The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  —Pfeilmacher, Wahnist Author

  Saddle bags thrown over their shoulders, Stehlen and Lebendig entered Unbrauchbar via the north gate. Lebendig staggered with exhaustion and Stehlen pretended not to notice.

  Those guarding the walls studiously ignored the two women. No one was dumb enough to mistake them for servants of the Geborene. Everywhere they saw the signs of a city-state preparing for war. Men and women in uniform lounged against walls, eyeing pedestrians with the cocky hauteur of soldiers who have yet to see battle. Those buildings closest to the unimpressive wall showed signs of having been raided for construction materials to build that wall. Instead of clearing the remaining wreckage to create a killing zone, the hollowed shells of homes and shops were now populated by the city’s dispossessed. The largest of the structures—it looked to Stehlen to have once been a mill—was set aside as a hospice.

  They know once the war starts they’ll have wounded and decided to keep them by the wall so they be the first to die when the defences fail. She wasn’t sure if whoever planned this was a genius or an utter idiot.

  Glancing down a side street, she saw a score of rough iron cages leaning against walls. Each contained a corpse and a sign labelling the occupant either a traitor or a Geborene spy. Ignored by all, a dog worried at the leg of the corpse in the nearest cage. It gnawed through the knee and escaped with the rest of the leg. The cages were built to hang, but she saw nowhere to hang them from. More brilliant planning, no doubt.

  Stehlen darted a narrow gaze at each tavern they passed until she found the right one.

  “That one,” she said, stepping over a naked corpse as she crossed the street. The dead man had a neat hole over his heart.

  Lebendig followed without comment.

  The tavern was abuzz with talk of the return of Wichtig Lügner, the Greatest Swordsman in the World. The gathered men and women eyed Stehlen and Lebendig as they entered, and then wisely decided against bothering them. The Swordswoman claimed a table and collapsed into a chair with a groan while Stehlen approached the bar.

  Dropping a coin on the pitted surface, Stehlen caught the innkeeper’s attention. When he approached, she grabbed him by the wrist and pinioned him with eyes bleeding yellow rage. He swallowed and squeaked.

  “The idiot was here,” she said.

  “Idjit?”

  “Wichtig. Swordsman. Idiot.”

  “Wichtig, he was here. Right here in this very tavern. I served him—”

  Stehlen dragged the man closer and breathed on him until he shut up and looked woozy. “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Not long.” The man shrugged, helpless. “Hour?”

  She released him and he retreated. “Did he kill that man lying in the street?”

  The innkeeper nodded. “And half a dozen others. All while so drunk he could barely stand and wearing nothing but a bed sheet.”

  “We’ll take a room, food, and ale,” said Stehlen.

  “Of course,” said the innkeeper. “No ale though. Got kartoffel.”

  “I’m not drinking that shite,” said Stehlen. “Get ale.”

  “But…” Meeting her eyes he trailed to silence and nodded. “Ale.”

  Returning to the table Lebendig selected, Stehlen dropped into a chair. She sat across from the Swordswoman, as she always did with Bedeckt, to cover the angles and watch her back. She should go to bed. Get some sleep.

  “He was here,” Stehlen said.

  Lebendig nodded and gestured at the stained floor. A lot of blood had been spilled in this room, and spilled recently. The sweet rusting stench of rotten iron tickled Stehlen’s pinched nostrils.

  “That was his handiwork,” said Stehlen. “He left not long before we arrived.” Was Wichtig improving? Did more people now believe in him? She contemplated facing an improved Wichtig. It’ll be nothing. I’ll still gut the stupid bastard. She’d kill him before he finished bragging.

  “Shall we go after him?”

  Stehlen gnawed on her bottom lip, chewing until she tasted blood. Then she spat. Lebendig looked like she might slump out of the chair and pass out on the floor. “We’ll go in the morning.”

  “Nice to sleep in a bed,” said Lebendig.

  Stehlen nodded agreement. It’d be nice to do other things too. Things that were less comfortable on the hard ground. Things Lebendig probably wouldn’t survive in her current state. “We’ll buy horses in the morning,” she said.

  The innkeeper arrived with food and ale and fled back to the safety of his bar. Then, when a preening soldier demanded ale, he clubbed the man with an axe handle and tossed the limp and unconscious body out of the inn.

  An hour later they took a room on the rickety second floor. Lebendig, who crawled straight into bed the moment she shed her armour, lay sleeping. Stehlen stayed with her for a while, watching her breathe and trying to understand the sour feeling in her own stomach. How could watching someone sleep be so terrifying?

  She’s mine. I don’t want to lose her.

  Too tense to sleep, she returned to the common room and sat in the corner, ignored and unseen by all. Every now and then someone would approach her table, thinking to claim it, only to turn away and go elsewhere with a look of dull confusion.

  Lebendig had been uninterested in intimacy, not that Stehlen tried. Was the Swordswoman distant, or merely tired? Was she angry about something?

  Go to the room and talk to her. Ask. She’ll talk to you. She loves you. She’s still here. She’s still with you even though she doesn’t have to be.

  Talk. What a waste of time. When did talk solve anything? Action. Action changed things. Talk clouded issues, made everything more confusing.

  Hidden in the dark, Stehlen bared her teeth in a snarl.

  Digging into her hidden pockets, she caressed the three carved toys. She found Bedeckt by feel.

  Why did men have to be such a gods-damned nuisance?

  Really? You doing any better with women?

  Stehlen spat.

  If you are incapable of having a relationship with men and women, maybe you’re the damned problem.

  Stehlen touched the Wichtig carving. Her brows furrowed as she felt the ridge of raw scar marring the perfect face, slashing from right ear to the left side of his chin. She imagined those beautiful lips she so often dreamed of tasting. Not so beautiful now.

  Stehlen slammed her fist on the table top. Nearby drunks jumped and wondered what caused the sound. She spat again as if she could rid herself of the foul taste in her life. Wichtig is an idiot. He deserved whatever happened to him. It was long past time someone spoiled those good looks.

  Sadness dragged at her heart as if struggling to drown it in the acid of her belly. When she blinked, tears ran, cutting tracks through the dirt caking her face. She drew forth the figurine and studied the battered visage, the bruised look in eyes. For the first time ever Wichtig showed tattered edges of defeat. This face did not wear doubt well.

  Good looks were all the man ever had. Sure, he was tolerably skilled with a blade, but it was the boyish charm, the odd innocence of the heroically stupid, that defined him. Of course, all of that was only true for those who somehow ignored the flat grey eyes, the utter death of true emotion. The eyes spoke the lie. Wichtig, no matter how handsome, was a Gefahrgeist. He cared not one wit for any other than himself. He used people and tossed them aside. He was a selfish bastard.

  And yet you miss him. You sit here staring at this stupid carving feeling sad that he has been marred.

  “I’m only disappointed I’m not there to rub this in your face,” Stehlen said to the carved Wichtig.

  The carving looked scared, like it knew she followed in his steps.

  This was wrong. All wrong. She couldn’t imagine Wichtig developing character, becoming more like Bedeckt with his old man philosophy and wisdom based on decades of ill choices. Wichtig couldn’t show doubt, he was too damned stupid to be afraid of anything. Nothing was ever supposed to hurt him. That’s who he was.

&n
bsp; He’s supposed to drift through life, aimless and thoughtless and learn nothing.

  Stehlen growled. This was her fault.

  Had I gone after him earlier I could have rescued him before that bitch carved his fingers and ear.

  She’d thought it funny to wait.

  Now she hated herself. And she hated Wichtig for making her hate herself. He was a manipulative bastard. Not once in all the years she knew him had he let up for a moment. Every breath, every word, every look was an attempt at manipulation. He didn’t even care what he got out of it. As long as he felt he won in some small and stupid way, he was happy.

  Stehlen remembered the time Wichtig convinced her to wash her hair so she’d look better for Bedeckt.

  These feelings of guilt were no doubt nothing more than the lingering effects of Wichtig’s Gefahrgeist powers. He wasn’t even here, and he was still manipulating her.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she told the carving. “And then I’m going to find you in the Afterdeath and rub your smug face in it.”

  Maybe after that she’d kill him again.

  Two men at a table nearby talked about Wichtig in the awed tones of complete idiots discussing other complete idiots. Stehlen decided to insert herself into the conversation and see if she could learn anything worthwhile.

  Bedeckt would have bought the men a round and fascinated them with stories of past deeds real and imagined. Wichtig would have charmed them into buying him round after round. Stehlen had no idea how to do either. Instead, she dropped into an empty chair at their table and glared rage until they noticed her.

  Thinking of Wichtig she said, “Buy me a drink,” to the less ugly of the men. He swallowed, eyes wide, and nodded.

  The three sat in awkward silence as the innkeeper brought Stehlen a glass of kartoffel, recognized her, and hurried back to the bar to fetch her an ale.

  The men stared at the ale in awe, licking their lips.

  “Names,” said Stehlen.

  “Geil,” said one.

  “Säufer,” said the other.

  Silence returned. The two men darted glances at her, making flitting eye contact.

  “You were talking about Wichtig Lügner,” she said in an attempt to rekindle their conversation.

  They nodded, eyes never leaving her ale.

  “He killed people, here in this inn?” she asked.

  Again they nodded in unison.

  “You were here?” she asked.

  Nod.

  “Tell me about it and there’s ale in it for you.” She whistled a sharp blast at the innkeeper and gestured at the two men.

  “He killed half a dozen Swordsmen one after the other, right here,” said Geil as his ale arrived.

  “He killed one without even leaving his chair,” said Säufer.

  As the two men sipped their ale with a reverence she couldn’t begin to understand, she took a moment to appreciate what she achieved. Wichtig’s ability to manipulate was no great thing. She achieved the same thing. It was easy. And here I am getting information and I haven’t even killed anyone. She felt quite pleased with herself.

  “Word is,” said Geil, setting his mug down, “Wichtig returned from the dead to save his oldest friend.”

  “Where did that word come from?” asked Stehlen, guessing she already knew. Even when sober the Swordsman couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

  “He was staggering drunk. Kept screaming at people. Attacked an empty chair at one point,” said Säufer.

  “Killed it for sure,” added Geil.

  “Right,” agreed Säufer. “Dead. Said he had to save his friend from some mad and vengeful god—”

  “Like there’s another kind,” said Geil, lifting his pint to sniff appreciatively at the contents before taking the smallest sip, just enough to wet his lips. “I haven’t had ale in—”

  “Vengeful god,” repeated Säufer, annoyed at the interruption. “Had to save him from a god and some hideous assassin wench.”

  Säufer’s teeth clacked shut as his eyes met Stehlen’s. She saw his brain working, trying to decide if he should say something else, change the topic, or make a run for the door.

  “If you stand,” she said with a sweet smile that drained the colour from his face, “your friend will be finishing your pint.”

  “I…”

  “Huh?” said Geil, confused. “I can have his pint?”

  “You—shite—you’re the assassin,” said Säufer.

  “Are you saying I’m hideous?” So much for not killing anyone.

  “You’re no beauty,” said Geil, “but I’d stick you. My wife— What?”

  Säufer shook his head, raising his hands to show they were empty and he offered no threat. As if killing unarmed idiots was on Stehlen’s list of— Shite. Bedeckt and his damned list. I have no list. There is nothing I won’t do. Honour and ethics were a weakness. Stehlen considered killing this idiot to prove it.

  “I’m no assassin,” she said.

  “Of course not,” said Säufer. “I never. I didn’t mean to.” He licked his lips. “I’m not very smart.”

  Smarter than you know, thought Stehlen, deciding not to kill the man. At least not yet.

  Stehlen waved at the innkeeper to bring another round of ales. It was a strange feeling, this magnanimous not killing people thing.

  “Um,” said Säufer.

  “Hmm?”

  Säufer nodded in the direction of a slim man sitting alone at a table. A sheathed sword lay on the table before him. “That was the second last man to face the World’s Greatest Swordsman.”

  Stehlen watched the Swordsman, noted the haunted look in his eyes. “He’s still alive.”

  “Wichtig told him if he removed his sword and never put it on again,” said Geil, “he’d let him live.”

  “He’s been sitting there ever since,” said Säufer. “I think he’s afraid to touch his sword.”

  Stehlen left the two men and sat across from the Swordsman. When he didn’t notice her she kicked him under the table.

  The Swordsman twitched, looking around, confused.

  “Right here,” Stehlen said.

  Red rimmed eyes, bleary and unfocussed with drink, found her. Has he been crying? Amazing. What must it feel like to have a dream crushed?

  Have you never had a dream stolen from you?

  No one stole from Stehlen.

  Bedeckt. Once you dreamed you and he could be together.

  Stehlen bared yellow teeth at the Swordsman. “Wichtig used to lay his swords out on the table. Just like that.”

  The Swordsman watched her.

  “He’d pretend to be drunk and hope that some idiot would come along and challenge him to a duel.”

  The Swordsman darted a glance at his sword and pursed his lips. Picking up his mug of kartoffel, he used it to nudge the sword farther away as if afraid to touch it.

  “Gods,” said Stehlen. “Bedeckt’s cat turd face is spreading like an epidemic. You’re actually thinking.” She shook her head, tutting. “Swordsmen don’t do that. You should know better.” She pushed the weapon across the table, closer to the Swordsman. He leaned back in his chair to maintain distance. “Wichtig is gone,” she said. “Go on, take your sword.”

  “I have seen death,” he said. “His name is Wichtig Lügner. He was so drunk he kept falling over. He was white from blood loss. White.” The Swordsman gestured at the blood-stained floor. “Half that is his. Nobody—” The Swordsman finished his kartoffel in a long pull and scowled at the mug, eyes distant. “You spend your entire life practising. You fight duel after duel, working your way through the local Swordsmen. You’re good. Better than everyone. You leave home and travel the world, fighting and killing and growing a reputation and you know people have heard of you. One day you realize it isn’t a dream. For the first time you know you are one of the best. You know it.” The Swordsman slammed his mug to the table, shattering the clay and slashing his hand open. He stared at the blood running from his clutched fist. “The G
reatest Swordsman in the World,” he said, watching the blood pool on the tabletop. “One day it’s not some impossible goal, not some distant and unachievable dream. People talk about you. People say it might be you.” He laughed, opening his hand to expose the deep gash. “You can feel it, you know.” He darted a quick glance at Stehlen. “You feel their belief. It’s a drug. You begin to crave it. To need it. You chase this stupid dream so that you’ll be great, so you’ll be admired and remembered. So people will look up to you. So your father will say he’s sticking proud of what you’ve done with your life. You don’t realize you’re a slave to the damned dream until it’s too late.”

  “You like to listen to yourself talk,” said Stehlen.

  The Swordsman, staring at his hand, didn’t seem to hear. “I watched him kill. I can’t imagine what he’s like sober.”

  “Swordsmen are worse than fishwives for gossip,” said Lebendig dropping into an empty chair, startling both Stehlen and the Swordsman. Her hair hung long and loose, a waterfall of strawberry blond. Though she still looked exhausted, her eyes were bright. “Wichtig is a pretty thing, nothing more.”

  Gods she moves quietly. That feline grace was part of what Stehlen loved about the big woman.

  “Pretty?” said the Swordsman. “Gods, no. Someone cut him bad. He killed all those Swordsmen with fresh stitches still hanging in his face.”

  “You see scars on me?” asked Lebendig, leaning close to the Swordsman.

  Stehlen knew that, though Lebendig’s face was free of scars, her body told a different story.

  He sneered at her, lips curling in disdain. “You’re no contender. You could never be the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”

  Lebendig’s eyes went cold and a chill crept down Stehlen’s spine. Never forget what she is.

  “Oh?” said Lebendig. “And why is that?”

  “You’re a woman.”

  Lebendig pushed the sword on the table toward the Swordsman. “Care to pick this up one last time?”

  How long has Lebendig been watching me?

  “I don’t kill women,” said the Swordsman, sitting back and crossing his arms. “Not even big ugly ones.”