For several seconds his ministrations had no obvious effect. Then, suddenly, one section of the ectoplasmic sculpture caught fire. The embryonic faces screamed, a faint piping barely audible above the crackle of the blaze, and an odor not unlike the stench of burning flesh suffused the air.
Three strands quickly burned away to nothing, leaving the rest of the structure unscathed. And as the cold flames finished consuming them, a circular window opened in the air.
Beyond it was a street of derelict bungalows, their crumbling facades and verandahs fissured with Nihils. A crescent moon shone among the tatters of cloud overhead. A pair of grievously wounded Legionnaires lay amid a litter of arrows, notched and broken swords, spent cartridges, and a fallen standard emblazoned with a fountain of liquid fire, one of the thirty-odd emblems of the Smiling Lord.
Potter leaned forward, trying to see more, but the window vanished.
"Is it working?" Demetrius asked. His normally mellifluous voice was a little rough, betraying a discomfort or strain his calm expression and easy movements denied.
"Yes," Potter said. "I saw a Haunt somewhere in the Shadowlands. There'd been a battle, and my troops lost it. Show me more."
"I'll try," Demetrius stroked the phosphorescent tendrils. Another piece of the construct exploded into flame, and a second window opened.
This time Potter beheld the Isle of Sorrows as if he were soaring high above it. From such an altitude, with only ochre lightning to illuminate the scene, it was hard to make anything out. The City of Dark Echoes was an intricate, bewildering mass of vague protrusions and myriad points of light. But after a moment he realized that one light looked peculiar. It was too large.
When he focused his attention on it, the window zoomed in like a camera until he seemed to be hovering fifty feet above: it. He saw that it was a great mass of barrow-fire, consuming his allotted section of the palace.
He cried out, and the window closed.
"What did you see this time?" Demetrius panted.
Potter gestured impatiently, brushing the question aside. They could talk later. "Show me more."
"As my lord commands." Demetrius ran his burning fingers along the remaining strands of glow. More of them flared and vanished.
This time Potter saw himself, stumbling through the corridors of his fortress, his. halberd clutched in his hands. Or rather, what was left of his halberd. Something had snapped the enchanted weapon midway down the shaft. What was even more horrifying was that some force had cleft the Smiling Lord's mask as: well. One half of the steel visor still clung to the left side of his face, but his right profile was exposed.
The figure in the vision stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and bellowed. Potter couldn't hear him, but he could read his lips. "Guards! Guards!"
After a moment, the beleaguered Deathlord's mouth twisted in despair. Because he doesn't hear anyone rushing to his aid, Potter thought. Impossible as it seems, there isn't anyone to come. Somehow, he's been betrayed.
The Potter in the vision hobbled on, until a ring of shadowy figures abruptly materialized around him. Snarling, their quarry whirled his broken weapon over his head, but never got a chance to use it. His enemies swarmed over him like wolves pulling down a fawn. Darksteel daggers flashed in their black-gloved hands.
The window snapped shut. "No!" Potter yelped. He glared at Demetrius. "More!"
"I'm sorry," Demetrius croaked, trembling. "There isn't any more." He motioned toward the luminous construct, and Potter saw that the last burst of barrow-fire had devoured all but a few wisps of it, and these were shriveling by the moment.
"There's a bit of plasm left," the Deathlord said. "Enough for one more effort." Demetrius hesitated. "Do it!"
"Very well." Looking as if he were struggling not to flinch, the Greek told hold of the last crumbling vestiges of his creation.
The final explosion was far more intense than those which had preceded it. The burst of terrible cold slammed Potter backward as if someone had clubbed him in the face. This time, no window opened. Instead, Demetrius fell down thrashing, his arms aflame from fingertips to elbows.
Potter leaped up and scrambled toward him. At the same time, clearly making a supreme effort, Demetrius rasped out another invocation. Despite the agony grating in his voice, the words of power seemed to resonate like the beats of a gong. The fires consuming his flesh winked out abruptly. So did the ones in the lamps along the walls, plunging the chamber into darkness. The Greek lay motionless.
Potter flung himself down beside his lieutenant, peering frantically, terrified that the man was about to melt away. At that moment, he felt that if Demetrius perished, his demise would leave him utterly friendless and alone.
But to his relief, there were no ripples of shadow eroding Demetrius's substance, not even within his charred and withered arms. After a moment, the Greek looked up at his master. "I think I see why that particular technique was abandoned," he whispered.
"I'm sorry," Potter said. "I shouldn't have goaded you onward when you knew it was time to stop."
"Please," said Demetrius, his voice a shade stronger, "don't say such things. I'm your servant. My only purpose is to obey you. It's for me to apologize, for bungling my task." A long, pale worm of ectoplasm wriggled down his forearm as his shriveled limbs began to heal. "If you could please move back, I'd like to try to get up. Marble floors are decorative, but they're also cold and hard."
"Of course." Potter helped Demetrius to his feet, put his arm around him, more or less carried him to the dais, and sat him down. "Is this better?"
"Yes," gasped Demetrius. Clearly, motion had aggravated the pain of his burns. "Thank you, my liege. May I ask what the divination showed you?"
"Nothing too alarming," Potter said sardonically. "Merely defeat, betrayal, and my own murder. But it was just like all the other visions. Incomplete. I still don't know which of the other Deathlords are plotting against me."
"Perhaps none of them is," Demetrius said. "Sometimes the shape of the future expresses itself symbolically—"
Potter gave him a withering stare.
"Forgive me," said the Greek. "I'm talking nonsense. The pain is making me lightheaded. Of course, when you see variations on the same horrible theme, time after time, when someone has already tried to slay you—"
"It was the same problem this time, wasn't it? You couldn't show me everything I need to know because you haven't seen my deathmarks. Because you don't really know who I am."
"Yes," said Demetrius. A shiny white burn on the back pf his wrist rippled and turned into dark, unblemished skin. "It's a technical problem. I'll keep searching for the solution."
"But what if you don't find it before the crisis comes?"
"I hope matters won't fall out that way. But even if they do, you still have Chiarmonte to gather intelligence by other methods."
"To the devil with Chiarmonte. He just admitted his spies can't discover anything." Potter took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I'm going to do it. I'm going to reveal myseit to you."
Demetrius's dark eyes widened. "I'm honored, Dread Lord, but are you certain? I'm merely one of countless functionaries:.. Why should I be entrusted with your greatest secret?"
"You just risked your life and got burned trying to help me," Potter said. "If I can't trust you, whom can I trust?" He lifted his hands to his visor, and then faltered.
Charon forbade this, he thought. He called it treason. And it will leave me vulnerable in a way that no Deathlord should ever be.
But the Emperor was gone. Why should his laws outlast him if they were no longer useful? And Potter was already vulnerable in the way that mattered most. Every hour of every day, he sensed his unknown enemies closing in for the kill.
Quickly, before he could change his mind, he yanked the mask away from the rest of his helmet. A bolt of panic ripped through his mind, and he shuddered. His naked skin tingled in the cool air.
After a moment, his terror loosened his grip. Ridiculously enough
, he now felt shy, flustered, as he had the first time he'd taken off his clothes in front of a woman. He looked at Demetrius. The Greek was trembling also, and had lowered his eyes.
For some reason, the other wraith's manifest anxiety made Potter feel calmer. "You have to look at me," he said wryly. "That's the whole point. I promise that no one is going to burst in and execute you for it. You probably won't even turn to stone."
Demetrius nodded and slowly lifted his head.
Potter envisioned the features his lieutenant was beholding. Straw-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Apple cheeks, a snub nose, and a rather weak chin. He smiled ruefully. "It's not nearly gj impressive as it ought to be, is it?"
"You died younger than I would have expected," Demetrius said, a hint of compassion in his tone, "I was fresh out of Eton, just beginning what was supposed to be a long and glorious career in Her Majesty's army," Potter said. "But I don't much regret dying young, not anymore. My true misfortune is that I died so recently. I was killed in the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857. Charon made me the Smiling Lord ten years later, even though I was only a Centurion in his service at the time. I don't know what happened to the old Smiling Lord, or why the Emperor chose me as a replacement. He wouldn't say.
"At first, it was terribly strange. I conducted myself as my mask prompted me, held myself aloof and mysterious, and even clever fellows like Montrose and Chiarmonte didn't notice the changeover. They treated me as if I were my predecessor, a demigod from the dawn of time, when in reality they'd inhabited the Underworld for centuries longer than I had."
"Even so, you were the Emperor's choice," Demetrius said, "and you've manage to carry out the duties of your office. Does the date of your ascension truly matter?"
"What matters is that I'm virtually certain that most if not all of the other Deathlords have been around since the beginning. They helped Charon build the city and expel the Fishers. They've had millennia to amass knowledge and arcane power. I've always thought that if they ever realized how recently I joined their company, they'd regard me as a contemptible upstart."
Potter grimaced. "Such reflections didn't trouble me too much as long as Charon was running the show and I was merely his deputy. But now I feel completely out of my depth!"
Demetrius climbed unsteadily to his feet and laid his burn-spotted hand on Potter's shoulder. "Don't despair, my lord. You've started down a new road tonight, and I promise that from now on, your existence is going to change."
Quivering with anger, Gayoso thrust his hand through the front of the desk drawer, grabbed the silver hand mirror, and snatched it out. Raising it to his face, he glared into it.
His own middle-aged countenance with its baggy eyes and curved, fleshy nose scowled back at him. His own features, and nothing more.
After a while, his angry expression wilted into one of puzzlement and dismay. Had the looking glass lost its magic?
Then, without warning, the handle of the mirror turned ice cold. His arm jerked at the chill. The reflection crossed its eyes and wiggled its ears. "Peek-a-boo," it said.
"Where have you been?" Gayoso demanded.
"You don't exactly look like a satisfied customer," the Shadow said. "I thought things might be pleasanter if I avoided you until your temper cooled down. Alas, it seems that I don't have the option. The djinn has to appear when you rub the lamp."
"If you were a djinn," Gayoso said bitterly, "you would have managed to grant your master's wish."
The Shadow lifted an eyebrow. "Do you mean that Montrose survived the surprise party we arranged for him?"
"You know damn well he did."
The Shadow sighed. "My dear twin. You don't comprehend my nature nearly as well as you suppose, so please don't make assumptions about what I know or don't know. Just answer my questions. It will make everything easier."
"Fine," Gayoso growled, "we'll do it your way. Yes, Montrose escaped along with half his men. He even won the battle, and he just returned to the Citadel."
"Did the Sister of Athena inform the gallant Marquess that you tried to help her destroy him?"
"Apparently not," Gayoso said grudgingly. "And it seems that for some reason he shipped the woman to Stygia immediately after the battle, so she's no longer available for questioning. Thank heaven for small favors."
"That particular benefaction isn't small at all," the reflection said. "It leaves you in the clear."
"Temporarily, yes. But Montrose will want to know why the intelligence I supplied him was faulty, why my troops failed to keep their rendezvous with his, and why the Heretics were so well-prepared for his arrival."
"As you yourself observed when we were hatching this scheme, the answer to the first two questions is simple bad luck and human error. And as for the third, well, how should you know?" The Shadow grinned. "Ah, those diabolical Heretics! Who can fathom their cunning ways?"
"I did cover my trail," Gayoso conceded. "I don't think Montrose can prove anything against me. But I'm certain he'll suspect. And if he was tempted to dispose of me before, he'll be an implacable enemy henceforth, while Shellabarger and Mrs. Duquesne will be only too happy to help him bring me down."
The Shadow nodded somberly. "I can't find any fault with your analysis. I suppose we should have let sleeping dogs lie."
Gayoso stared at the mirror in disbelief. '"Let sleeping dogs lie?' Is that all you have to say ?"
"We rolled the dice and lost. Such is the nature of existence." The Shadow smirked. "Let me know when I hit on a cliche you find comforting, and I'll expand on it."
"I don't want to hear you philosophize. I want you to help me dispose of the Stygian as you were supposed to do in the first place."
"Remember, it isn't wise to ask for my help too often," said the Shadow with a mockery of concern. "You wouldn't want to stain that pristine nature of yours."
"Damn your impudence!" Gayoso barked. "I order you to help me!"
"My goodness," said the creature in the mirror, "you're truly frightened of Montrose, aren't you? I can't say I blame you. Any man who could forge the scum of Under-the-Hill into an army, destroy many of the local Heretic Circles in a matter of weeks, and escape the trap we set for him is a force to be reckoned with it. Which makes this the ideal time for me to renegotiate my contract."
Gayoso felt a chill, one that had nothing to do with the length of frigid metal in his fingers. "What are you talking about?"
"Up until now, I've helped you out of the goodness of my heart. It's time I received a token of your appreciation."
"I don't have to pay you," Gayoso said. "The magic of the mirror compels you to aid me."
"Did you ever redly believe that ?" asked the Shadow. "How quaint of you. Actually, it's simply a means of communication. A glorified telephone."
Gayoso tried to tell himself the creature was bluffing. He couldn't make himself believe it. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Hmm." The Shadow narrowed its eyes as if it were just now considering the point. "Good question. How about this? Jehovah asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, and what was good enough for the Creator should be good enough for us. Of course, you haven't seen your biological offspring in hundreds of years, but you do have some youthful wraiths among your subjects. Your children in a symbolic-cum- political sense. One of them will do."
"That's insane," Gayoso said. "I can't offer up one of my own people to the powers of darkness. The province would rise against me."
The Shadow rolled its eyes. "I'm not asking you do it in front of the whole Necropolis. A private ceremony will suffice. I'll teach you where to cut and what to chant, the prayers to the Void and all that."
I won't do it, Gayoso thought. It would be a monstrous crime.
But would it really? In his years as a governor, he'd condemned any number of wraiths to suffering and death, sometimes simply because it was expedient. That was the nature of politics. Would this occasion truly be any diff erent, merely because the victim had a childlike appearance, and Gayoso recited the praises of
the Malfeans?
No.1 the Anacreon thought. What's wrong with me, that I can even consider such an act? I don't have to resort to this. I can solve my problems by myself.
Yet could he? When he looked inside himself, he discovered that he doubted it. For years he'd turned to the mirror whenever he felt himself to be in dire jeopardy, and now he realized that in one sense, the Shadow had already exacted a fee for its services. It had deprived him of his confidence in his own judgment and ingenuity.
Averting his gaze from the mirror, loathing the creature inside the glass and himself as well, he whispered, "One child. My selection." If he looked, he ought to be able to find one with an adult personality, perhaps even a rebel or a criminal.
"Agreed," said the reflection. "A single sacrifice will do nicely, this time."
Gayoso glared at it. "There won't be a next time. Once I'm rid of Montrose, I'm going to smash this mirror."
The Shadow sighed. "That would be wasteful to say the least, but it's your decision. Shall we discuss how you're going to bring about Montrose's downfall?"
Gayoso blinked. "Don't you want me to perform the sacrifice first?"
"Oh, I trust you. I think you understand that when someone makes a pact with an entity like me, the universe takes note and exacts a heavy penalty if the fellow tries to welsh on his end of the bargain."
The Hierarch swallowed. "Yes," he said, "I do understand that." He struggled to thrust his guilt and self-contempt out of his mind, and focus on the benefits of the covenant. "All right, how do I get rid of the Stygian?"
"For a long while now, Montrose's Shadow has been waxing stronger."
"How do you know that?" Gayoso asked.
"Creatures such as myself have means of communication and other sources of intelligence which a steadfast Hierarch like you"—the Shadow leered—"couldn't understand. It's one of the many reasons we're going to win. But let's not get off on that. Let's concentrate on the issue at hand. When Montrose came face to face with Louise, the Sister of Athena, he learned she was the long-lost love who betrayed him to his mortal death. The person he hates more than anyone else in the world."
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