himself had heard Brother Okros talking to Hendon Tolly about Chaven’s glass.
In any case, he would let discretion rule. He bowed. “I am Chert of the Blue Quartz. The Guild of Stone- Cutters sent me.”
“Yes, you are expected. And you know much of mirrors?”
Chert spoke carefully. “I am of the Blue Quartz. We are part of the Crystal clan and a mirror is merely an object made from crystal or glass, so all Funderling mirror-work is overseen by us. And yes, I do know some few things. Whether that will be enough for your needs, my lord, we shall see.”
Okros gave him an appraising look. “Very well. I will take you to it.”
The scholar took a lantern from the tabletop and led Chert out of the high-ceilinged observatory and down a succession of corridors and stairways. Chert had been in Chaven’s house before, of course, but not often, and he had little idea where they were now except that they were traveling downward. For a moment he became fearfully certain that the man was taking him to the secret door Chert himself had employed when Chaven lived here, that he knew exactly who Chert was and what had brought him here, but instead, when they had gone down several floors, the little physician opened a door off the hallway with a key and beckoned him inside. An object covered with a cloth stood in the middle of an otherwise empty table, like an oddly shaped corpse waiting burial—or resurrection.
Okros removed the cloth with careful fingers. The mirror was just as Chaven had described it, but Chert did his best to look at it as though he had never seen it or heard of it before. Carved hands, the fingers spread in different arrangements, alternated with crude but compelling eyes around the dark wood of the frame. The curve was there, too, just enough of a convexity to make the reflection slightly unstable to a moving observer: in fact, it was disturbing to look at it for more than a few moments.
“And what exactly did you wish to know, my lord?” Chert asked carefully. “It looks like an ordinary...that is, it looks as though it is...unbroken.”
“Yes, I know!” For the first time, Chert could detect a hint of something strange under the physician’s words. “It is...it does nothing.”
“Nothing? I’m sorry, what...?”
“Don’t pretend you are ignorant, Funderling.” Okros shook his head angrily, then calmed himself. “This is a scrying glass. Surely you and your people did not think I would send for help to deal with an ordinary mirror? It is an authentic scrying glass—a ‘Tile,’ as they are sometimes called—but it remains dead to me. Do you still pretend ignorance?”
Chert kept his eyes on the glass. The man was not just angry, he was frightened somehow. What could that mean? “I pretend nothing, Lord, and I am not ignorant. I just wished to hear what it was you wanted. Now, what more can you tell me?” He tried to remember Chaven’s words. “Is it a problem of reflection or refraction?”
“Both.” The physician seemed mollified. “The substance seems intact, as you see, but as an object it is inert. As a scrying glass, it is useless. I can make nothing of it.”
“Can you tell me anything of where it comes from?”
Okros looked at him sharply. “No, I cannot. Why do you ask?”
“Because the literature of scrying glasses, and the unwritten lore as well, must be applied to that which is known, to help discover that which is unknown.” He hoped he didn’t sound too much like he was making things up (which he was): Chaven had told him a few facts and a name or two to drop when the occasion seemed to warrant, but there was no way of knowing ahead of time precisely what Okros would want to know. “Perhaps I could take it back to the Funderling Guild...”
“Are you mad?” Okros actually put his arms around the thing as if guarding a small, helpless child from a ravening wolf. “You will take nothing! This object is worth more than Funderling Town itself!” He stared at Chert, eyes narrowed to slits.
“Sorry, my lord. I only thought...”
“You will remember that it is an honor even being called to consult. I am the prince-regent’s physician—the royal physician!—and I will not be trifled with.”
Chert suddenly and for the first time felt frightened, not just of Okros himself—although the man could call the guards and have Chert locked in a dungeon in moments if he wished—but of his strange feverishness. It reminded him more than a little of the odd behavior he had seen from Chaven. What was it about this mirror that turned men into beasts?
“If anything,” Okros said, “I should come and examine the library in Funderling Town. The Guild would make it available to me, of course.”
Chert knew this would be a bad idea in many ways. “Of course, my lord. They would be honored. But most of the knowledge about subjects like these glasses cannot be found in books. Most of it is in the minds of our oldest men and women. Do you speak Funderling?”
Okros stared at him as though he were joking. “What do you mean, speak Funderling? Surely no one down there speaks anything but the common tongue of the March Kingdoms?”
“Oh, no, Brother Okros, sir. Many of our older folk have not left Funderling Town in years and years and they speak only the old tongue of our forefathers.” Which was not entirely a lie, although the numbers who could only speak Old Funderling were tiny. “Why don’t you let me go back to the Guild with your questions—and my observations too, of course—and see what answers I can bring back in a day or two. Surely for someone as busy as yourself, with all your responsibilities, that would be the best solution.”
“Well, perhaps...”
“Let me just make a few notes.” He rapidly sketched the mirror and its frame and made notations in the margin just as he would have while planning a particularly intricate scaffolding installation. When he had stalled as long as he could, he remembered something else Chaven had told him, which had made no sense but which he wanted Chert to discover. There had been some artful way he had wanted Chert to pose the question, but he couldn’t remember, so he just asked bluntly. “Have you seen anything unusual in the mirror? Birds or animals?”
Okros looked at Chert as though he had suddenly sprouted wings or a tail himself. “No,” he said at last, still staring. “No, I told you it was lifeless.”
“Ah. Of course.” Chert bowed, hung his slate around his neck, and backed toward the door. He no longer thought Okros quite as friendly and harmless as he first had. “Thank you for the honor of asking for us, my lord. I shall consult with my fellows in the Guild and return soon.” “Yes. Well, just do not wait too long.”
Chert had his hood up against the cold, so even though she was twice his height he nearly walked into her when she stepped out of the shadows near the Raven’s Gate. Startled, he stopped and looked up, but it took him a moment to recognize her—he had only seen her once, of course, and that had been well over a month ago.
“You’re the one who came to my house,” he said. She still had the same distracted look, like a sleepwalker. “You never told me your name.”
“Willow,” said the young woman. “But it does not matter. That was someone’s name who is gone now, or has changed.” She did not move on. Clearly, she wanted something, but Chert began to feel if he did not ask her she might never disclose it, that they would both remain standing here until night fell and then dawn came again.
“Do you need something?”
She shook her head. “Nothing you can give me.” Chert’s patience, never his best feature, had been tested beyond belief this year, and it seemed the tests were far from over. “Then perhaps you will excuse me—my wife will be holding supper.”
“I wish to speak to you about the one called Gil,” she said. Chert suddenly remembered. “Ah, of course. You were very attached to him, weren’t you?” She didn’t speak, but only watched him attentively. “I’m very sorry, but we were both captured by the fairy-soldiers. They let me go, but their queen, or their general, or whatever she was, sentenced Gil to death. He’s dead. I’m sorry I could not do more for him.” She shook her head. “No. He is not dead.”
He saw the look in her eyes. “Of course. His spirit lives on, no doubt. Now I must go. Again, I’m sorry for how things happened.”
The young woman smiled, an almost ordinary thing, but it still had a quality of ineffable strangeness. “No, he is not dead. I hear his voice. He speaks to Lady Porcupine every day. She hates what he has to say, because he speaks with the king’s voice.”
