by John Marco
Mirage wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘No,’ she tried.
The man sighed. ‘I’m sorry. The war?’
‘Yes, the war,’ Mirage feigned, not really remembering her old conversation with the man.
‘You have family here?’
‘What’s with the questions?’ Chane barked.
The proprietor backed off. ‘Sorry,’ he offered, then left them alone again. Chane picked up his tankard and began to drink, not taking a breath until the mug was halfway done. Mirage watched in awe of his capacity, sure that something irritated him. Across the room, a pair of prostitutes were laughing as they sat on a patrons lap, his hands around their waists. Chane stared at the trio, simmering.
When the inn-keeper returned, he had two plates with him, both piled high with steaming food. He set them down with a proud smile, setting off a memory in Mirage about how good the cooking was at this little tavern. Her mouth began to water at the sight of it.
‘Another beer,’ croaked Chane, pushing out his tankard. ‘And when you see me empty, don’t make me wait.’
His bad mood curbed Mirage’s appetite. With all that she already had on her mind, trying to figure out her brooding companion was an unwanted chore. Chane didn’t help her unravel the riddle, either, stabbing at his food with his fork and filling his mouth with beef and potatoes so that he could barely grunt, much less carry on a conversation. And each time he swallowed he washed it all down with mouthfuls of beer, keeping the surprised inn-keeper busy with refills. Mirage ate slowly, picking lady-like at her meal, watching Chane suspiciously. He would be drunk tonight, and that unnerved her. In all their time together she had never seen him drink.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she finally asked. ‘Why are you drinking so much?’
He didn’t answer her, but shrugged as if the question was of no importance. Mirage returned to her meal, eating more quickly now, eager to be away from him. When she had her fill she pushed aside her plate and rose from her chair. Chane looked up at her, surprised.
‘Where you going?’
‘Up to the room,’ she replied.
‘Already?’
The proprietor, seeing her rise, hurried over to the table. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ said Mirage. ‘I’m just tired. Could you take me upstairs now?’
Eager to please, the little man pulled out her chair. ‘This way,’ he directed, then took her by the arm and led her from the table. Mirage looked over her shoulder at Chane’s sour face, refusing to explain herself.
Mirage was asleep by the time Chane came upstairs. She had no idea how much time had passed, but her head was thick with slumber and her eyes struggled to open when she heard the door open. Corvalos Chane stood in the threshold, wavering, watching her. Mirage sat up slowly, remembering her worries.
‘Close the door,’ she directed softly.
Chane’s mouth was open a little. He stepped inside and closed the door clumsily. He was more than just a little drunk, confirming her worst fears. Mirage prepared herself, unsure what he was like when he’d been drinking. With that in mind, she hadn’t even taken off her boots.
‘Lay down,’ she told him. ‘You need sleep.’
There were two beds in the room, and very little else. Chane eyed his own bed miserably, but did not move toward it. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, he looked ghostly and sad.
‘I was downstairs, watching the girls,’ he told her. His voice slurred badly.
Mirage braced herself. ‘Who? The prostitutes?’
‘The harlots, yes.’ He stepped closer to her bed, his expression shifting in the meagre light. ‘You were wrong about what you said. You weren’t a plaything, Mirage. You were special to the king. You were special . . .’
‘All right, yes,’ said Mirage easily. ‘There’s your bed . . . go to sleep now.’
Chane hovered, not moving. He stared, his eyes bloodshot. ‘I can’t have any of them, do you know that? I can’t have a woman. I’m the king’s man.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Mirage smiled, not encouragingly but calmly. ‘But you can have a woman if you want. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘I don’t want one of those whores,’ he growled. ‘I want a special woman. Someone like you.’
Mirage put up her hands. ‘Uh, no, that’s not what you want,’ she warned. ‘Remember Raxor.’
‘I remember Raxor. I think of him all the time. I think of what your precious Baron Glass did to him.’ Chane’s face twisted. ‘What are you going to do when you go to him? Will you be his lover?’
‘You’re drunk,’ said Mirage. ‘You need to sleep.’
‘You’re afraid of me,’ slurred Chane. His breathing grew heavy, as though he had climbed a mountain. ‘Everyone’s afraid of me . . .’
He staggered closer to her bed. Mirage jumped out of it. They faced each other, the stench of beer striking her face. Somehow, she was not afraid of him now. Standing drunk before her, shoulders slumped, he simply looked pitiful.
‘I always cared for you,’ he whispered. Then he put a finger to his lips. ‘But hush . . . don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell Raxor, right? I love him. I do.’
‘I know you do,’ said Mirage gently. And suddenly she understood. She reached out and took his hand. Amazingly, he succumbed to her touch, walking like a small boy to his waiting bed. ‘Go to sleep now, Corvalos.’
Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he looked up at her and chuckled. ‘You don’t call me that. You don’t call me Corvalos.’
‘Yes, well tonight is different. Go to sleep now.’
‘No . . . you won’t be here when I wake up.’
Mirage smiled sadly at him. ‘That’s right.’
‘Don’t be afraid of me,’ he sighed. ‘I never wanted you to be afraid of me.’
‘All right,’ she said gently, and with a light push sent him falling into the mattress. He collapsed, staring up at the ceiling, letting her pull off his big boots. Mirage placed the boots near the bedside, then gazed down at him. His eyes were already closed. ‘Good-night, Corvalos,’ she said sweetly.
Then, grabbing up her things from the room, she left the tiny chamber to go in search of Baron Glass.
42
Of all the damage that had been done to the great library, Baron Glass had never considered the loss of the books until now. Sitting on the floor with stacks of books surrounding him, he poked through the volumes one by one, blowing the dust from the texts and mourning the scars that had savaged them. The thorough bombardment from the Norvan catapults had collapsed whole sections of the library’s roof, bringing rock raining down on thousands of precious manuscripts. Baron Glass, alone in the light of a single torch, paged through the books with regret.
In the days of King Akeela, while the baron himself endured exile in Norvor, scholars from across the world had come to Koth, filling the shelves of the library with significant works. The place groaned with them, fat, dusty tomes teeming with forgotten knowledge, the kind of books only learned men could understand. Figgis, the head librarian, had done a remarkable job with the collection, making it the envy of kings, and Akeela himself had opened the library to all, his great gift to the ignorant masses. Baron Glass had never understood Akeela’s obsession with the library, but now, as he sat among the countless piles, he glimpsed an insight into his foe’s strange passion.
Thorin had been at it for hours now, letting the sun set and all the workmen return to their families. The deep of night was always the best time for Thorin, when he could come and be alone in the library, undisturbed by the noise of hammers and chisels. Most nights Thorin toiled over the machine. Tonight, however, his mission was different. He had reasoned that the machine was nothing more than a catalogue, listing all the books – and all the knowledge – the library held. And if he could not get the machine to work – which he could not – then perhaps the books themselves would hold the answer.
And ye
t, Thorin had been sidetracked in his quest. For the first two hours he has diligently looked for references to the Akari, any small bit that might help him find the location of Kahldris’ hated brother. The search had been fruitless, but then Thorin had stumbled upon this sad little reading room. Overhead, the collapsed roof had been repaired, but all the books had been shaken from the shelves, strewn lovelessly across the dirty floor. Hundreds of them.
Such was the sin of Rodrik Varl, who had ordered the library attacked. An act of mercy, Varl had claimed, a way of convincing the defenders inside that they would never stand against the army arrayed against them. True, Varl had acted selflessly. The Black Baron accepted that now. But in so doing he had damaged so much, taking away the very thing that made Koth great. Thorin had spent months and more than a fortune rebuilding the library, but he had neglected the one thing for which people came for miles – the books.
Kahldris was quiet as Thorin read, skimming the pages of a book about warfare, an ironic choice amid all the destruction. Amazing, it was a book that Thorin had read before, many long years ago in his war college days. He still remembered the odd writing, the big, bold strokes of the monks who had toiled to copy them, each of them nearly identical. Over the years, Thorin had thought about the book, putting its tactics to use many times. As though he were just a friend looking over Thorin’s shoulder, Kahldris whispered invisibly in Thorin’s ear.
You won’t find what you’re looking for here.
Thorin shrugged the comment off. ‘Look at this – I was a boy when I last saw this!’
Useless.
‘Why?’
We are both Generals, Baron. We both know you cannot learn war from a book.
‘Oh, but the basics never change . . .’
Thorin continued thumbing through the manuscript, oblivious to the darkness swimming around him and the tug of sleep. Since merging with Kahldris, sleep was almost a thing of the past, but not completely. He marveled at how much he could do without the interruption of sleep, but he still got tired after long days, and the last week had been a miserable one. Jazana had left, riding off against his wishes to the Norvan border. She would return, she promised, and Thorin knew that she would. But he missed his emotional queen. In his zeal to unlock the secrets of the machine he had ignored his lover, and the damage he had done between them seemed irreparable sometimes. Still, Thorin kept on with his work, never explaining himself to Jazana or revealing the true reasons for his obsession. Jazana Carr was not a stupid woman, but matters of the spirit evaded her, and Thorin was sure she could never understand the intricacies of the Akari.
‘Your brother,’ Thorin started. ‘He was your younger, yes?’
Yes. We have been over this.
‘I forget. And after he left for the Serpent Kingdom . . . no one heard from him again?’
No.
There was a trace of sorrow in Kahldris’ tone, a stitch that had never been there before. Surprised, Thorin let it go, knowing how Kahldris hated prying. The Akari was free with information always. He had told Thorin everything he knew about his brother Malator, all the details of his betrayal. But when it came to his heart – if indeed the demon had a heart – he sealed it tight like a vault, hissing with anger when questioned about it.
‘It will take a year to find what we’re looking for in all this rubble,’ Thorin grumbled. ‘But until Gilwyn gets here we will try.’
Kahldris acknowledged this with a wave of gratitude, a warm feeling that blanketed Thorin’s mind. Thorin closed the book and set it aside, surveying the stacks of other manuscripts waiting for him. The history of the Akari – was it anywhere in the library? Had it ever been written? He had found books about the Jadori already – most of them filled with inaccuracies – but so far not one mention about Kahldris’ odd race. To Thorin, the task looked hopeless.
He stood, stretching like a lion, thinking of returning to his bed at the keep. He had lost track of time but knew that dusk had come hours ago. Outside the big glass windows, moonlight trickled through the sky. He turned toward the chamber door, then felt a stab of surprise from Kahldris.
Baron, said the demon suddenly. Someone is coming.
Thorin listened but heard no one. ‘Who?’
An Akari!
‘Akari? Gilwyn?’ asked Thorin hopefully.
Kahldris waited a moment. No. Thorin felt the spirit’s surprise. A woman. Surprise turned to pleasure. A very beautiful woman.
Mirage had made it as far as the old Chancellery Square before being stopped by Thorin’s soldiers. There, a trio of Norvan mercenaries on patrol spotted her on her horse trotting slowly toward Lionkeep. Unafraid, she declared herself a friend of Baron Glass, a woman with secrets from his past days in Jador, someone of importance who demanded to see him at once.
Impressed enough to listen, the Norvans who had captured her decided not to take any chances. Knowing their new king’s obsession with the library, they confiscated Mirage’s horse, allowing her to ride it to Library Hill while they controlled the reins, making their way slowly through the empty streets of Koth and finally up the winding road to the library. At first the Novans had been full of questions, but Mirage kept up her mysterious, demanding air, refusing to answer their many queries and threatening them with Thorin’s wrath if they did not take her to see him at once. Suitably afraid, the mercenaries did as she requested. As they crested the hill, the library loomed up darkly before them, its huge doors open like the mouth of a dragon. Two of the soldiers carried lamps as they rode, lighting he stony path. The library itself stood mostly dark, expect for a meagre string of candles illuminating its grand interior. Mirage peered through the fantastic portals as she dismounted, glimpsing the place she had heard too much about, weak-kneed as her feet touched the ground.
‘He’s inside?’ she asked. ‘You are sure?’
The only man without a lamp had been the one guiding her horse. His name was Gogin. He wore a golden tunic, taut over his ample chest, and green leggings of the kind the archers of Reec wore. If he was a Reecian, he didn’t say, but Mirage knew that Norvan mercenaries came from everywhere. Gogin got off his own horse, looking unhappy at the prospect of disturbing Baron Glass. She had promised him that the baron would be far less pleased with him if he had her wait until morning, but now he appeared to be struggling with that decision. His companions each dismounted, then stood looking at each other for direction. Surprisingly, they had all been polite to her, which pleased Mirage immensely after her awkward night with Corvalos Chane. In a way, she even pitied the trio. The stories she had heard about Thorin suddenly seemed all the more true.
‘All right, wait here, then,’ said Gogin, volunteering himself. ‘I’ll take her in myself.’
Relief shone on the faces of the others, both of whom nodded and said they would look after the horses, an act of kindness that impressed Gogin not at all. The mercenary in gold and green turned to Mirage and scowled.
‘He’s in here most every night, all by himself, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed, so if you’re not who you say you are be prepared. It won’t be me who kills you, lady, but the baron himself.’
Mirage scoffed. ‘I’m not afraid.’
Gogin frowned. ‘Because you’re one of them? A sorcerer?’
‘Believe it,’ Mirage threatened. ‘Take me to Thorin.’
Thorin’s name tripped off her tongue so easily she had no trouble convincing the soldiers of her friendship with the baron. Gogin shook off his trepidation as he headed for the entrance, waving Mirage to follow him. She had not given her name to the men, nor told them anything at all about herself. Amazingly, just her claim of friendship with Thorin had been enough. She followed Gogin through the giant doors, and all at once the soaring magnificence of the place dwarfed her.
‘Oh . . .’
She was a little girl again, looking up at everything because she was so small. Above her head reigned the cathedral, all vaults and frescoes, alive with the dancing lights of the candles on th
e wall. Ahead loomed the hall, wide and fabulous, pulsing with the echoes of her own rapt breath. Stately and wise looked the eyes of the scholars, depicted in paint and gazing down from their heavenly perch, watching the intruder who had awakened them. Like a pool of shimmering fire, the marble floor guided her forward, beckoning her down the puzzling hall.
‘Come on,’ whispered Gogin, annoyed. ‘He’ll be in the catalogue room.’
Mirage snapped back to reality. ‘What’s that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just follow me.’
He continued on as Mirage followed, deeper through the hall, the entrance falling back behind them. The columns along the way shrouded them with shadows, creating a maze of dimly lit alcoves and unseen hazards. Gogin, who clearly knew the way, ignored the frightful visages, walking quickly through the giant corridor. Then, like he’d hit a wall, he stopped. Mirage stopped behind him, focusing her eyes on the darkness ahead. She gasped when she saw the figure. Gogin stuttered a feckless greeting.
‘My lord, I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve brought this woman here. She says she knows you . . .’
The man in shadows held up a silencing hand. His eyes, the only thing truly visible, fell on Mirage like glowing jewels. Mirage felt all her bravado slip away under his withering gaze. Of all the tales she had heard of him, none had prepared her for the truth.
‘Thorin . . .’
Thorin Glass stood like a statue in the corridor, a terrible shadow of the man he had been. His left arm glistened, the living metal of the armour making flesh out of the air. His thin face, boney now and ripped with lines, grimaced like a mask, twisting when he saw her. His brow raised over his troubled eyes, filling with surprise. His mouth opened, but he did not speak. He simply watched her in amazement.
Mirage took a step toward him, trying to smile. Like a cancer, the Devil’s Armour had savaged him, but she warned off her pity, knowing he would read her in an instant.