Songs of the Dying Earth

Even without his long years of experience with mirrors, Amberlin would have allowed that a spread of reflective darkness in that particular configuration did not bode well. The brothers clearly agreed. Finding the tholos empty, they had begun muttering to one another. Before Amberlin could reassure them, a voice called from behind.

“Our heartfelt thanks, Amberlin. Tralques and myself agreed that you were the one to get us inside.”

Amberlin turned and barely controlled the rush of anger and dismay he felt. At the mouth of the entry corridor, casting illumination with the milkfire globe set in the end of his staff, stood his old adversary, Sarimance the Aspurge. The formidable mage looked as self-assured and resplendant as ever in his rich vermilion day-robe, with tight black curls framing his round face and, yes, the familiar maddening grin Amberlin remembered from that worst of days.

Beside him, with a more conventional lantern raised high, stood Tralques, the smirking upstart from the Iron Star Inn, as thin and nervous-looking in his dark blue travelling robe as Sarimance was round and supremely confident in his dazzling red.

“You have caused me many miserable hours, Sarimance,” was all Amberlin could think to say. He knew he had been careless, that no spell now uttered in his defence could possibly turn out right.

“No doubt, old friend,” Sarimance replied, clearly enjoying the moment. “But then you would have inconvenienced me with equal sangfroid, I’m sure, had the circumstances permitted. You seem surprised that our fine lads here have been so forthcoming in inviting us to your party.”

Amberlin put on his bravest face. “Joanto, Boanto, you must put any hopes of employment at Furness out of your mind. All such offers are henceforth rescinded. You are to consider them null and void.”

The brothers stood chuckling to one side.

Joanto went further and spat on the floor. “As you see, magnificence, three quarters of something can quickly become nothing as well.”

Amberlin maintained as much aplomb as he could manage. “Furthermore, you may inform Diffin that his services are no longer required. He can join you in the employment queue in Azenomei.”

“Now, now, Amberlin,” Sarimance remonstrated, stepping further into the room. “Do not blame the lobster for being a lobster. More to the point, remember that some husbands have more than one wife and service all fairly. Best accept that your erstwhile employees already had employment before entering your service and simply saw a way to get two jobs done. But since we are all here, bold wayfarers together, what do you make of this glass?”

Amberlin knew that the immediate barbs and retorts that sprang to mind would serve no useful purpose. “It is undoubtedly a door. Eunepheos the Darke is reputed to have had several mirror doors at Venta-Valu in his salad days.”

Sarimance stepped forward to examine the ominous black shape. “How then do we open it? Do your books tell?”

From behind him, Tralques peered at the glossy surface. “The question is, do we really wish to know?”

“Be easy, Tralques,” Sarimance said, smiling all the while. “Our redoubtable colleague here has all manner of tricks and competencies. Provided uttering them is not required, of course.”

Tralques and the brothers chuckled at the barb.

Amberlin pretended not to hear. “May I suggest that Joanto and Boanto earn their way in this by first polishing the mirror? Dust and other blemishes mar the surface and could well affect its operation, rather in the same way that a particular inconvenient conjuration presently afflicts me.”

Sarimance smiled, but the brothers protested.

“We are holding our torches!” Joanto said. “A vital task that requires all our attention, as brother Bo will affirm.”

Boanto nodded vigorously. “Moreover, the glass looks especially smooth and clear from where we stand.”

Amberlin made a sound of impatience. “Then you must stand closer. Pass your torches to Tralques and he will be our light-bearer and illuminate the glass while you polish it with your kerchiefs.”

“We possess no kerchiefs!” Joanto cried.

Boanto put on a thoughtful expression. “But perhaps we could go and buy some at the fair in Azenomei and hurry right back.”

Sarimance gestured and uttered a pronouncement. “Do not trouble yourselves. You will now find excellent kerchiefs in the pockets of your work aprons.”

“But we have no pockets either!” Boanto protested. “Perhaps we had best go and—” then found he had both pockets and kerchiefs to spare, a half-dozen of each, and that Joanto had the same.

“Bah,” muttered Joanto, pulling forth a fine lace kerchief. “Sometimes lofty folk take all the fun out of finding a bargain.”

With no other choice, the brothers reluctantly approached the black mirror. Joanto gave a tentative rub with his cloth, then, when nothing untoward happened, Boanto did the same.

“It seems very well behaved for a magic glass,” Boanto said.