The Reach Between Worlds Page 2

  Taro gently grabbed Nima’s shoulder. “It’s just the sickness messing with his head.”

  Nima pulled away. “You’re still defending him?”

  “Please don’t,” Taro said softly.

  Nima scrunched her face and glared at Taro, then at her father. “I hate you.”

  Nima stormed out. Taro started to follow, but his mother stopped him. “Let her be.”

  They left, without another word to Taro’s father, and shut the door.

  An hour later, the haze of anger had lifted. Taro sat elbows-deep in a wash bucket, trying to get the gunk out of an enormous cast iron pot.

  Decker and Enam flicked soapy water at him. “I’m going to get you two. Mom, stop them,” Taro said.

  His mom coughed out a laugh. “Not my fault you don’t know how to dodge.” She faced Nima’s room and tried to holler, but it came out a squeak. “Nima! Your food’s going to be stone-cold.”

  There was no answer.

  “I’ll get her.” Taro rapped on her door. “Sis? You awake?”

  Again, no answer.

  He pushed the door open. The room was dark, but he could make out Nima’s tiny outline on the bed, covered in blankets.

  “You really should eat.”

  Taro poked the blankets, until he realized that Nima was not there. When he pulled them up, there were only pillows underneath.

  At first, he didn’t know what to do. He had no idea where she would run off to, until he saw a folded piece of parchment on her bedside table. He checked his pockets for the paper Mathan gave him. Nothing. She must’ve swiped it.

  He unfolded the parchment. In Nima’s neat, straight handwriting were the words:

  Ready now. Where? How much?

  And below, in fancy penmanship:

  One thousand crowns. Craiven & Boors. One hour. Don’t be seen.

  Chapter Two

  Stolen Goods

  if you grew up in Ashwick, you knew from an early age to stay away from Craiven & Boors. The rotting sign outside said Purveyor of Rare Artifacts & Sundries, which was just a fancy way of saying stolen goods. The building was a dump: boarded-up windows, a rusted fence, and bricks crumbling out of the walls.

  When Taro thumped on the door, a small panel slid open.

  “We’re closed,” a woman’s voice called from inside.

  “Miss Craiven, it’s me.”

  “Oh, Taro dearest.” She unlatched the eight heavy locks and pushed the door open. Miss Craiven was a plump woman, with an orange girdle so tight, she looked like a misshapen pumpkin. She pulled Taro into a hug. “You never stop by to see your Auntie Craiven. Victor must be paying you well.”

  Taro yanked free. “I’m not working anymore.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.” Miss Craiven pinched his cheek. “Come inside or you’re going to freeze to death.”

  Taro hated Craiven & Boors. The rotting floorboards, the musty smell, the ever-present cramped feeling. The shop was packed with bizarre merchandise: jars of toad eyes, daggers made of human femurs, and taxidermy animals sewed into hideous chimeras. You could purchase playing cards that changed their suit when turned a certain way, or dice that always rolled a seven. These were the more benign items; the choice merchandise was kept out of sight.

  Taro started toward the back room. “Where’s Mr. Boors?”

  Miss Craiven forced a fluttery laugh. “He’s supposed to be taking me to the theater tonight. But ever since Victor stopped by, he’s held himself in his study.”

  “Mathan was here?”

  “I assumed you knew. He was talking to your sister about some long-term work.”

  “Did he say what kind?”

  Miss Craiven wagged her finger. “You know better than to ask that. But between you and me, maybe one of the boys could point you in the right direction.” Miss Craiven patted Taro on the head and started toward the stairs to the second floor. “We’re going to miss the show!” she shouted up.

  Mr. Boors hollered back, “Confounded woman, I’m working. This deal could change our lives.”

  “You’re not skipping out on me again, Herald. Come down this instant.”

  Taro left them to their shouting match and went to the back room. The moment he entered, one of the boys called to him.

  “Oy! Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence.”

  An old friend, Sikes, and four other boys sat, playing poker on a wooden crate. Sikes was raking chips into his giant pile.

  “Come for a game?” another boy said.

  “Nah, that couldn’t be Taro,” Sikes said. “Didn’t you hear? He doesn’t work anymore. Too good for us.”

  “They always come back,” the boy said. “It’s been what, six months? That’s got to be a record. If you ask real nice, I’m sure Boors will set you up with somethin’.”

  Taro motioned for Sikes to follow him out. “I need to talk to you.”

  Sikes didn’t budge. “Bit busy right now.”

  “It’s about Nima.”

  “Oh, I know what it’s about. If you’re looking for someone to squeal on her, you’d best look elsewhere.” Sikes drew another card and added it to his hand.

  Taro grabbed Sikes by the arm. “Nima can’t get involved with Mathan.”

  “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you got her started. Mathan would have my neck, if I went blabbering about our job.”

  “Your job? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That isn’t how this works. You don’t run off for six months and come back makin’ demands. I got nothing to say, so turn that bum leg of yours around and hobble your ass out of here.”

  “Would you at least tell me if she’s still in Ashwick?”

  “What part of sod off don’t you understand?”

  Taro took a deep breath. “You’re going to get your face punched in, one of these days.”

  “Maybe. But not right now, and not by you.”

  Taro’s seething turned into a wicked grin. “You know, you’re right.” He snatched the deck of cards out of Sikes’ hand and exposed the last three cards: all aces. “Just for your information, gentlemen, Sikes has a habit of dealing off the bottom of the deck. If I were you, I’d ask for a refund.”

  One of the boys flipped the table, and another smacked Sikes in the face with a chair as Taro slipped out. Miss Craiven was near the door, listening in.

  “A shame you boys couldn’t work things out,” she said. A chair leg went flying past her head, just as the door shut. “Dreadful. I hope they don’t hurt him too badly.”

  Taro didn’t slow down.

  “I assume you’ll be paying Victor a visit?” Craiven said, stopping Taro at the door. “Listen—”

  “Be careful, I know.”

  “It’s more than that. Victor is a ruthless man, but it’s not him you should worry about.”

  “Who, then?”

  She lowered her voice. “Let’s just say he’s not working alone. Please...stay alive.”

  ___

  Taro must have stepped in every puddle on his way from Craiven & Boors, because his trouser legs were soaked by the time he got to the other side of town. Darkness consumed the streets like a black cloud. Pointed rooftops leaned over the road, and flickering lampposts cast sinister shadows onto the wet cobblestone. Dogs barked in the distance, couples argued in candlelit homes, but the streets were empty.

  At least that’s what he thought, until he ran headfirst into an old beggar man. The man stumbled into the mud and his things went flying: candleholders, silverware, circus posters, books, and a cuckoo clock—not to mention the man’s walking stick.

  Taro sat up against a nearby lamppost. “Sorry.”

  The man patted his hands through the mud, collecting his things into a dirty pile. “No, no, no.”

  “Did I break anything?” Taro asked.

  “Yes, you did. Look at you, blustering about, not looking where you’re going.”

  Taro realized what he’d broken. One of the l
eather straps on his prosthetic was snapped in half. When he tugged at the strap, the buckle came loose. “Damn it.” His eyes darted back to the man. “Can I buy your walking stick?”

  The man was polishing off a kitten-shaped ceramic plate with a dirty rag. He seemed surprised that despite his best efforts, the plate only got dirtier. “No.”

  “I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Some kindness would do.”

  Taro felt like a jerk. He scooted closer and helped collect the man’s things. “I’m sorry. My sister’s in trouble, and I’m in a hurry.”

  The man was decidedly more gracious. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The worst kind. With the worst guy. I need to get to her, before she gets herself killed.”

  “You’ll never catch her in that condition.” The man pointed two fingers at Taro’s wooden foot, and the straps twisted and fused back together.

  Taro tugged at the buckle in astonishment. “You’re a magister!”

  The man shushed him. “Off you go.”

  Taro had never seen a magister before. They were the highest-ranking soldiers in the Sun King’s army, but rarely ventured past the walls of Endra Edûn. A homeless magister was somewhat of a contradiction.

  By the time Taro got to the alley, it was pouring, and the painted door was not easy to find. When he did, he hollered and banged on it for several minutes with no success. A moment later, he heard a familiar voice call to him. It was the magister.

  “It only opens for those with an appointment. I believe I can be of assistance,” he said.

  “Why would you help me?”

  “Somebody in your line of work should know better than to ask a question like that.”

  “How do you know what my line of work is?”

  “If it involves Victor Mathan, it’s not hard to guess. Suffice it to say that there’s something inside that I need. If you help me, I’ll help you.” He held out his hand to shake. “Do we have a deal?”

  Taro peered down at the magister’s dirty hands and long, brown fingernails. “Deal,” he said, though he passed on shaking.

  The magister motioned Taro to follow. As he walked, his pack clinked and clacked, like a jack-in-the-box. With each step, wrenches rattled against copper tubes and flutes smacked into brass rings.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shush!” the magister said. “You want the whole neighborhood to hear you?”

  The audacity of the comment took a moment for Taro to process. “That stuff you’re hauling—”

  “I could stand in the middle of Front Street, shrieking like a banshee, and nobody would notice me. You don’t need magic to be invisible in a town like this. Being poor works just the same. So stand behind me and think quiet thoughts.”

  The magister took a few steps forward. “Quieter.”

  “But—”

  “Quieter!”

  The magister looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear, and hurried toward a sewer grate in the middle of the road. “Keep an eye out. There’s some nasty magistry on this thing.” He fished out a metal device that looked like a combination of a stone chisel and an ink pen from his pocket and drew lines and strange letters around the grate.

  A few carriages passed without incident, though the coachmen did give them curious looks.

  The magister mumbled to himself. “Four ley lines? What are they teaching people these days? I swear. And what’s this? No, that goes here.” Suddenly, he grabbed Taro’s hand and shouted. “Please, sir, alms for the poor. Help an old war hero?”

  A town constable stood only a few yards away with his arms crossed. “You harassing people again?”

  The magister stayed low. “Just trying to get a warm meal for the night.”

  Taro tossed him a copper noble. “He’s no bother. I was just heading home.”

  The constable hummed. “See that you do. And you, magister,” he said, with considerable sarcasm, “I don’t want to see you west of Dock Street again. Keep over there with the Helian garbage. Clear?”

  “Inescapably.”

  Taro and the magister walked in opposite directions, until the constable was out of sight. Afterwards, they met back at the grate.

  “You had one job to do,” the magister said. He held up one greasy finger and stifled Taro’s response. “Doesn’t matter, I think I’ve got it licked. Stand back.” He grabbed the grate on both sides and heaved until it lifted. “In you go.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At the bottom, there’s a narrow pipe that should lead you to Mathan’s cellar. Once you’re inside, get to the front door and let me in. Simple as that.”

  “Simple, sure.” Taro peered down into the black sewer pit.

  “Oh, and this is very important: don’t touch anything. Especially not the water.”

  “What’s wrong with the water?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Hurry before that nit blusters back over here. I really don’t want to use another mind hex on him; I think they might be causing brain damage.”

  Taro held on to the sides of the manhole and took a deep breath. “How deep does this go?”

  “Best not to think about it.”

  Chapter Three

  A Thousand Blinking Eyes

  Taro landed on his backside into a shallow stream of sewer water. It was only a storm drain, but reeked of mold and fermenting matter it had collected over the years. He pushed against the knee-high current and forced himself through a narrow pipe at the end.

  When he was on the other side, he squeezed his shirt, and a pint of water came out. “Don’t touch the water. Sure.”

  Light flickered from a culvert leading into a dank circular room. The walls were lined with tall shelves packed full of books and scrolls. Strapped onto a wooden table in the center was a creature so horrendous, Taro’s mind strained to take in what he was seeing.

  It was a slimy mass of tendrils and teeth, with five legs and something resembling a body. It flopped around wildly, gnashing its jagged black teeth. It must’ve had a thousand eyes, and each of them moved and blinked independently.

  On a wheeled cart nearby were scalpels and sutures, and beside them, open books scribbled full of notes in a strange language.

  Taro pressed his back against the bookshelf and moved to the stairwell leading up to the ground floor. As he did, he passed a barred doorway to some sort of cell; inside was a single table, two chairs, and a sleeping cot. Carved into the stone wall of the cell were five deep grooves filled with dry blood.

  Taro bolted up the staircase and into the polar opposite of the dungeon-like room below. The floor was redwood, with fine black and gold rugs running past portraits of Mathan’s extended family and various hunting trophies.

  The gallery at the end of the corridor had a vaulted ceiling, twice as tall as the hall, and the walls were adorned with ivory tusks, elk heads, and an array of crossbows. The only light source in this room was the fireplace on the opposite end. An ancient man in a white doctor’s coat stood on the hearth; his hair was black with white strands throughout, and his grizzled, leathery skin hung off his bones like a used rag.

  Mathan wasn’t far off. He set the brown package Taro and Nima acquired for him on the mantelpiece and lit a cigar on an ember.

  “Those things will kill you,” the old man said.

  Mathan took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. “Worried about my health?”

  “I’m not that kind of doctor.” The old man steepled his bone-thin fingers. “We must proceed quickly. The Magisterium won’t keep Vexis alive forever.”

  “She just had to get herself caught,” Mathan said. “She’s reckless.”

  “I trust that Vexis knows what she’s doing. But do you? Is trusting this venture to children the wisest course of action? If they’re discovered, the Magisterium will execute them, children or not.”

  “No doubt.”

  Taro crept past the door and hurried down the hallway, checking every tu
rn and room for a way to the main door. Eventually, he found it.

  The magister was there, waiting. “I was beginning to worry.”

  Taro spoke a mile a minute. “There’s something alive, downstairs. Some kind of monster.”

  The magister’s expression was flat. “Show me.”

  The two returned to the cellar. The creature on the table was completely still. The magister approached it with disgust and leafed through some of the nearby books.

  “Is it dead?” Taro said.

  “I’m not sure it was ever alive.” The magister’s finger paused over a sketch of the creature. He recoiled like he’d just touched a red-hot frying pan. He scratched at his forehead and temples like some deep, seething pain was boiling to the surface. It soon passed, and he wiped blood from his eyes.

  “I remember this place,” he said, still shaking. “They kept me here. Experimented on me.” The magister grabbed Taro by the arm. “They tried to make me forget. Tried to convince me I was crazy.”

  Taro’s first instinct was to run. Had it not been for Nima’s well-being, he wouldn’t even have entertained staying in such a place with an obvious loon.

  The magister stuffed the papers into his many pockets and loaded up armfuls of books. “They fried my brain to keep me from talking.”

  It seemed almost cruel to play into his delusion, but Taro couldn’t help but ask, “Why not just kill you?”

  “That’s...hard to explain. I’m going to have a better look around. Go on and find your sister, but don’t let them see you.”

  Taro returned to the gallery, and, to his relief, Nima was inside and unharmed. Sikes was beside her and in considerable pain from his recent ass-kicking.

  Mathan looked his bloody face over. “Can’t go a single day without getting into a fight?”

  “It’s not my fault,” Sikes snapped. “Her brother—”

  “I honestly don’t care,” Mathan said, cutting the air with his hand.

  Sikes crossed his arms and nudged toward Dr. Halric. “Who’s the old guy?”

  Halric motioned Sikes toward him. “I’m your employer.”

  “I thought Mathan was our employer,” Nima said.