The Shades of Silence

by Kyra Wheatley

“This is called the Cloth of Darkness. You can use one piece, one time only. It brings an object to the Wrong Side, do you understand? Cross over after it. When you’re on the Wrong Side, move the object to where you need to move it, then move it back to the real world, and the deed is done.”

  Weapon Maker carefully rolled up the Cloth and put the three pieces into transparent tubes on cords that he took off the table.

  “But be careful!” he reminded them, holding out the tubes. “Personally, I don’t have much faith in your intellectual abilities, but Master . . . I repeat—one piece, one object. The other two are for you. And try to quickly finish what you need to do. The Cloth of Darkness is dangerous, even for Inquisitors.”

  Lilith grabbed two tubes out of Weapon Maker’s hands. She examined them and hung them around her neck. Mike took the third one for himself. Weapon Maker watched them disapprovingly, folding his arms over his chest. Without saying goodbye, they headed toward the exit. Mike asked softly, “Where are we supposed to look for the one? We don’t exactly know.”

  “Let’s ask the stone things,” Lilith answered. “Those beasts watch everything and always know everything.”

  “They won’t want to talk to us.”

  In response, Lilith grinned, baring two rows of small, sharp teeth. Passing by the motionless, upright Mr. Chuck, she poked him again and he toppled over. The plastic head flew off the casing with a crack. Behind them, Weapon Maker began to squeal. The clatter of his feet could be heard, but the Inquisitors had already left the cave and Lilith had slammed the door shut.

  “To the square,” she said. “We’ll get there fast if we take the tunnels. Let’s track down the one.”

  Chapter Three

  Nicole tugged at the door handle of the Red Rose Cafe. Strange—it wasn’t opening. She looked at Gumshoe and guiltily shrugged her shoulders. She tried again. No, it was locked. But why did it open before?

  “See? For some reason, the cafe only lets you in,” Gumshoe said.

  “But when I was with Valerie . . .”

  “From what you told me, it sounded like Valerie didn’t want to go in. But now . . . okay, wait a minute.”

  He walked toward the amber-tiled building on the other side of the street.

  “Try again,” he said.

  Nicole pulled at the door again—and it opened surprisingly easily.

  “But why? It wouldn’t open before! How did you—”

  “I’ll wait here,” he said.

  “Why? It’s open now.”

  Gumshoe shook his head. “The door opened because I made the decision to stay outside. The City or the cafe itself—in any case, something—understood that. I suspect that if I had intended to jump inside as soon as you opened the door, it wouldn’t have opened.”

  Standing in the entrance to keep the door from closing, Nicole turned to him. “But can’t you change your mind now?”

  “This isn’t a game, Nicole. This is serious. I decided not to go in, so the door opened. I don’t cheat. If I cheated, I wouldn’t be who I am. Let other people be like that.”

  He stood in the middle of the street, rigid and upright, and Nicole realized that it was the truth. If he now violated his decision, even one that was made in his head, she would know that she couldn’t rely on him. But now . . . now, she could take refuge behind Gumshoe, like behind a brick wall. And she could be certain that he wouldn’t back down in the face of any attack by mysterious powers. He would protect her. She was suddenly filled with warmth toward this man. He trusted her, letting her enter this peculiar cafe alone, but he would stay beside her. And if necessary, he would destroy the cafe, stone by stone. If only she could walk over to him and take him by the hand.

  “All right, then I’ll go alone,” Nicole muttered, and for the second time, she walked into the transparent quiet of the Red Rose Cafe.

  A wide beam of light slanted away from the window, bisecting the soft semidarkness. Nicole stood in the middle of the room, slowly turning around and trying to remember where she had seen the photograph with the round fountain. There were a lot of photos hanging on the walls. She circled and froze when she caught sight of one photo that had something familiar about it.

  It was a large photo in a wooden frame. It was hanging over the table where she had sat the last time she was in the cafe. It showed a broad, cobbled street, possibly the edge of the square, residential buildings with shops on the ground floors, whimsical signs, and people. There was an open, antique automobile. Inside sat a woman with an umbrella, and a man in driving goggles was behind the wheel.

  And this woman with the umbrella—it was Grandma!

  Or was it? Nicole stepped closer, examining it doubtfully, then stepped back a little. Yes, it was her. She was still young, but no longer a girl. After all, the photo was around a hundred years old. The car, the clothing the people were wearing—all of this suggested that the photograph depicted the beginning of the 20th century.

  But the woman in it wasn’t even 30.

  So that meant that on the day when Grandma had disappeared, she had to have been . . . old! More than 100. But when Nicole saw her for the last time, she didn’t look a day over 60.

  Still perplexed, she walked alongside the tables. She found the photo with the Angel and peered at it. A beautiful, smooth face imprinted in marble, wings spread behind its back, curly hair, a wide chlamys. The left arm was lowered and the right arm raised, with the index finger extended. But where was the statue pointing? The perspective was such that the direction wasn’t easy to discern. If she returned to the square now, she would probably be able to orient herself, but it would be better to show the photo to Gumshoe.

  Nicole looked out the window. He was standing in the middle of the street, smoking one of the cigarettes he had rolled. She made up her mind and took the photo off the wall. It was big and heavy, so it would be awkward to carry. Maybe she could take it out of the frame? Nicole turned it over. Yes, it would be easy to take it out. The frame was specially constructed that way.

  She suddenly heard a slight, reproachful cough behind her.

  It was hardly noticeable, but in the quiet of the cafe, it rang out like a slap. Nicole started. She let go of the photo and looked around.

  For a moment, she thought she saw a round-faced, mustachioed man in a white shirt, vest, and bowtie standing behind the counter. He was holding a glass and a towel. He had short, dark hair. Just for a moment—and then nothing. Only attentive eyes lingered in the air for a fraction of a second longer, like the grin of the Cheshire cat.

  She blinked. And she realized that there was nobody behind the counter.

  Nicole suddenly felt afraid. The sleepy stillness of the cafe was playing tricks. This room was the mouth of a monster. She was already inside it, and now, it would swallow her.

  Gumshoe turned around when she leaped outside, loudly slamming the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I—there—” She shook her head. She was silent, gathering her thoughts and breathing deeply. “No, it’s nothing.”

  He was already beside her. He stared into her eyes.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Nicole repeated firmly. “It’s just that I thought I saw something inside when I wanted to take the photo out of the frame. I got a little scared.”

  “A little?”

  “Yes, just a tiny bit.”

  “You flew out of there like a gazelle being chased by a tiger. Well, what about the photo?”

  She looked at her empty hands.

  “Oh no, I forgot it! How . . . I let go of it! I need to go back.”

  She looked at the door of the Red Rose. It was a completely ordinary door with nothing frightening about it, but now, for some reason, she didn’t want to go near it.

  “Anyway, I dropped it,” Nicole concluded. “And it’s still in the cafe.”

  “Do you remember how the Angel was standing?”

  “Yes, but it was hard to tell where it was looking. If we
go back to the fountain, I’ll be able to look at the remains of the pedestal and then say exactly—I remember the pose. Let’s go!” she added decisively.

  They hurried back to the square, and Nicole set about studying the base of the pedestal. She turned in a circle once and then again, and ended up standing with her back to the pedestal. It turned out that the statue was looking straight at the fountain. Watching her closely, Gumshoe asked, “Now what?”

  “Now”—Nicole lowered her left arm along her body, raised her right arm, bent her elbow, and stuck out her index finger—“this is how it was standing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t move.”

  He went to stand beside her, and they gazed toward where her finger was pointing.

  There was a side street—narrow and unremarkable, with the same crack between the buildings from which some unknown being had been watching her and Gumshoe.

  “Shall we go check?” Gumshoe started walking toward the side street.

  “Hey, just . . .” Nicole hurried behind him. She caught up and touched his elbow. “Just be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.” He shrugged. “This is the City.”

  “Yes, but . . . someone was in that side street when we came to the square the first time—someone or something. I couldn’t make it out, but I noticed some sort of movement. And he—or rather, it—was watching us.”

  Without wasting time playing the hero, Gumshoe pulled his gun from the holster.

  The side street turned out to be a narrow, chilly dead end that led to a two-story building. The high, metallic door with a bas-relief, four first-floor windows, and five second-floor windows were secured with attractive wrought-iron grating, like in films about Paris.

  There were other buildings in the side street. They were nondescript and unremarkable in every way, and it was immediately clear that the Angel was pointing at this one. Nothing about the building seemed exceptional, but it stood out prominently among the others. It was like a painting. Depicted in painstaking detail, it was a colorful central object on the pale background of a city landscape that the artist deliberately ignored so he could instead highlight the picture’s conceptual center.

  “That’s the one we’re looking for.” Gumshoe strode toward the building. “Did you also feel that?”

  “Of course! So was Grandma leading me to this building with her clues? But what’s in it?”

  “It can’t be!” Gumshoe interrupted, stopping in front of the copper door. “I’ll be damned. This is it! That very house!”

  The door was decorated with a bas-relief of a male head with menacing, protruding eyes, a bushy beard, and a mustache that looked like it was waving in the wind. The head resembled either a pagan god or a savage barbarian who would worship such a god. A round keyhole was sunk into the open mouth.

  The head was cast in copper, as was the rest of the door. As Nicole took one last step toward it, twisted lines flashed over the head . . . and immediately went out. At least, that’s what it looked like to her—or was it merely the light playing on the metal?

  Below the door lay a black mat for visitors to wipe their feet on. It had white letters spelling out:

  HI!

  Nicole looked over at her companion. He was obviously stunned. What was going through his mind? It was true that the door and the head were unusual, and the entire House was captivating, just like the Mascara that had attracted Nicole’s attention in the store. But no matter—what made it so surprising?

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I . . .” he rubbed the front of the gun’s handle. He looked perplexedly at the weapon and slipped it into his holster. “It’s the Collector’s House.”

  “Whose house?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Gumshoe took a step back, raised his head, and slowly examined the building. It tightly bridged the dead end, closely abutting the edges of the buildings to the left and right. There was no staircase leading to the roof. The window gratings were sturdy, made of thick rods, and the door was copper. Someone had made a concerted effort to ensure that no one could enter without an invitation or a key.

  “Martha’s described this house, but I’d never seen it.”

  “Who’s the Collector?”

  “An old resident of the City. Apparently, before the Warp, he was the city librarian. After the Warp, he spent a long time trying to figure out what had happened. He collected objects that the mist brought—strange relics and amulets—and studied them. According to Martha, he got closer to the secret of the Warp than anyone else. Maybe he even found out what happened. The person—or thing—that lives in the cut-off areas became interested in him. Apparently, the Collector started working with it—this power. Sometimes, strange people came to visit him, people who had never before been seen in this part of the City. People in dark robes with hoods. This was all a long time ago.”

  Gumshoe fell silent. He stood on the black mat that said “Hi!” and ran his hands over the door.

  “And then what?” Nicole asked.

  “Train Attendant is the one who told me this part of the story. The Collector gradually changed. He pretty much stopped talking to people. The grating and this door appeared on his house. Then he disappeared. He shut himself away and never came out again.”

  “So since then, he’s been in there?” Nicole stared at the door with the bearded head, which scrutinized her with copper eyes. “How many years has it been?”

  “Years?” Gumshoe shook his head. “In the City, time doesn’t pass in a way that we’re familiar with. Sometimes, for convenience, we use words like ‘week’ and ‘year,’ but how do you actually tell Thursday from Friday? I don’t know what day it is today.”

  “Saturday,” Nicole said confidently.

  “Because yesterday it was Friday in the place where you came from? But someone else might have been delivered to the City last night at the same time as you. And for that person, yesterday might have been Thursday, or even Thursday of a different month, or even a different year. Or Wednesday. Or Saturday. You’ll see for yourself that in a few days, you won’t be able to figure out what the date is. Time is different here. It’s not as delineated.”

  “But I saw the clock on City Hall. It was working.”

  Gumshoe laughed. “But sometimes, it goes backward. Or it stops for long periods. In any case, for the most part, it shows the right time of day. No one has eradicated the succession of day and night, so that . . . anyway, the Collector disappeared a long time ago, and no one’s heard anything about him since.”

  Nicole stared again at the door. Then she took the Mascara out of her pocket and started to unscrew the top.

  Putting on makeup by touch is a small satisfaction, but not something you do for the sake of doing it. It was more to surprise Gumshoe, so he would understand that Nicole also knew how to do something, and moreover, something inaccessible to him, so that she could be indispensable after all.

  The little brush came out of the tube with a soft rustle.

  “Why are you doing that?” Gumshoe was perplexed.

  “I found it in the cosmetics store—Valerie took me there. The Mascara lets me see things that you can’t normally see, like sounds and silhouettes behind walls. Maybe I’ll be able to see what’s happening inside the Collector’s House? And I keep seeing some sort of reflections above this iron head. They look like symbols.”

  “Symbols?” he repeated in a strange voice. “Could it be . . . wait a second!”

  He stared at the door, lost in thought.

  “I’m sure the house is empty, and your Mascara won’t really help us now. You mentioned a Lens that let you see symbols on the back of the photo with your grandmother. Do you have the Lens with you?”

  “Of course. You’re right. I forgot about that.”

  Nicole took out the Lens with the writing on the back and gave it to Gumshoe. He turned it around in his hand, reached toward the door, looked through the magnif
ying glass, and clicked his tongue.

  “There it is!”

  Looking over his shoulder, Nicole saw shining symbols on the metal. They looked like a combination of hieroglyphics and ancient Egyptian letters. They gleamed emerald and turquoise. Chewing her lip, she moved slightly to the side, and the symbols disappeared from the door. She looked through the magnifying glass again—and they appeared again. Gumshoe became agitated. He took out a notepad and immediately almost dropped it.

  “Could you hold this?”

  Nicole took the Lens as he pulled a pen out of the breast pocket of his jacket and started to draw the symbols on the pad of paper.

  “Why did you get flustered?” she asked. He didn’t say anything, but Nicole persisted. “You started to get nervous. Why? Come on. I told you everything about Grandma—now you answer me!”

  “It’s the same symbols!” he muttered, continuing to draw. “The symbols I saw in the city where I’m from, in the real world. Someone had written them on the walls of buildings, but at that time, they could be seen by the naked eye. No one knew who had written them. We couldn’t figure it out. There was even a group that formed in order to study them—it called itself the Narrow Circle. It was made up of some prominent people in the city. They deciphered the secret of the symbols—or thought they did. Then they started to disappear. I studied the mystery as a private investigator—I was hired by the father of a girl who went missing. The symbols stopped appearing. But one day, I found a series of these symbols leading through the streets of the city, and I followed it . . .”

  He suddenly stopped talking and grew pale. Nicole was frightened to see him look ill.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “So much time has passed,” Gumshoe began to mutter, examining the wall of the House. “So I didn’t remember right away. And in that place, there was no head.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This House! The Collector’s House!”

  “So?” Nicole was still confused. “That’s right, the House of the Collector who disappeared is in front of us. You said that. Now, we need to go in and look to see what’s inside. That’s it.” She pulled at the door handle and then poked at the keyhole that was hidden in the mouth of the copper head. “We need to open it or force it open somehow . . . ow!”