Another Range of Mountains

The kidnappers had smashed the mirror. Lacra knelt over the mercurial remains, the slivers so minuscule they failed to give back even the tiniest glimpse of her tired face. Whoever had taken the girl had been aware of Lacra's talents. The mirror was tipped onto its face, then crushed to fine glitter beneath a hard bootheel. Some of the larger pieces, still no bigger than her smallest nail, bore the streak of water-softened leather. It hadn't rained last night.

"Can you see anything?" Boyar asked.

"Patience, please."

Behind her the oil-lamp wavered in Count Boyar's hand, betraying his anxiety. She couldn't blame the man. His child had been stolen from her own bed; a bed tucked away behind his walls and his guards. Useless ornamentation to the determined thief, and Boyar was paying that price now.

Lacra reached out, allowing her leather-gloved fingers to sift through the rubble. Ah, there. She felt a lump beneath the rug and pulled the edge aside. It was a small shard, no bigger across than the palm of her hand and no wider than two fingers, but it would be enough. She ignored the hopeful sigh behind her.

Reaching into her supply case, a battered thing with wooden handles and wooden fasteners, she pulled out her notepad and charcoal pencil. She found a clear space on the ground and set the pad in her lap, pencil poised over its naked face. She laid the shard down before her with care and let her eyes unfocus, falling backward through the memories imprinted in the mirror.

Her hand covered it, sudden light as it was found and the rug pulled back. She saw its crazy descent from the shattered whole, flickering light and dark. Then there—in the moment before the breaking. A hooded face, but the profile was strong. She held onto it, and sketched.

When she was finished she blinked back into the world and looked down at what she'd drawn. It wasn't much to go on. A hawk-nosed man with heavy brows. The hood covering him was thick, and she'd cross-hatched in its rough texture. Cheap, then. Either it was disposable or he was poor. Hard to tell.

"Is that the monster?" Boyar hovered over her shoulder, angling the lamplight so that they could both see better.

"Maybe. It's a beginning."

She tucked her supplies into her case and stood, brushing off the little bits of mirror that clung to her leggings. A night breeze chilled her. The wooden shutters the kidnapper had come through had been left open upon his egress, and the night was only half done. The bedposts were old wood, good and sturdy, but the thing was made with tongue-in-groove construction. A testament to its craftsman, but without brass fittings it gave her little to work with. The silly girl had placed her hand mirror face-down on the nightstand.

Seeing nothing else reflective in the room, she crossed to the window and looked out over the city below. The count's estate backed against the tallest hill at the northern end of the city, giving him a comprehensive view of the land he governed and the Katharnian Mountains to the south.

It wasn't a very big city, and that was just fine by her. The close quarters of Alrayani constricted her senses, while these wide streets shadowed by desolate mountains were much more to her liking. But then, her mother was of these mountains. Lacra had been born here herself, though she had been a babe and remembered none of it. It was a pity she couldn't stay much longer. The king's men would catch up with her eventually.

A path caught her eye, a way down the ornamental carvings from the window into the little sitting garden below, then over the outer wall into the street beyond. It would not be an easy path to take; one would have to be an experienced climber to attempt it. She did not yet know enough about her quarry to discount the possibility.