Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [78]
“I could still trade Sybil against your resignation.”
“You could,” Brentford bluffed, offering his position as a gambit to protect the information he didn’t have. “But then you won’t learn anything about the lady who comes and goes through your performances as she pleases.”
Arkansky was thinking hard. But it was too late. He had forgotten he wasn’t the only one to have two hands. As Brentford would have bet, the magician’s curiosity, or fear, eventually got the better of his ambition. Well, for the moment, that is, before he plotted a new way to uproot Brentford from the Greenhouse.
“The name, then. But you’d better not trick me, Mr. Orsini.”
“Would I make such a mistake? And I won’t make the mistake of telling you the name before I get Sybil.”
“You will have your Sybil back. But not tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
“Why is that?”
“I doubt you’re interested in this, but another singer disappeared today. Apparently the Council seemed to think that it would be a good idea that not all the headlines speak of this incident. Ms. Springfield’s disappearance could not be more welcome in that respect, if you’ll allow me to say so. You will see her a lot on the front page, I suppose.”
“I’m used to it,” said Brentford. He still found it hard to believe that the Council of Seven had had a hand in kidnapping his bride.
“Take advantage of the Greenhouse as long as it lasts, which will not be long. For the rest, let’s clinch the deal,” said Arkansky, offering his hand to Brentford.
“I suppose that if I take it, it will come off and stay in my hand.”
“Do not be mean. Do you think I’m some cheap conjuror for children?”
Brentford took the hand, which stayed in his.
Arkansky chuckled and turned his back to leave.
But then the magician saw something through the open door of the bedroom that made him start. Before Brentford could react, Arkansky strode into the bedroom. Brentford followed quickly and found him standing still in front of the mirror Blankbate had given him and Sybil had stolen from him.
The magician turned toward Brentford and, indicating the mirror, spoke with a hissing voice.
“What is this thing, Mr. Orsini?”
“It’s called a mirror. I thought that as a magician you would be familiar with the notion.”
Arkansky cast a dark look at Brentford and advanced toward the mirror, as if to reach for it. Brentford quickly opened a bedside table and pulled out Sybil’s Browning, which he pointed at Arkansky.
“Do not touch it, unless you’re ready for some bullet catch.”
The gun was uncomfortable to hold with a bandaged hand, but Brentford felt confident that his opponent would get the drift. Arkansky turned toward him, frowning as if to hypnotize him. Brentford staggered under the malevolence of the look, the sheer will power that oozed from the green eyes. But when it comes to mesmerizing, few things rival the barrel of a gun.
“Oh, yes,” Brentford said, “my finger feels really heavy.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Arkansky, still trying to force his crowbar stare into Brentford’s brain.
“Perhaps I’ll just shoot your fingers off.”
For a conjuror, this was worse than a death threat. He could see Arkansky take in the blow of the image: the torn, bleeding fingers dangling from the palm, simply held by bits of charred skin and broken bone shards. The magnetic stare went off like a light bulb.
“I’m on my way,” said Arkansky, with a tone that sounded more like “I’ll have my way.”
Brentford took a step back, following Arkansky’s retreat with his gun. He heard his steps cascading down the stairs, like an avalanche of poisoned apples, and the door slammed shut. He bent over the stairwell to make sure the magician was gone for good. At least he would know how Arkansky got out.
He pressed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and went back to the bedroom. He wondered what the magician had seen in the mirror, and moved closer to it.
As he looked