That stopped him. The two lay on the street, Nacht on top, ignored by the pedestrians of Selbsthass.
“Get off me,” said Morgen “You can’t hurt me and I can’t hurt you.” Not yet. He’d find a way.
Nacht rolled off him, and lay on his back, twitching as if drowning. He watched as Morgen rose to stand over him. The Reflection showed no fear, just a maddening grin.
“What were you hoping to prove with that,” demanded Morgen.
“Nothing,” Nacht wheezed. He pointed an annoyingly clean finger at Morgen. “You have something on your robes.”
Morgen glanced down and saw a dark smear, not much larger than his own thumb, staining his chest. He willed his robes to perfection. Nothing happened.
“Won’t work,” said Nacht. “And any set of robes you wear will bear the same mark.” In a blink he was back in the window, once again a Reflection. “It’s not real. It’s a manifestation of delusion. A little reminder of your imperfection.”
His fingers caked with dried blood, Morgen resisted the urge to pick at the offending blemish. “I hate you,” he told his Reflection, voice shaking. “I hate you so much.”
“I’m not real. It isn’t me you hate.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I hear voices.
I have one whispering in my left ear, telling me to give alms to the poor, to protect the weak, and to love and respect my husband.
The voice in my right ear suggests I should take that bribe and use it to buy glücklich leaf. It says I should cudgel that homeless man to a boneless paste for puking on my boots after I spent hours polishing the damned things. It thinks there’s nothing wrong with rutting my husband’s brother.
In the centre of my skull I hear my voice. It’s small and confused and rarely offers advice. It’s not terribly useful.
I hear voices.
Who doesn’t?
—Verwirrung - Geldangelegenheiten City Guard
Bedeckt and Zukunft rode through tilled fields covered with manure for next spring’s growth. Zukunft sat hunched against the icy downpour, sodden blanket pulled tight in a futile attempt to stave off the cold. She shivered so hard Bedeckt thought her bones would break. When he suggested they stop and light a fire, she refused.
Why the hells did Zukunft—or her Reflection, it hardly mattered—send him on that pathetic rescue mission? If she saw the future, surely she knew it was doomed to failure before they took the first step. How did this further his plan to stop Morgen? Had she lied about everything?
Did she intend on helping him at all?
What was in it for her?
He’d been a fool.
Bedeckt didn’t feel the cold. Rage warmed him. He had many targets for that anger. Zukunft for bringing him to the site of the murders for no apparent reason. Her damned mirror for telling her there was a chance at saving them. The T?uschung priests, however, would bear the brunt of his fury.
He’d kill them first. Then he’d deal with Zukunft and her damned mirror.
The world grew dark, charcoal grey, drained of colour. Far to the west, hidden behind a wall of impenetrable cloud, the sun sank beneath the horizon. Beneath the horses’ hooves, the trail churned to mud, each step sounded like a sucking chest wound.
The village, a farming community of half a hundred souls, sat perched on the side of a long and shallow hill. The first few buildings they passed were simple homesteads, single story buildings of hewn logs and mud packed into the gaps. Rough wooden shutters, lashed closed against the rain, shook and rattled in the wind, sounding like they might tear free at any moment. Smoke guttered from ragged holes in roofs, snatched away by the tempest.
They rode past a mill, closed and battened against the storm. A smithy sat dark and empty, its forge cold and dead. The town’s streets were muck and manure, rising above his horse’s fetlocks. Ahead Bedeckt saw a church, the first storey constructed of rough fieldstones, the second of warped wooden slats hammered into thick beams. For a moment his thoughts swam in blood, but this was clearly a Wahnvor Stellung church. He bit back the bile of anger. Its still lurked beneath his flesh, ready to burst free.
An unnamed tavern sat in the centre of town, gold light leaking through cracks in the shutters. Only a rough carving of a pint mug above the door told Bedeckt what it was. Muted voices, strangely subdued, came from within.
Dismounting, Bedeckt approached the door and stopped, half-hand held against the rough wood surface. The axe hung in his right hand, water dripping from the tip of its blade to fall at his feet. He heard Zukunft slide from the saddle.
“Wait here,” he said without looking.
Bedeckt shoved open the door and strode in, letting it swing closed behind him. Four farmers sat gathered about a table, their clothes sheathed in mud, backs hunched and defensive. In the far corner, hidden in shadow, sat three dim figures. All eyes turned to him, watched the drip drip of water from his axe’s bright blade. On the farmers’ faces he saw hope, like he might save them from something.