Jean-Claude cracked an eye and found himself in a weirdly familiar room. Familiar because it was the mirror-gate room at the Chateau des Zephyrs. Weird because everything was skewed in his vision, stretched on one side and compressed on the other.
“Now I know what vomit feels like,” Jean-Claude said. “Why is everything lopsided?”
“A peculiar effect of perception, que? Your dominant eye has moved to the opposite side, so everything is distorted, and of course your perceptions of left and right are reversed.”
Indeed the room’s one barred window was on the opposite side from where Jean-Claude remembered it. Two comfortable wing chairs sat opposite the window, and a locked door—the hinges were on the wrong side—stood across from the mirror. Jean-Claude faced the mirror and saw that he, or rather his espejismo, had no reflection. The lack of it made him shudder. He turned to Don Divelo, but the man was not just distorted but distinctly taller and leaner. His gelatinous girth had been compacted into a solid column.
“You look … different,” Jean-Claude ventured.
“As do you,” said Don Divelo. “It’s called soul distortion. Your free reflection is shaped not just by your physical body but by your inner nature.”
Which implied Don Divelo’s inner nature was strong and solid instead of flabby. Such a distortion could equally well represent vanity.
Jean-Claude asked, “What do I look like?”
Don Divelo buffed his palms against each other. “Hmmm … I would have to say, lupine.”
Jean-Claude crossed his eyes trying to see if he had a wolflike snout, but it looked just like his nose to him.
“How much can you change?” he asked. “If you can change completely, you could pretend to be anybody.”
The changes are mostly small and involuntary, though you can control them somewhat with practice. Most of us develop an ideal that we sculpt over time.”
“I don’t like it,” Jean-Claude said. There were many things going on in his mind that he didn’t want on his face.
“You will get used to it in time,” Don Divelo said. “It’s easier if you concentrate on something else, like finding your rival’s agent.”
Indeed, having a mission could help one overcome all sorts of distractions. Jean-Claude tried the door and found it locked, to prevent uninvited Glasswalkers from emerging into the chateau at will. There was a bellpull, presumably to summon a servant to identify an unexpected visitor before giving them access.
“I do not wish to be seen,” Jean-Claude said.
Don Divelo’s eyebrows lifted, making coinlike discs of his mirrored eyes. “Why not? Surely the Comte des Zephyrs ought to know his daughter’s ship has been attacked.”
Jean-Claude made an emphatic cutting gesture with his left, or rather, his right hand. “The person I am looking for is surely a member of des Zephyrs’s court. Bringing this to the comte’s attention will only alert the prey to his danger.” Better by far if he could get out of the chateau without being detected. The trail he sought began in town at the docks, where a mirror had been added to Isabelle’s luggage.
Don Divelo’s eyebrows beetled. “How do you know he was a member of the court?”
“Several reasons, but mostly because he had an unscored, full-length mirror to hand for the purpose. Those things are rare and expensive here.”
Don Divelo made a scornful noise. “In Aragoth, it is considered an honor for every household of any worth to keep and maintain a mirror for the use of their noble masters.”
Jean-Claude bit his tongue on a tart retort about the honor of being forced to enable others to spy on oneself—he needed the fat bastard to carry him back to his body—and said, “Perhaps the Aragoth who is behind this did not realize how rare such mirrors are in l’Empire Céleste. It is certainly not a question that I can answer from in here.”
“Very well. Stand away from the door.” He approached the bellpull.
“Wait. What will you do while I am gone? And how will I find you again?”
“I will speak with Isabelle’s father regarding the details of his family’s attendance at his daughter’s wedding. When you are ready to return—and you must return before your real body suffers from dehydration, exhaustion, or hunger—simply tap a mirror, any mirror, and I will know where you are and come fetch you back to the ship.”
Jean-Claude pointed to the mirror from which they had emerged. “This is the only unscored mirror that I know of.”
“Scoring works because it breaks up the reflection and fractures the speculum loci; there is no contiguous space big enough for a Glasswalker to manifest. But right now you have no reflection and I don’t need to manifest to pull you through.”
“Good to know. And, purely for academic interest, mind you, what happens if someone stabs this body in the back?” Whoever had placed the mirror aboard the ship likely had other swords at his disposal.
“Your body might live, for a time, but without the part that thinks.”
Jean-Claude grunted understanding. He stood with his back to the wall next to the door. Don Divelo tugged the bellpull. Shortly, footsteps approached and a shadow darkened the lozenge-shaped window in the door.
“Ah, Don Divelo.” Jean-Claude recognized the chamberlain’s voice. Keys rattled in the lock, and the door glided open on well-oiled hinges. “Welcome to Chateau des Zephyrs. We were not expecting you.”
Jean-Claude’s thoughts thrilled with anticipation, but he could not feel his faraway heart racing or his blood thrumming. It was damnably disconcerting not to be able to feel excited.
Don Divelo stepped smoothly through the doorway. “I did not anticipate you would, but I thought the comte might like to discuss the details of his attendance at his daughter’s wedding…”
The door eased shut again. Jean-Claude slid the blade of his main gauche between the strike plate and the bolt. The chamberlain turned his key in the lock and swore quietly when the bolt refused to slide home. Jean-Claude grabbed the door handle and leaned back, keeping the door pulled shut as the chamberlain gave it a tentative tug. Go away!
“Is something amiss?” Don Divelo asked.
The chamberlain gave the door another tug. “Ah, apparently not.”
Jean-Claude sagged against the door and waited until the footfalls receded, then he peeked through the window, eased the door open, and slipped out.
Escaping the chateau, with its white marble halls, labyrinthine servants’ corridors, tall rooms, and wide balconies, was not as easy as it should have been. More than once, Jean-Claude got himself turned around in a space that should have been familiar. Descending the acropolis and navigating the tangle of narrow, backward streets was even more awkward, but he forged on to the taproom of the Bosun’s Ballast, or rather the “” as the sign above the door insisted on proclaiming.
The place still smelled of spilled ale and stale straw, but it was leaning the opposite direction from how Jean-Claude remembered it. The number of drunk sailors passed out in the corner seemed to have swelled on a tide of incoming naval vessels.