what she was seeing. Then as it dawned on her she gasped. Swiftly she wove her way around the various furnishings and toward the object, the impossible object.
Her first impression had been that the thing was a tall mirror. It stood on a pedestal of granite. Reflected or held in its surface was a room virtually identical to this one, filled with treasures, but not quite the same ones or in the same place. Within the field of them, an image of herself wandered. The image wore a gossamer white gown that left her taut but scarred belly exposed. A jewel-studded collar circled her throat, but the jewels could hardly compete with her flaming red hair. Coming nearer, Leodora saw that this near twin was barefoot and wore bangles with tiny bells around her ankles. A heavy belt of garnets pulled the skirt almost obscenely low on her hips. The image did not match her own movements as she worked her way to the mirror, and when she stood directly in front of it, the image looked out past her, as if scanning a distant landscape, but then did approach, walking right up to the glass until they were almost face-to-face and might have been watching each other had the other’s forlorn gaze only found her. She felt as if she were peering into the future, perhaps ten years from now if those years served to take a heavy toll on her, deaden her features, kill her spirit. But by then Leodora knew the truth.
“Mother,” she said, the word spilling anguish. For a horrible instant it seemed that the image heard her and stared into her eyes. She pressed her hand to the glass as if she might reach through it, but Leandra’s eyes did not see the hand, or her; and she recalled the man who had come upon her lying on the beach of Bouyan and cried out “Witch!” in the misapprehension that Leandra had returned. Now she understood that in a sense Leandra had. “I can see you,” she told the image.
“She doesn’t hear,” said a voice behind her. Even as she started to turn, two of Tophet’s Agents grabbed her by the arms. A third, the one who’d spoken, eyed her menacingly. “What manner of creature strays into Tophet’s realm?” he asked.
Her heartbeat pounded and for an instant reason left her; she felt undone. Then it was as if all the terror fell away: These creatures had taken Diverus, and a surge of anger doused her fear. She answered him: “One who resents being misrepresented by fools.”
The Agent massaged his chin with thumb and forefinger. The one gripping her left arm asked, “What’s she mean, Scratta?”
“What we already know—that the old man lied to us, and we’re set about torturing the wrong captive.”
Her heart sank. “Torturing?”
“What else are we to do when the boy can’t provide Tophet with any stories other than his own? And it’s a paltry thing at best, one for the weepers—a mother turned into a mermaid, the boy abandoned and sold into slavery, into supper for some demented afrits. I expect by now he’s told them how he was rescued, but it’s evident he’s not withholding, he really doesn’t know any stories. Does he?”
“He’s only a musician,” she said.
Scratta smiled flatly. For a moment his eyes looked away from her, looked at some internal discomfort, and she suspected he was taking stock of the trouble he was in, having kidnapped the wrong person. Then he came back to her. “The lord is not going to be pleased. Although your presence may ameliorate.” He pointed at the curtained dais. “Take Jax to him now.”
“What? This one’s Jax, too?”
Scratta almost tried to explain, then sighed. “Yes, this one’s Jax, too. Take her to the lord.”
The two dragged her past Scratta. From behind he taunted, “You’re no clever boy, are you? Jax, the masked storyteller—you had no choice, did you, but to hide your real self. Why, on some spans, they’d have thrown you into the sea.”
They dragged her through the treasure trove to the dais. Closer, she saw that what she’d taken to be more statuary was in fact a line of the round-eyed and long-snouted natives, lushly appareled in a rainbow of surcoats and coathardies, the females adorned with heavy wigs. They watched her dragged past them, never moving, their expressions an admixture of silent horror and supplication—but what were they begging her to do? Free them or cause no trouble and give