22 Chapter 20 (1/2)

Getting rid of a truth makes us wiser than getting hold of a delusion.

—NICHT LUDWIG BORNE

Aufschlag arrived at the private chambers of Schwacher Sucher nervous and sweating heavily. He pressed flat the oily fringe of hair surrounding his bald dome and struggled to find composure. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, and the knife, tucked into the tightly cinched belt that kept him from looking any more like a tent than he already did, pressed into his back. Should he loosen the belt a notch? What if the knife fell out? A few calming breaths did nothing for his pounding heart. Could he go through with his plan? Even more important, would he?

”Yes,” he whispered.

A thought stayed Aufschlag's hand partway into reaching up to knock on the oak door. What if the Geborene Mirrorist foresaw this? Konig often complained of the young Mirrorist's limitations, but Konig complained about everyone's faults. Nothing was ever good enough for the Geborene High Priest. Though the many corpses of Viele Sindein, Morgen's Mehrere bodyguard, had yet to be discovered, it was entirely possible Schwacher knew everything.

What if Konig waits within, already aware of my betrayal?

No. If Konig had advance knowledge of Aufschlag's plans, he would never have allowed Morgen to be stolen.

Aufschlag knocked gently and heard the immediate answer.

”Enter.”

Once inside, he stood facing Schwacher, who, in turn, stood staring at him. The Mirrorist, who looked to be still in his teens, displayed none of the self-mutilation common to the breed. After much research Aufschlag had postulated that the more grotesque the mutilation, the greater the Mirrorist's power.

Theory, Aufschlag suddenly thought, is all fine and good until it's faced with real life. His gaze darted about the room, seeking the mirrors he knew must be present. He saw none. The room was spare, undecorated, and showing nothing of the young Mirrorist's personality. The small fireplace looked scrubbed and clean, with no hint it had ever been used. Aufschlag stared at the fireplace. Did the Mirrorist freeze in the winter, or was this the sign of some obsessive disorder? For some reason the cleanliness of the fireplace reminded him of Morgen.

”Yes?” asked the Mirrorist expectantly.

”Your mirrors . . .”

”I keep them elsewhere,” said Schwacher, his face boyish and innocent. ”It's the only way to get a moment's peace.”

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Aufschlag nodded understanding to cover his surprise. Why must I always appear knowledgeable, even to people who will soon be dead? ”I need you to show me something. Some people. I need to see where they are going.”

Schwacher c.o.c.ked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow quizzically. ”Who are we spying on?”

Aufschlag explained the when, where, and who, and the young Mirrorist led him into another room, where a single ma.s.sive mirror hung in an ornate gilt frame. Together they watched the three brutal thieves kill Viele Sindein over and over. They watched the smallest thief, dressed unconvincingly as a Geborene Bishop, dart through the crowd of Vieles and kill the original. They saw the kidnappers take Morgen and flee the church, witnessed their flight west toward Neidrig.

”We have to—” began Schwacher.

”Wait.”

Schwacher frowned in confusion as the scene in the mirror wavered and changed to show Aufschlag, standing in the shadows, staring after the retreating kidnappers.

”You watched them leave,” he said, confused. ”They took Morgen and—”