The Mirrored City

by Michael J. Bode

  “Sword.”

  He felt a meaty hand grab his chin and turn his face the other direction. He didn’t resist.

  A middle-aged man stood above the slab, gawping. “You’re… alive.” He pressed his hands against Maddox’s naked chest where the monster had eviscerated him. He had two tattoos on his chest, the Seal of Movement, which was black ink, and the Seal of Vitae, which was golden and metallic.

  “Sword.”

  “I am Isik. What is your name?”

  Maddox hesitated. “Sword.”

  “Yes, yes. You had a sword,” the man stammered.

  The words were a struggle to string together. “Give… me… my… Sword.”

  “I will in a moment. It’s over there. First, I need to examine you.” He stared at Maddox’s face. “There was so much death in your eyes…”

  With a monumental effort of will, Maddox turned his head. He had no energy to do anything. He spotted the Sword on a workbench and willed it to his hand, causing Isik to jump out of the way. He sighed with relief as Sword bonded to his broken mind.

  Maddox blinked. “Was another body found with me?”

  Isik’s eyes went wide in surprise.

  “I’m immortal,” Maddox explained. “My Seal of Vitae is a temporal anchor to the exact moment I inscribed it. Any time I die, I come back at the same time every day as if no time had passed for me physically. This is far beyond anything this world is ready for, so I would appreciate if you could keep this discreet. Isik, I’m guessing by your robes and that medallion you wear that you’re the coroner?”

  “I am,” Isik said. “But holy shit. You are alive. Your insides were a mess.”

  “Forget about me. Was another man with me or near me? Any traces of unidentified blood? What about witness reports?”

  Isik shook his head. “It was just you in the alley. What in the Ancestor’s name happened to you?”

  “Your investigation is closed,” Heath’s voice called from the doorway. “Clearly the reports exaggerated the extent of my friend’s injuries. However, this is a matter for the Inquisition to review, not the local constabulary. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

  Isik went pale as he saw Heath’s silver eyes.

  “You’re from Rivern,” Isik gasped.

  “So you know my reputation.” Heath smiled. “This incident… never happened. I hope I can trust your discretion.”

  “Fuck this.” Isik threw up his hands. “I want no part of it.”

  “Great. So sorry to trouble you… Isik Vadyrov, son of Petr.” Heath tossed a bag of coins onto the slab. “Maddox, let’s get you home.”

  Maddox said, “We should consider working with the local authorities. There’s a—”

  “Tell me on the way home,” Heath insisted.

  “I need to get dressed.”

  “Public nudity is totally accepted in Dessim,” Heath countered.

  “You’re being an ass,” Maddox said, finding his trousers on a table next to his tunic and cloak, which were gore soaked and ripped to shreds.

  “And you’re being unprofessional,” Heath said.

  Maddox jammed his legs into his trousers. “I don’t work for you.”

  “I can leave,” Isik offered.

  “We were just leaving,” Heath and Maddox said in angry unison.

  As they made their way out of the morgue, Heath whispered, “The fuck happened to you?”

  Maddox rolled his eyes and shouldered his way past Heath. “Don’t even fucking worry about it.”

  FOUR

  Desperate

  SOREN

  93. Many of the most popular novels in Dessim start with characters of humble beginnings. To those of us writers who are literate, it can be hard to capture the abject desperation that many young men suffer when turned from the workhouses or into the mines. It would be tempting indeed to seek out such people to expand one’s experience.

  However, a good novelist knows that truth is best served in small portions. Few who read books have experienced the inconvenience of begging for food or the embarrassment of lacking adequate clothing. In the Mirrored City, many of these wretches flee to Baash once they are of age to avail themselves of charity rather than work to improve their situation.

  When writing about the less fortunate, one must not make the protagonist so unfortunate the reader loses sympathy. Best to allude to misfortune and continue on to the story of how he rises from adversity.

  —101 WRITING TIPS FOR A GUARANTEED BESTSELLER, 5TH EDITION, SEXIMUS BOSWELL

  SOREN SAT OUTSIDE the steps to the bathhouse with his dirty palms extended in front of him. He wore a ragged vest and tattered trousers. His bare callused feet were dark with street filth. His blond beard and disheveled hair made him look older than his years. His ribs showed through his deeply tanned and peeling skin.

  “Spare a ducat for a bath?” Soren muttered halfheartedly as people poured into the bathhouse. “Ducat?”

  People marched on, some of them avoiding the side of the steps where he sat, plaintively begging for money. The people of Dessim weren’t heartless, but they took a cynical view of beggars too old for the orphanage and too young to be unfit for mining work. He tried, he really did, but the headaches and dizzy spells made it impossible to work the long hours.

  “Soren?”

  An unmistakable voice broke him from his ruminations. Keltis stood in stunned disbelief as he placed his hand against his chest. He was a striking young man with black hair and wore a fabulously tailored ivory and silver embroidered coat over a silk shirt and velvet trousers. His neck was laden with fine golden chains. “Seriously? You’re homeless?”

  Soren laughed weakly. “And you’re… what? A Bamoran merchant?”

  Keltis smirked. “It’s Thrycean jacquard, love. It’s all the rage these days now that the trade embargo has lifted with the Southern Isles. But seriously, what in the five hells happened to you? Is this some sort of scam you’re running? Because, darling, there are much bigger fish to catch than the minnows who use public baths.” His face sneered slightly.

  “I’m hungry and I’m dirty,” Soren said. “Help me out or fuck off.”

  Keltis sighed. “I know we weren’t exactly friends at the orphanage. I admit that was mostly my doing. I was younger then and insecure. I was threatened by your good looks and may have lashed out. But I obviously had nothing to worry about.” He preened the lapel of his coat. “Of course I’ll help you.”

  “You know what, keep your gold. I’d rather die of starvation than take your money.”

  “And I’d rather die than give it to you,” Keltis scoffed. “No. I’m going to help you fix your busted, messed up wreck of a life by showing you how to survive on the streets. Lesson number one—a hustle is always about a good story. Watch and learn.”

  Before Soren could respond, Keltis marched over to a pair of women in nice clothes and stopped them.

  “Excuse me, ladies. I hate to impose, but I was hoping you two might be carrying some coin. You see, that wretched beggar over there was a dear childhood friend and he’s in desperate need of a bath, clothing, and a barber. An easy solution to a simple problem, however… I didn’t think to carry coin outside the house, and I live far from the public baths. I’d be willing to trade one of my necklaces for a handful of ducats to help my poor friend.”

  The older of the two peered at his neck, appraising the jewelry. The younger and more shapely slapped her arm. “Don’t be silly. Here, have them with the blessing of the Host, in hopes that karma smiles on me the next time I forget my coin purse at home.”

  Keltis accepted several coins graciously. “May the Host watch over you.”

  “And you as well.”

  He walked over to Soren and tossed a ducat into his lap. “It’s not mine, so you don’t have to feel like it’s charity.”

  “She gave you more than one,” Soren said.

  “It’s not charity,” Keltis reiterated as he shoved the rest in his pocket. “These are the cost
of your tuition. Now are you ready to continue your lessons?”

  “Why are you doing this?” Soren asked warily. Keltis was always open about his opinions and had never liked Soren. Pretending to be nice was outside Keltis’s usual repertoire of mean tricks.

  Keltis crouched down eye level to Soren. “I was a shithead in that orphanage. Not just to you. To everyone. Because I felt I needed to break other people down to survive or be adopted or whatever. You know how much any of us would have given to have a family. Turns out that was all bullshit. I’m not just surviving. I’m thriving. And you can, too. I owe it to you to make up for all the horrible pranks… and the other stuff. At least get yourself a bath.”

  Soren grabbed the ducat and slid it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

  Patting him on the arm, Keltis quickly pulled his hand away, wiping it on a silk handkerchief. “I want to earn your trust and your forgiveness. Look—go clean up. Don’t even bother putting those clothes back on. You’re better off going nude. Find me at Dancing Star in an hour or so if you want my help. Otherwise… best of fortune.”

  Keltis stood and spun back toward the street, his coat trailing behind him majestically.

  Soren pulled the ducat out of his pocket and studied it. It had a unicursal seven-pointed star on the back and the portrait of whoever had chaired the Grand Assembly when it was minted on the obverse. Another coin fell into his lap.

  An austere older man in a tall hat and flowing robes walked past, barely acknowledging Soren’s presence. He saw Keltis give me coin.

  A copper coin fell next to his leg as a younger girl skirted up the steps.

  Soren shook his head. All it took was one person.

  Soren walked into the baths with three ducats, two silvers, and seven coppers. He paid a ducat to the balneator and walked into the main natatorium to find the men’s undressing room. People splashed and frolicked in the cool water, the laughter of children echoing off the concave mosaics that arched over every set of four pillars bordering the pools.

  Soren made his way to the warm baths. A shirtless seal mage with an insignia of fire emblazoned across his chest shot a stream of flames into a fountain that spilled water into the pool, keeping the water warm. He was sweating profusely.

  Soren jumped into the pool, which was laden with fragrant oils and soap. Wet, naked, and no longer filthy, he looked no more out of place than any of the other bathers as they went through their individual cleansing rituals. Bathing was sacred to many gods in the Host, and each had a different ritual. Soren just thanked the Host that he could finally feel clean. He continued to soak as bathers came and went, moving to hotter pools or cooling off.

  Soren didn’t much care for the exposure of nudity, but it seemed criminal to put his filthy vagabond rags over his newly clean skin. His skinny chest was embarrassingly pale in contrast to his golden tan arms, but Dessim always had far worse examples of nakedness. The proverb went, the less you want to see a person naked, the more likely you will.

  Not that he was much to look at. He carried his few remaining coins tightly clenched in his hand as he approached the Dancing Star. Beside the door were several small alcoves for various idols to the gods of the Host. You could tell a lot about a person by the gods they kept in their shrines. The gods were all men, representing divine portfolios of drunkenness, sex, and excess.

  Soren pushed his way into the bar. Thankfully, he was not the only person without clothes. While immodesty was considered illegal in Baash, the people of Dessim considered modesty an option. He glanced around for Keltis, spotting his coat right away.

  Soren steeled himself and approached Keltis’s table. A much older man, maybe forty years old, wrapped his arm around Keltis with a hand down the front of his silk shirt.

  “Soren!” Keltis exclaimed and then explained to his friend, “He was my only friend in that horrible orphanage.”

  “He’s too skinny,” the other man said. “And I don’t like the beard.”

  Keltis leered at the man. “I’m sure your wife doesn’t like the fact that you enjoy getting fucked by a man who’s your son Nathan’s age. Not to mention how your son might take the fact that his father has an insatiable taste for cock.”

  The man scowled. “You wouldn’t dare, you little—”

  Keltis cut the man off. “Probably not. Why don’t you just get us a pitcher of mead and we’ll chalk this up to a misunderstanding? Or you can just leave the money.”

  The man slapped five ducats on the table and stormed off. Keltis patted the vacated seat. “That was lesson two by the way.”

  “Blackmail?” Soren asked.

  “No.” Keltis sighed. “Shave the fucking beard. And for the Host’s sake, eat something. You look like a skeleton with a farmer’s tan.”

  “Fuck you,” Soren mustered with the last of his dignity.

  “Just being honest.” Keltis shrugged. “People judge you on how you look. They don’t care that your parents abandoned you. They like a clean shaven boy with some meat on his bones.”

  “You’re nothing more than a whore and—ugh!” Soren exclaimed. He clenched his head as a dizzy spell fell upon him. Stumbling forward into the table, he nearly knocked Keltis’s drink into his lap.

  “By the Host,” Keltis said. “Are you on drugs or something? Sit the fuck down before you fall out in front of everyone.”

  “No. I’m having one of my headaches again.” Soren took a seat and rubbed his temples. “It’ll pass.”

  Keltis reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny bottle of white powder. He unscrewed the lid, pulling out a tiny silver measuring spoon. He measured out a generous heap of powder. “Here. Sniff this. It fixes everything.”

  The pain in Soren’s head pounded. He looked warily at the heap of powder on the little silver spoon. He pinched one nostril shut and inhaled. The powder had an almost sweet fragrance as it burned his nose. Then, within moments, a calming numbness spread through his face. The headache retreated.

  Keltis screwed the lid back on the bottle and slid it over to Soren. “You’re welcome. Try to use it sparingly. It’s very expensive.”

  “Why are you helping me, Keltis?”

  “Your cheekbones,” he replied. “And your eyes. You have a natural beauty that could earn you money, and I hate to see them go to waste. Honestly, I could use some help. Since getting into the escort business, I have been overbooked for weeks. I mean, I knew I would be popular, but… I never expected to be so much in demand. Frankly, I’m exhausted and could use someone to fill in for me.”

  “You want me to fuck men for you, for money?”

  “You won’t get as high a rate as I do, and of course I’ll take a percentage for bringing you in. But surely it’s got to be better than this, Soren. Living on the street? You could have a warm bed every night of the week.”

  “I can’t do that, Keltis. I don’t even know if I’m, you know, that way. I’m sorry. Can I get something to eat before I go? Just bread or something small.”

  Keltis cocked his head as if considering Soren’s plight. “There is something else you can do for me. It’s not glamorous, but you’ll meet interesting people, and it’s a good introduction to the lifestyle. Have you heard of the Palace of Keys?”

  “It’s a really expensive brothel,” Soren said.

  “They need someone to work the front of the house. The last one went missing, probably married off to one of the wealthier clients. Anyway, you just need to look presentable and be friendly as you pass out room keys. A monkey could do it. The pay is shit, but I could put in a word.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  Keltis shrugged. “I did go through some trouble getting you cleaned up. The proprietor will owe me a favor if I bring you in. And you, if you ever prove useful, will owe me for life. So the day isn’t a complete waste for me after all. Now should we go somewhere else? The food here is awful.”

  Soren nodded and rose to leave the tavern. He held the vial of powder in his calloused hand and a f
ew coins in the other. He didn’t trust Keltis but had nothing to lose. Maybe he had changed. It seemed like so much time since they had been in the orphanage together. Keltis seemed stronger and more self-confident.

  Keltis probably only wanted Soren around to torment and humiliate. The man didn’t need to be a bully, not when he could make Soren dance for a crust of bread. But it was better than spending another night on the street. Soren resolved that even though he needed to play the part of the pitiful street rat, he still could preserve his dignity. At least he hoped he could.

  FIVE

  The Devil’s Bargain

  HEATH

  The Orthodoxy foolishly believes it is enough to simply believe in Ohan and pray to him, may His Light shine forever. However, belief is irrelevant because with simple belief comes interpretation. One can believe in many things, to differing degrees at different times, so it is clear action and devoted practice that matter most as the measure of faith.

  Ohan is not pleased with the occasional prayer, offered only when the supplicant wants something. It must be performed thrice daily (sunrise, noon, and sunset) and at no other time. This ensures continued favor by a show of devotion.

  Likewise, one must practice the art of correct living in one’s daily life. Ohan’s purity must be sought vigorously. This means avoiding the forbidden foods, avoiding intoxicants such as alcohol, practicing personal cleanliness, and abstaining from fornication outside the bounds of a marriage between a man and his wives.

  Ohan, Light of All Things, does not ask you to place your faith in him; rather, he demands your absolute commitment. We live to serve our God always, never the other way around.

  —MISSIVE TO HIS FOLLOWERS FROM IBIQ QAADAR, GRAND PATRIARCH OF BAASH

  HEATH WORE A flowing quilted robe that left his dark chest and arms bare. His eyes were silver and gem hard as he marched into the white marbled hall of House Ibazz. Between each pair of smooth columns of polished marble, a Patrean warrior in lacquered white armor held a spear at his side. A long purple carpet inscribed with intricate knot work led Heath to a pair of massive titanium double doors, inscribed with a bas-relief of the liberation of Saint Juliet.