Doubleborn

by Toby Forward

  Tamrin stopped.

  “You’re right,” she said.

  “I am?”

  “Yes. It’s a trap. It’s obvious. He may not know we’re in town. He may not know how near or far we are.” She corrected herself. “How near I am. But he’s waiting for me. He knows I’ll come looking for him.”

  Solder relaxed and smiled.

  “Good. We can go back and think it through.”

  He started to walk towards the end of the street.

  “No.”

  He stopped.

  “No?”

  “No. I’m going into the shop.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Watch me.”

  Before Solder could call out to stop her Tamrin ran across the street, knocked on the door and, without waiting for an answer, threw it open and walked in.

  A bell jangled above her head. She didn’t give Solder time to follow. She shut the door and looked at the tailor sitting cross-legged on his bench.

  “You’ve taken your time,” he said. ||

  Shoddle was holding the cloth

  close up to his face, stitching with fast strokes of the needle. He took his eyes from his work, stared for a moment at Tamrin as if to make sure it was her, then looked down and continued.

  “You knew I was coming?” asked Tamrin.

  “Where else could you go?”

  Tamrin stepped closer to see what he was sewing. He didn’t look up.

  It was a sack.

  She looked at the rolls of cloth against the walls.

  Except there weren’t any.

  They were just piles of sacks.

  “What are you doing?”

  He stopped sewing and held up his work. It was a jacket, ragged and rough, not fit for a labourer in the field.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” he said.

  He lowered it to his lap and continued sewing. The needle was thick and long to get through the harsh cloth.

  “It’s rubbish. It’s a sack.”

  Shoddle’s needle jabbed and stitched. He tugged the coarse thread through the sacking.

  “So you can see it? You see all the sacks?”

  “Of course.”

  “They can’t. The man who chose this thinks it’s the softest worsted, green flecked with red threads. He rubbed it against his face and said it was the finest cloth he’d ever seen.”

  Tamrin walked round the shop, touching the sacks. They were clean and new, but rough, hard, loose-woven.

  “How did I get here?” she asked, her back to Shoddle.

  “Can’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “Did you walk? All the way from the college?” he asked.

  He was playing games.

  “Not just now,” she said. “At first. How did I get here at first?”

  “Oh, back then. Why didn’t you say?”

  Tamrin spun round and pointed at him. He pushed the needle through the sacking and it carried on straight through the palm of his hand. He held his hand up and looked at it, the thread still connected to the sack, the point sticking through the back. Blood dripped on to the cloth and ran down and along his wrist. Tamrin could see he was in pain. He didn’t show it except for the tightness in his jaw and the set of his shoulders.

  “You always were a spiteful little thing,” he said.

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “I’m not.”

  He held his hand out to her.

  “No?” he asked.

  Tamrin hesitated, caught between the need to show him that she wasn’t spiteful and the desire to hurt him more.

  She reached forward, tugged the needle and drew it right through his hand, pulling the thread after it so that his hand was stitched to the sack. He grimaced as the coarse fibre passed through his flesh.

  “Perhaps I am,” she said.

  She held the needle at arm’s length and watched the thread pull further through his hand.

  “How did I get here?” she asked.

  “I stole you.”

  He watched her reaction.

  “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

  She let go of the needle.

  “Where from?”

  “Oh, that’s not so easy to answer.”

  Tamrin reached her hand for the needle again. Stopped. Left it alone.

  “Are you going to leave me like this?” he asked.

  “Where did you steal me from? Who from? Why?”

  “All in good time. You’re hurting me.”

  Tamrin picked up Shoddle’s scissors and snipped the thread. She pulled it from his hand. Blood gushed from the wound. He looked at her, waiting.

  “You’ll need to put something round that,” she said. “Sacking won’t be much good. It’ll go bad.”

  She admired the way he ignored the pain. She wouldn’t have been able to. She almost admired the way he kept staring at her, challenging. He was not going to be an easy enemy to defeat. He put his hand on the bench, the blood pooling around it.

  “You did it,” he said.

  “I know. I’m not going to say sorry.”

  “Not my hand. The sacks. You did that.”

  Tamrin slid the half-sewn coat towards his hand, letting it soak up the blood.

  “You made the magic that makes people think that sacks are fine clothes. Don’t you remember?”

  He uncrossed his legs and re-crossed them the other way round.

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “You were little. I told you to do it.”

  The jacket was heavy with blood. Shoddle’s face was becoming pale. He spoke more quickly. Tamrin took his hand and lifted it. She wound the thread loosely around his wrist and tied it. The bleeding stopped. He nodded.

  “It’s worked well enough these years,” he said. “Until recently. Two months ago a lawyer came in with a gown I’d made for him.” Shoddle flapped his hand. “Pins and needles,” he said. He took the sack off and waggled his fingers.

  “There was a patch on the shoulder. Not a patch, really. A ragged piece of sacking, inset, part of the fabric. The rest of it looked like silk.”

  He opened and closed his fist. The wound had disappeared.

  “That’s a neat job,” he said. “Anyway, the lawyer’s cloak.”

  Tamrin concentrated hard and listened to him. His voice reached her through a long pipe, distant and with an echo. His face was blurred.

  “This lawyer, he said that the patch of sacking had begun as big as a thumbnail. Every day it grew bigger. Now it was the size of a law book. He wanted his money back and a new gown.”

  Tamrin leaned against the bench. It felt unstable, flexible. She could hear Shoddle but it was difficult to follow what he was saying. He was jumping from subject to subject.

  “That’s it,” he said. “You lean against the bench. You’re tired. I remember that. Mending magic is always harder work you always said.” He held up his hand. “You mended this all right. No pain. Feels better than ever. You should do the other one. It aches in the cold weather.”

  “Can I have a drink?”

  “What’s that? Speak up.”

  “Can I have a drink? Some water?”

  “I’ll get you some in a minute. Don’t you remember? You made the bench turn any material I had into whatever I wanted it to be. Magic, you see. But it’s wearing off. There have been others bring their clothes back. And last week a man came in and he saw one of the sacks. Only one. But it was enough.”

  “Magic always wears off, in time,” Tamrin whispered. It hurt her throat to talk.

  “Well, you’re back now. You can top up the magic. Make it strong again. Before I lose all my customers.”

  He jumped down from the bench. Tamrin stepped back. Turning her head she saw Solder’s face pressed against the glass.

  “And more,” said Shoddle. “Much more magic. I’ve got plans for you.”

  Tamrin steadied herself with her hand.

  “I must have a drink.”

  “Later. Plenty of ti
me.”

  He took her arm and led her through the shop. She staggered and he steadied her. There was a curtain. There was a stair. There was a door at the top of the stair. There was a room beyond the door. The room was small and low. A thick beam supported the ceiling. Black beams against bare, knapped flint crossed the walls. Sconces on the walls held lighted candles. The room had been prepared. He had known that she was coming. He had made it ready for her.

  Tamrin looked for somewhere to sit. Shoddle let go of her arm and she stumbled. There was a window seat and Tamrin managed to get there without falling over. Her throat hurt right into her ears. Shoddle was grinning, running his hands through his hair, hopping, unable to keep still for excitement.

  “Please let me have a drink.”

  “Later. Later. Look here.”

  The room was empty, save for something the size of a door standing near to the wall adjacent to the window. Shoddle stood next to it. His fingers twitched against a length of green dark damask that hung over it.

  Tamrin struggled to sit up. Her back pressed against the window. She turned her face to put her cheek against the glass. It cooled her a little. Her sight cleared and came into sharp distinction. All at once she knew what the object was. It had wooden feet and an oak frame. Bigger than a door now that she looked properly. It was a mirror. Much like several she had seen in Smith’s room. The damask hid the reflecting surface, but she knew that was what it was.

  Shoddle stood to one side. If he lifted the cloth she would see herself reflected in it.

  She knew then, knew beyond doubt, that this was the mirror that Smith was looking for, the one that the handcart went round the lanes and roads searching out. And she knew which mirror it was.

  “Don’t uncover it,” she said. It tore her throat to speak.

  He grinned and made a theatrical gesture as if to lift the cloth.

  “You wanted to know,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Where you come from. Don’t you want to know, after all?”

  He couldn’t keep still. His glee spilled out into little dance steps and twitches.

  Tamrin tried to stand and fell back. Something sharp dug into her back. She reached round to remove it. Her hand closed on the scissors that Smith had given her.

  “Look,” said Shoddle. He lifted the corner of the damask. The glint of polished steel. A bright triangle.

  “Don’t.”

  The scissors were cool, heavy in her hand. She shifted round and switched them over to her other hand. Her head began to clear. The pain lifted from her throat. Her voice strengthened.

  “Don’t you want to see yourself? You’re not a pretty girl, I know, but, all the same, you must be curious.”

  Tamrin stood.

  “Get away from there,” she said.

  He raised his hand and gripped the cloth firmly.

  “Move away.”

  He tugged. It started to slide down.

  Tamrin stepped forward, the scissors high in front of her. Shoddle saw them for the first time.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s nice. I call that handsome. You’ve come with scissors ready for the tailor’s trade. You’re going to help me, after all.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  Another tug. The damask slid further down. The end of the cloth was now just visible at the top of the frame. Soon, its own weight would send it folding down and the mirror would stand exposed. Poised in front of it, brandishing her scissors, point first, Tamrin would see herself, from head to toe.

  She jumped aside to get out of the way. She tripped and fell towards Shoddle.

  The cloth slid down. The polished surface appeared. Tamrin reached out to steady herself.

  “Careful,” shouted Shoddle.

  Tamrin tried not to look at the mirror, tried not to see herself reflected back. Her arms flailed. She fell into him.

  “You’re going to—” Shoddle started to call.

  Tamrin never heard whatever he was going to say next. It stopped and changed into a wet, gurgling cough.

  “No,” said Tamrin. “No.”

  The scissors stuck into his throat, cutting off his objection. She pulled them out, her mouth open in shock. Blood spouted from the open wound, splashing into her face and down her front. She wiped her sleeve against her eyes to clear them. Shoddle’s eyes were wide open, staring at her. He mouthed words that never came, blood trickling from his lips.

  Tamrin stepped back, away from the horror she had created.

  Stepped into the sight of the mirror.

  She stood and looked at herself. Red and wet. Hand still raised. Scissors open, jagged and sharp. Behind her in the room, the flint and beamed walls, the candles in their sconces, the window into the black night. Behind her in the mirror, none of these. A stone wall. A slit window. Light reflected endlessly. A high ceiling. And the dark, hunched forms of the creatures with no faces. And a figure, moving towards her, deliberately, with the light of recognition in its eyes.

  Tamrin screamed and the figure stepped through the mirror into the room and seized her.

  “Stop. Who are you?” she shouted.

  The talk was all of kravvins.

  Sam listened, sitting near enough to be part of the company, far enough not to have to join in unless he wanted to.

  He had a plate of crusty bread, yellow butter and sharp cheese for company, and a tankard of cordial.

  “How near are they?” he asked, and immediately put a large chunk of bread into his mouth so that he wouldn’t have to say any more for a while.

  “Too near.”

  The men nodded and looked determined.

  “It’s magic that’s made them.”

  “Wizards.”

  A man hawked phlegm into his throat and looked round for somewhere to spit.

  “Don’t you dare, Danwick Plunt!”

  Sam chewed more slowly to keep himself from the conversation. The woman behind the serving counter folded her arms and stared at the man. He looked at the empty fireplace, where he liked to spit in the winter, watching the green snot sizzle on the hot coals. She glowered. He looked down at the shining tiled floor. She leaned on the counter. He looked to his friends for support. They looked away. He moved his tongue and swallowed the slimy gob.

  “There should be sawdust on the floor,” he said.

  “There should be manners,” she answered. “So don’t bring your filthy tricks in here. Understand?”

  Danwick took a deep drink of his beer and let the conversation continue without him. Sam felt the man’s distrust of him over his silence.

  “Wizards made them,” said another. “That’s the truth of it.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because they’re wizards. Because they can.”

  “Because they can’t leave alone.”

  “So they’re magic, are they? The kravvins? They can do magic like wizards?”

  “Made of magic, I said. Not working magic themselves.”

  Danwick couldn’t keep out of the talk for long. He was one of those who liked to be heard. Liked hearing himself more than he liked hearing others.

  “They don’t need no magic,” he said. “Not they. Look at ‘em.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  Danwick paused and looked directly at Sam.

  “You’re very quiet,” he said.

  “I’m hungry.” Sam took a bite of cheese, tore off a hunk of bread and chewed them both together.

  “Where are you from?”

  Sam pointed to his mouth and smiled.

  “Have you? Have you seen one?”

  Danwick turned back to his questioner.

  “Yes,” he said. “Haven’t we all?”

  There were seven of them. Only Danwick and another, the youngest of them, about twenty years old, admitted that they had actually seen a kravvin. The others knew of them only by accounts from others who had escaped their raids.

  “Tell us, Remmble. And Danwick, you tell us. We�
�ll see if you agree.”

  Remmble, the younger man, had been away visiting relatives. He returned late in the evening and saw the kravvins attacking his parents’ home.

  “I wanted to help them,” he said. He looked round for support. “I wanted to fight the kravvins, drive them away. I couldn’t. I hid. At first I watched. In case anyone escaped. Then I didn’t watch any more. I ran away.”

  They said nothing.

  “I was frightened,” he said. “See? I don’t mind telling you. I was.”

  No one offered him support.

  “You think I’m a coward. What could I have done?”

  Sam saw the helpless need in the young man’s face, the shame. No one spoke.

  “At least they killed them all,” said Remmble. “At least they’re dead. They didn’t take any of them away with them.”

  He was pleading now for approval. The men looked down at the table. Remmble stood up, spilling his beer, rattling his chair on the tiles.

  Danwick put his hand on the young man’s sleeve, tugged at it, brought him back to the table.

  “They’re the cowards,” he said.

  “What?” Remmble looked alarmed. “Speak up.”

  Danwick kept his voice low so that they had to lean forward to hear him. Sam chewed as quietly as he could.

  “These,” said Danwick, pointing to their companions. “They’re judging you, and they’ve never even seen a kravvin. Well, I have. Just like you did. Only you never see one. They’re like ants. You see one and you see ten, fifty.”

  Remmble looked at him with gratitude.

  “They’re brave enough sitting round this table,” said Danwick. “They’ll go home and they’ll say to their wives that you ran away and didn’t fight. But give them one look at a kravvin themselves and they’ll run all right.”

  He stared at them.

  “They’ll run, all right. You’ve never seen anything like it. Smooth faces. No faces, really. Red as rage. And they talk. Yes, you can look up and stare if you like. I know you think that part’s all been tales and fancy, but it’s not. I’ve seen them. I’ve heard them. They talk, right. And all they talk is death and killing. That’s all they know.”

  He leaned back and reached for his tankard. More questions followed his outburst.

  “And you think they’re made of magic, do you? Not some army come from far off?”