The Illusions In Between

by J M Robison

  Everyone is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Jaicom’s body relaxes. I think he really believed it was a joke on him.

  “Varlith is broken,” Jaicom says.

  “Broken?” I look Varlith up and down. He growls animalistically. The Fae Realm translates all languages instantly. In the Human Realm, Varlith can’t speak English.

  I take his head between my hands. He looks at me cautiously, even more so when I mutter the spell and draw my finger around his mouth. “Say something.”

  “The hunger pains are more trouble here.”

  “They certainly are.”

  Everyone huddles behind me, Jaicom’s cane tapping the stone methodically as we walk through dusty corridors, hanging wall swords rusted, grimy drapes reduced to threads. I think the boom outside the walls is thunder and not the waves. We enter the Grand Hall to rain pooling inside from massive holes in the ceiling. One of the double doors lays flat, though still, somehow, affixed by the bottom hinge.

  We walk over the fallen door. I make it twenty feet into the rain when I realize Varlith is not with us. I look back. He’s standing in the Grand Hall, staying dry.

  “Tis rain,” I call out. “Tis only water falling from the sky.”

  “An entire ocean will fall on us!”

  “Not that much. Ye shall be fine. Ye see that I’m fine, right?”

  “Will it kill me?”

  “Do ye see it killing me? This is my realm, Varlith. I haven’t…died in it yet.” I actually have, but that won’t reassure him. Never having to dance around the black plague, pray away bad humors, and hope bandits won’t rob you for your shoes, Varlith must be terrified of dying. I’m used to the daily threats. Varlith has never even experienced hunger pains. Born and raised in the Fae Realm.

  He thrusts an arm into the rain, then retracts it with a startled gasp. “I feel something!”

  “Ye feel the cold.”

  Jaicom dances on his toes. Impatient and wet.

  It takes much too long for Varlith to finally step out of the doorway, and when he does, he thrashes and growls, snapping his jaws as if to bite the offensive rain.

  “We’re going to be noticed on the ferry,” Jaicom grumbles.

  Chapter Eight

  Darik

  My impromptu imprisonment makes me laugh, despite my pain and coming fate. A belt cinches my hands around the pipe behind me, so they’ve long since swollen. At least, I think they’ve swollen. I can’t feel them anymore. Maybe they fell off, and I’ve been sitting here unbound this whole time.

  I strain.

  Nope. Hands still there.

  I’m in the catacombs beneath the Basilica of di San Crisogono. I might die beneath this church while in the hazard of bestowing a godly service to those less fortunate, but I doubt the pope would bless me a martyr and turn me into a saint–build a church in my name–but only because there’s nothing left to be a saint of. Except for chaos. Darik, Saint of Chaos. At least, the Camorra think so.

  Sigismondo donated his belt to tie my hands. The blow to my head knocked me stupid long enough for him to do so with little resistance. Pain throbs behind both my eyes. He could’ve killed me an hour ago, but pomp and power never were achieved because you said you did something. Even gladiators in the colosseum needed spectators.

  Boots on stone echo into my chamber. Sigismondo enters first, long strides sweeping his cloak around both ankles as he paces back and forth in front of me. Other Camorra enter after, filling the damp space.

  “Hardly proves your worth killing me with my hands bound,” I challenge with a swollen lower lip.

  “I’m not worried about my worth. I just want you dead.”

  “Imagine Aristotle writing your history: Sigismondo, killed all his enemies with their hands tied behind their backs. His gladiator ancestors would be ashamed.” I turn my head and tighten my neck as his boot connects with my ear.

  “Bet you couldn’t have kicked him with his hands untied,” protests one of the spectating Camorra. “Let’s see you do that again, man to man.”

  I grin despite the warm blood sliding down my neck.

  This proclamation echoes among the rest and I catch a snippet of “…if you’re our capo, you’ll prove yourself…”

  Sigismondo whirls on them, thrusting a shaking finger at me. “This devil stole over two thousand florins from me!” He acts as if he’ll kick me again, but a Camorra steps between him and me.

  “I’ll fight Darik man to man, and the Camorra will make me the capo when I’ve finished him.”

  This is sustained by a unanimous, “Yes! Luigi for capo!”

  “Quite!” Sigismondo drops to a knee behind me. I can’t tell if he’s loosened the belt because all sensation to my wrists and fingers has numbed.

  He stands up, sliding his belt through the loops on his britches. I pull my hands in front of me, flexing all ten fingers. They tingle with terrible pain.

  “Get up.”

  “I won’t be any challenge at all if I can’t use my hands,” I say. “You put the belt on too tight.”

  “He’s stalling!” He whirls on his fellow Camorra, who shake their heads.

  Luigi steps forward. “If you’re too important to wait, you can go home. I’ll finish up here.”

  Sigismondo snorts and folds his arms. “I’ll do it.”

  I can’t be too long, or they’ll pick up on my ruse, so I stand. I flutter my left eye where he struck me on the side of the head, hunch my shoulders, and limp. I hold both fists up in front of me. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “You’ve injured him too badly,” shouts someone, motivated by previous comments about the ease of this fight. “I could kick him to Hades with my big toe.”

  Sigismondo’s shoulders rise as he inhales too much air. “You’re right. Let’s give him three days to recover. Oh, but we’ll have to feed and water him, too, so he’ll have his strength. And we’ll need to give him a bed to lay on, so he’ll be well rested, and a massaggiatrice to relieve his muscles so they won’t be sore. Is that what you all want to see? Eh? Tadeo, you take the first watch. Fetch him bread and wine.”

  The named Camorra did not move.

  “Is that a no, Tadeo? So, you’re telling me that I, Capo Sigismondo, actually know what I’m doing? That I know this man has robbed us of more florins than the Catholics pay in tithing every year? That I don’t give a damn that he’s wounded, because my intent today, right now, is to kill him, whether he’s blind, crippled, or impotent? If that bothers your sensitivities, you may leave, and be sure to pray at the altar in the church above us on your way out.”

  He draws the stiletto he took from me and advances. I back up toward the stairs, fists up. Two Camorra stand behind me, blocking my path. Sigismondo coils his knife-wielding arm across his chest and arcs it toward me.

  I drop to the dirt, catching myself on my hands. In the same motion, I curl in my knees and kick out my feet into the kneecaps of both Camorra behind me. They holler, but I don’t know for sure if they drop because I grab Sigismondo’s ankle and pull toward me, rolling onto my back.

  Sigismondo crashes backward with a gasp. Facing the stairs, I leap to my feet, jumping up and curling in my knees as one of the Camorra I had kicked negotiates the ground to grab at me. I flee up the stairs.

  That nameless Camorra did not lie. I am injured. Nausea sloshes in my head, aggravating the biting pain behind my left eye with every stomp of my boot.

  I’m out of the catacomb and onto the street, chased by two Camorra.

  Having been kicked several times prior to my incarceration under the church, I lag, muscles preferring to baby my injuries instead of making them work to save my life. Hoping the Camorra just leave me in a gutter is too much to hope for.

  I’m almost to the Tiber. They catch up. Where I’ve fought three at one time before, it doesn’t take much for them to yank me to the street; my desire for life is not enough to give me strength.

  One draws his stiletto. Luigi. He stabs it toward my chest.
I block it with my hand still partially numb, the narrow blade sliding center bone and muscle I barely feel. I grip the cross guard and wrench it out of his grip, punching him in the face with the hilt, and buck my hips to dislodge him. The second Camorra grabs at me, but three rolls across the street and I drop into the river.

  Water gushes up my nose. I sink deeper, the current pushing me down stream. I come up for air but sink under again. I come up again, and I’m around the bend and out of sight.

  I kick over to the opposite bank, water clawing at my clothes to suck me back in. Unable to do much else than lean over my elbows and pull one leg at a time onto shore, I lay on my back, choking on frigid air and sobs of pain. I unfurl my fingers and slide the bloody stiletto out of my hand.

  I lay there until the sun rises.

  Chapter Nine

  Zadicayn

  Varlith crunches on a rabbit he found, Joseara grumbles about the dress I bought her, and Jaicom sits on a root, straight-backed so his top hat will stop the rain from drizzling down the back of his neck, patient with us all. Or given up. His silence is appreciated in either case.

  “If you don’t have to wear a hat, then I’m not wearing a dress.”

  “Jaicom is an English lord now. Half of Europe knows his father’s name and half of England knows Jaicom’s face. People shall already question his travels, so let us not give them further pause to wonder about his companions. We all must dress in accordance with the accompanying lord.”

  “What about Varlith? You both aren’t dressed like Englishmen.”

  “There is no hope for Varlith. He shall pass as a Russian and act as if to be traveling alone. I’ll put an illusion about myself to look dressed as an Englishman.”

  “Put an illusion spell around me wearing a dress.”

  “I already have to do so for ye face. If I spread myself out too thin, all my illusions shall fail. Put on the dress. It shan’t kill ye.”

  She snorts as loudly as Varlith, who is now licking his bloody talons, and jams her muddy boots into the dress, mumbling all the while about this being the exact reason why she left English society, though I know that’s false, because the murder of her family and near-murder of herself drove her into hiding.

  She gets the dress over her shoulders, and I stare at the lacework tie which must be closed and secured to keep the dress to her body. Brynn doesn’t wear these dresses anymore.

  “Jaicom?”

  The Lord of Valemorren rises to his feet, polished shoes squelching in the mud as he walks to stand behind Joseara. We stare at the laces together.

  “Clarissa wears these, but men are not taught how to tie or untie them.”

  If we keep stalling, we’ll never make it to Rome. I grab the two loose ends of the ties and yank on them, pulling them until there are no loose loops. Having two extremely long ends, I tie them into a giant mess of a ball and spell an illusion of an elaborate sequence of tied knots, as best as I can remember from what I’ve seen on women’s dresses at social affairs.

  “Face me,” I tell her.

  She spins around. I can’t tell her expression through the mask and hood she wears to cover up her burned face and near baldness. I speak Faery and illusion a woman’s face and hair on her. I was tempted to use Brynn’s face, but that would only confuse my heart. I mimic Joseara’s features from the gypsy doyenne in Bristol.

  “Done. Let us be off.” I shoulder my pack and walk away from them all. They’re quick to follow.

  We’re not far from Dover. I stand on the edge of the hill and look down at the port. A massive paddle steamer sways in the water, SS Princess Alice arching white words across the sea-stained hull.

  “That’s our boat,” Jaicom says.

  I see the eagerness in Jaicom to get out of the weather with his tense shoulders and bent head, though he is refined enough to not complain.

  They follow me down the hill. We come down the way I hope not to be noticed. It’s not in proper society where two well-dressed gentlemen and lady would be walking in the rain and coming down a hill on the backside of the port. Soon buildings stand between us and the street, and I breathe easier.

  Everyone’s wet and shivering, except for Varlith who seems indifferent. We come around the building and cross the street as soon as there’s a gap between hand-carts and carriages. I let Jaicom take over from here since my expertise on travel methods concluded upon our disembarkation from the dragon’s back. We wait while Jaicom proceeds to the ticket office and returns.

  “Three pounds for each of us. You owe me nine,” he says to me.

  Our agreement was that I would pay for Joseara and Varlith since it was upon me alone who brought them along.

  I pull nine Fae Wood discs out of my coat pocket, roughly the same size and shape as a coin. I finger the spell on each of them, and they each take on the size, color, feel, and shape of the same English pounds in Jaicom’s purse. I hand them over to him.

  “You joking with me?” Jaicom thrusts the Fae Coins back at me. “We’re friends, Zadicayn, but I will not settle to be cheated on money per our agreement.”

  “It’s real.”

  “It’s magicked.”

  “It looks and feels the same as the English pounds in thy purse, no?”

  “They’re not real.”

  “Hand me a pound out of thy purse.”

  He grumbles but does so, slapping it into my hand. I cup my hands together and shake up both the real coin and the Fae Coins together, handing them all back to him. “Pick out thy English pound.”

  Jaicom fingers through them, eyebrows drawn together. I walk past him toward the boat and tip my illusioned black hat toward the man who looks like the captain of the vessel. He nods politely, but when Jaicom comes up behind me, the captain says, “Greetings, Lord Whaerin.”

  “Greetings.”

  The three of us walk up the gangplank, Varlith farther behind us. Jaicom leads us to the lower deck, out of the rain, and secures us a spot at the back near the smoke stack.

  “Trip will take two hours,” he says. “Pending upon the tide at Calais. We might have to wait to disembark once we get there.”

  A musician group center of the deck plays a ballad of sorts. I’ve not yet grown to like current English music. Too slow. Not filled with the robusto reminding me of roaring fires in grand halls and men throwing daggers into the table.

  I’m watching passengers board when I get the distinct feel of Eudora standing to my right. Because of the vehement desire, she displayed to come with me, I turn to make sure she’s not actually standing there. She’s not. Really, she could be there, just five layers away in the Fae Realm. With her spirit, I wouldn’t be surprised if she threatened a Fae Realm resident to carry her to Dover. I specifically didn’t tell her where Rome was, just in case she attempted to traipse across Europe after me on the Fae Realm side.

  I duck my head, hands braced on the railing. “I loveth thee, Eudora.” My heart opens at the silent proclamation. Just three days ago, I had a wife, daughter, and baby son. Now I have a thief, dragon, and Valemorren’s Lord.

  “Why don’t we fly?” Varlith asks behind me.

  I ease back to a straight posture. The dragon’s eyes dart side to side, seemingly uneased with the growing press of bodies. Jaicom inhales to respond, but I save him the trouble.

  “Because dragons don’t exist in this realm.”

  “So?”

  “Because you would scare everyone, and people kill what scares them.”

  “I’ll set them on fire. You said dragons breathe fire, yes?”

  “We’re not flying,” I say with finality. “Ye have lived in the Fae Realm all thy life, so ye wouldn’t understand the human complexities of needing things like food and water, a place to urinate and sleep. And it’s damn uncomfortable flying on the back of anything for extended periods of time.” They’re all good excuses. The real reason? Jaicom refused to ride the dragon. Ever. Again. I can’t be picky about Jaicom’s desired method of travel. I didn’t h
ave to invite him.

  He didn’t have to agree to come.

  This paddle steamer, as Jaicom called it, takes its promised two hours to reach Calais, France. The captain announces the tide at the harbor is too shallow to enter, so we either pay a boatman to row us to shore or wait out the hour. Money being a concern for all of us, we wait.

  “These hunger pains are worse here.” Varlith eyes a well-fed woman holding a pink parasol against the drizzle above her.

  Suppose I should warn Varlith–when we are not in so public a place–that humans are not to be eaten.

  The Princess Alice roars to life again, and we proceed to the harbor.

  Varlith goes ahead of us first this time, trailing after the fat woman. We exit the gangplank into a street market, men at venders hawking cloth, medicine, fish (lots of fish), and jewelry. Jaicom walks past them all, raising a hand to show disinterest.

  He leads us to a building boasting the words: Banque de France. “Wait here.” He goes inside.

  I don’t know where Varlith has gone off to. I hope he’s not munching on the fat woman. The rabbit he ate before we boarded only awakened his desire for blood and meat.

  Three hundred or so people disembark from our boat and clog the street, hoodwinked into buying from the noisy venders or swept into the building Jaicom entered. I notice a gentleman standing in the massive throng, but only because he is neither moving with the flow nor buying from the venders. He’s staring straight at me. He’s dressed as an Italian. I’ll be watching for your arrival, said Carlo’s note he left for me in Bristol, and again in my castle after he took Brynn.

  He sees that I see him. He nods once and merges into the throng and is swept away.

  Varlith appears next to me, needled fangs tearing into what looks like a freshly plucked chicken.

  “If the constables catch ye stealing, they shall lock ye up in a dungeon.”

  “What’s stealing?”

  I relent. “Ask me to get ye food next time.”

  “Why? I can’t feed myself?”

  “Remember thou art not in the Fae Realm. Ye must ask me before ye act on anything, and that includes eating and urinating.”