Summer laughed. “You! I had forgotten all about you!” She extended a white finger and the bird hopped from its perch and gripped on, a tiny thing of string and feathers.

  Summer glanced in at the bottomless abyss of stars and treasure. “Is everything in there? All my lovely things? Nothing missing?”

  The bird slid a sidelong look at Sarah. She held her breath.

  It would betray her. Surely. The Shee could never be trusted.

  It said, “Gold and gems. Diamonds and dewdrops. Rubies and robins. Marcasites and the moon. Everything is here that should be here.”

  Summer looked into the depths of the box. She gazed a long moment, as if she could see all that it contained, and in that instant Sarah’s heart almost failed her, because the powers of the faery queen must be immeasurable. But the bird winked at her and she tried to hold hope like a bright flame in her mind.

  “Well.” With a flick of her fingers, Summer snatched the bird, tossed it in, and snapped down the lid. “My box won’t help you against Janus. And trespassers in my house need to be punished.” She lifted her head and pointed a fine fingernail. “As you see.”

  And Sarah saw Wharton.

  He was frozen, mid-step, in a cell of glass. It slid and protruded into the room like a great ice cube. His face was hard, caught in panic.

  “What have you done to him!” She ran to touch him, but her hands slid only on a flat cold surface.

  “I’ve stopped him.” Summer came and stood by her, gazing critically. “How very ugly some of these mortals are, Sarah. Such ungainly animals. Wrinkled and heavy and weighed down by the world. Not Venn, of course. Venn is a sleek white leopard. Fierce and adorable.”

  “Let him go.” Sarah’s voice was a growl. Wharton’s face, caught in this rictus of ridiculous surprise, annoyed and upset her. She felt humiliated for him. “I’m the one you should be punishing.”

  Summer smiled. “Well, yes. That’s true.”

  She did nothing, but the glass suddenly slithered down and became four silver-haired Shee in white satin coats who hauled Wharton by the arms and legs into the room. He came alive like a fury, struggling and swearing terrible army oaths as they threw him down before Summer.

  He landed on hands and knees.

  Then he saw Sarah.

  His astonished relief made her smile. But as their eyes met, she knew he had realized what she was here for, and his relief became wary and cold, and she felt a sudden, unexpected pang.

  Of something that might have been shame.

  Don’t betray me! she thought.

  Don’t.

  23

  Once—before he met his wife—I asked Venn what he loved best in the world.

  “Freedom,” he said.

  After Katra Simba, after he was married, I asked him again.

  He looked away into the distance. “Leave me alone, Jean,” he said. “You know the answer now.”

  Jean Lamartine, The Strange Life of Oberon Venn

  “DON’T HURT HIM. He’s my son.”

  Jake felt il signore’s surprise jerk the knife tighter. He tried not to breathe.

  “Your son, dottore?”

  “Yes. Come from England, as he says.”

  “I do not believe the lies of devils. I saw the girl vanish. Through that black portal of hell.” The warlord backed, dragging Jake away from the mirror. It leaned like a slant of darkness in the hot room. Flies buzzed in the window.

  “Listen to me.” David took a step forward. “You know me. I’ve served you now for four years. I delivered your children. I bound your wound after the battle with the Sienese and nursed you through the fever it brought. I saved your life.”

  No answer. The grip just as tight. Jake made himself hold still. Sweat soaked his forehead. He tried not even to swallow.

  “If that’s not enough, I have something to give in exchange,” David said. “Something of great power. Only you should know of it.”

  In the silence a cry rose from far off in the city. A woman’s scream of grief. It rang in the sweltering, shuttered streets. In the pitiless blue sky.

  “Do you hear that?” David said softly. “Signore, that is the city crying out to you. That is the cry of death itself.”

  For a second, nothing. Then the warlord turned his hawk profile on the guards. “You men. Outside! Allow no one in unless I call.”

  They obeyed him without question, though one glanced back, catching Jake’s eye with a murderous glare. The door latch clattered behind them.

  “Speak.” Il signore turned the knife against Jake’s neck. “And be quick.”

  David said, “Give me my son and let us both go in safety. We’re no threat to you. In return I will give you this.” He took the vial from the folds of his robe and held it up. The amber substance it held gleamed in the slant of sunlight.

  “Some sorcery.”

  “Not sorcery. This is medicine. It may cure the plague. There is enough in this flask for you and your family, should you need it. No more exists, not in the whole of this world.”

  In the obsidian mirror Jake watched the warlord’s face. Perhaps the dark glass magnified emotion, revealed its intensity, because he was sure he saw the man’s eyes narrow with greed.

  Jake tried to pull away. The knife blade, sharp as a razor, jabbed into his skin.

  “How can I believe this?” Il signore’s voice was a rasp of doubt.

  “You have no choice.”

  “No? I could have your son thrown into a pest-pit. Infected with the plague. To see if you can cure him.”

  “Take him and I smash the vial to pieces. Shall I do that now?” David held it high. “Because hear this, signore. I am no demon, but a man who has scryed into the future of the world, and I know about this pestilence. You think it’s bad now. It hasn’t even begun. It will sweep Europe like a black rain. Men will die in the fields, at the table, men will drop dead in the counting-house and the church. Their bodies will lie unburied, heaped in the streets, and even the rats won’t touch them. Two out of every three will die, kings and princes and dukes as well as peasants. Your citizens will be decimated, your army reduced to a clatter of empty armor. Trust me, signore. This is horror. This is the truth.”

  His urgency hung in the air like the murmured echo of his words in the high ceiling.

  Sweat ran in Jake’s eyes.

  Il signore did not move. Jake felt the heat of the man’s body in the strangling arm as he said, “Go where?”

  “Into the mirror. Back to the place we came from.”

  “To England? Or to hell?”

  “This is hell. Seeing our children die is hell. Unless we help each other. I’m not offering you damnation, Piero. I’m offering you life.”

  The vial caught the sunlight. It gleamed red now, red as blood, a warm comfort in the dim room.

  The warlord moved, in sudden, powerful, decision. He forced Jake forward. “Very well. Put the flask on the floor and step back from it.”

  “No.” David held the man with a steady gaze. “First you must release Jake.”

  They faced each other. Pinned between them Jake felt the struggle of their mutual defiance. He dared not move now, because th
e knife was a razor’s edge between life and a sudden, slashing death. He kept his eyes on his father. His belief was fierce and blind.

  Suddenly he was shoved forward, a violent release that sent him sprawling against David. With the lithe speed of a snake, il signore snatched the vial and thrust it deep in his own robes and without even pausing lifted the knife and stabbed.

  “Demon!” he snarled.

  Caught in astonishment, David froze. The blade whistled; Jake hauled him aside with a great yell and grabbed the warlord’s arm.

  He was flung away like a rag. Something red and scorching ripped down his shoulder, his side, then David had hold of him and they were falling backward, back and back, into the exploding, enfolding embrace of the mirror, and the last thing he saw before darkness was the warlord on his hands and knees, staring dumbfounded at the opening in the wall of his world.

  Rebecca burst out of the dark tunnel of the mirror with a scream of terror, straight into a mass of malachite-green webbing.

  Crushed against her ribs, the baby screamed too.

  The webbing caught her like a fly in a trap. Its mass of sticky threads bounced with the shock.

  She picked herself out of it, breathless and confused. She felt as if she had been torn apart and reassembled and that all the pieces were in the wrong places.

  “Maskelyne? Piers?”

  The laboratory was empty. Strangely dark. Small lights winked on the monitors. Her breath smoked in the damp air. “Where are you?”

  The chill silence unnerved her. She stood, turned, gasped in a deep breath. The mirror reflected her bedraggled anxiety. And where was Jake? Why hadn’t he followed?

  The baby cried again. She unwrapped the small heavy bundle and uncovered a white face that contorted itself in misery.

  “Sshh,” she breathed.

  The Abbey seemed more silent than she had ever known it, and the lab darker. There was something else wrong, a new stench of damp and decay.

  Something slithered and fell.

  She turned in terror, her heart thudding.

  The far wall, a dark patched surface of medieval brick, was bowing, swelling outward into the room. As she watched, a brick cracked, a patch of plaster fell off, as if some great unstoppable force was building up behind there, the whole weight of the hillside forcing its way in.