by Tom Stacey
“Los!” the voice said, angry now.
Though it took a great effort, he opened his eyes.
He was not alone. He was not in a cave nor was he drowning in blood. He lay on a feather pillow on his own bed and beside him sat his father, Lord Gaston Malix. Barde was a memory once more.
“You were having a bad dream, Los. You were awfully loud.” His father’s voice was soft but it held that threatening tone he knew so well, a silent promise that further noise would be met with punishment. Loster calmed himself and breathed in deep, though he only breathed through his mouth. His father smelt of flowers and perfume but it was a smell that always made Loster feel sick. “Wellop found you in the backwoods. You’ve been out for two days.” Malix sat awkwardly on the bed, his fingers toying with the coverlet. “Your mother has been worried, of course, but I told her you’re strong. You’ll pull through.”
Loster nodded, unsure of how to respond. Suddenly Malix leaned forward and the boy did his best not to flinch. That would only make it worse. His father brushed a hand down his cheek, gently running his knuckles over the purple swelling under one eye. Loster felt his stomach turn. He swallowed and looked away to hide his shame.
“They really worked you over, didn’t they, Los?”
It irked him that his father called him that. It made it seem like they were friends.
“Yes, s—” he broke into a coughing fit and his father ineffectually patted his back. When he had recovered, “Yes, sir.”
“Who?” Malix asked simply.
“I don’t remember.”
Malix pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay. I understand. You think you’re being loyal. Where then is your loyalty to me?” Loster opened his mouth to answer but his father answered for him. “I forbade you from the backwoods. As I did everyone. Am I not your Lord father?”
“Of course…” Loster began to answer but fell silent as his father continued.
“It was a simple command but you have ever found it difficult being my son.”
Loster bit his lip to still his response. It only would have had two syllables.
“Don’t you see, Los? I can’t have you meddling around. Not now. You’re not ready to know everything. Times are difficult here. Taxes are higher than ever and the throne seems to be occupied by a madman.” He edged closer on the bed and Loster shuffled backwards until his back hit the wall behind. “We are family, and we have to look out for one another. I would have thought you’d learned that lesson after what happened to your brother.”
Loster closed his eyes and tried to focus on something that made him happy, but he could not think of anything suitable. Tears tried to force themselves from the corners of his eyes but he pulled them back with an effort of will.
“I am sending you away, Los.” Loster’s eyes snapped open. Malix’s voice was sad but a flutter of excitement had begun to stir in the young man’s stomach. “You shall go away from here, away from troubles and…” he reached out to rub Loster’s cheek again, “vicious people. I am sending you with Aifayne. You’re to be a priest, Los.”
Loster blinked in surprise. And then went stiff as his father leaned forward and planted a lingering kiss on his forehead. “You leave in the morning,” he said, and then he was gone.
Loster breathed out slowly and finally the tears came, stinging the cuts on his face. This time they were tears of joy.
VII
Callistan ducked as a rotten piece of fruit smashed against the bars, spraying foul-smelling pulp all over him.
“Scum!” yelled a man, his voice lost in the storm of the crowd’s scorn.
“Traitor!” cried another, flinging something too high so that it sailed clean over the wagon to land with a splat amongst a baying mob of whores, who cursed and screamed in anger.
The army had arrived in Temple the night before, but much to the dismay of the tired, footsore soldiers, it had been ordered to camp outside the city walls so that it could enter triumphantly in the morning. The men had been roused before dawn to wash, polish weapons, brush the rust from shirts of mail, and make themselves as presentable as possible. Temple was watching and it wanted a show.
The capital of the Verian Empire was a sprawling city, mostly enclosed by high stone walls faced in white marble. Twenty years ago, Temple had been a cluster of houses of worship, all suitably grand and elaborate, but nothing on the mammoth scale of what they were only a small part of today. Upon defeating the Respini, Illis had chosen Temple as his capital, and had constructed huge walls around the city, taking advantage of its position upon a rise in the land. It was a landlocked city, far from the trade and nourishment that a river could bring, and as a result it relied on tributes from its outlying sister cities to remain habitable. But Temple was never intended to be a city of farmers or even merchants — though there were the usual spill of inns and stores that could be found anywhere. Instead it was a city of the elite: soldiers and nobles bored of their country estates, and most important of all, courtiers, for this was the seat of the Empron and thus the centre of power in Daegermund. Most of the city was tight, packed housing that bowed in over the streets between, blocking out the light and keeping the poor in constant night and filth. Yet even the common folk felt a special pride in their city. Before, Temple had been a retreat for the pious, but it had since grown rapidly into its current bloated form. Though they often went hungry and though their hearths were frequently cold, its people held a certain status, and that kept them content.
Towards the north of the city, on the high atoll near the citadel, rose the gold and silver domes of almost a hundred temples or houses of prayer. Callistan doubted he would see the High City before he died — for that must surely be his fate — but every now and again the sun glinted from a panel of precious metal and he could not help but marvel at the majesty of it.
His morning had begun slightly later than that of the soldiers, once it was already light. He had woken to the contents of a latrine bucket being tipped over his head, and had shivered and retched while they stripped the wooden panelling from his wagon, replacing it with stout wooden bars. He was a prisoner still, but now he would be displayed as a trophy of a war won and an enemy defeated.
The creature that bore his name and wore his skin rode on a tall destrier slightly in front of Callistan’s wagon. The Doppelganger was dressed in the full battle array of an officer of the Dalukar: gleaming silver plate armour and a cloak of deep crimson. It had opted not to wear a helm, presumably so that the crowds that had come to watch the parade could see the face it had stolen.
Callistan closed his eyes and tried to drown out the distant roar of the mob. He was a lord and a well-known warrior, but his life had been taken from him. Soon he would be hauled before the pitiless faces of men and women he should have known yet bore no memory of. He had considered attempting escape. The wooden bars that held him did not look that strong. If he could summon up enough strength, he could loosen one or two and then wait until they passed an alleyway. He could tumble over the side and then try and find his way out of the city, back to his family, wherever they were.
But as soon as the procession had passed under Temple’s great Certifax Gate, the crowds had pushed past and stepped over each other just to get a look at the face-stealer, the enemy who had tried to kill their Lord Callistan. They had come in their thousands, and each was as filthy and dishevelled as the last, walking evidence of the suffering and discord sown in a city drained of life to fuel the machines of war. The waves of hatred had been shocking and had driven Callistan to a corner of his cage. Then they had begun to throw things: rotten fruit, stones, even one or two small coins. Callistan doubted that they could afford to throw money, though they were not throwing it away. Rather they were spending it, buying his suffering with the sharp edges of crudely made currency. Even if he could find a chance to jump clear, Callistan knew that these people would make short work of him. His prison was now the only barrier from the violence of an untamed populace given a focus for their troubles.
The wagon trundled on through the packed crowds. Callistan could hear the faraway roars and cheers from behind him as the soldiers were welcomed home. They were passing through one of Temple’s many slums, and as a result, the procession had slowed to a crawl to navigate the narrow, warren-like streets.
Callistan cursed as a child barely past walking age darted from the crowd to fling a wooden cup of urine at him. The soldiers who were supposed to be guarding him dutifully kicked the boy back towards the crowd, but they struggled to keep the mirth from their faces. “Thought you might need warming up, noble Lord,” sneered a burly, red-faced man, probably the boy’s father. The people around him bellowed with laughter and slapped each other on the back. Callistan spat and held his tongue. It would be over soon.
After that the procession picked up speed, arriving before long at a vast cobbled square, in which a high wooden platform had been built. Though he knew what fate awaited him, Callistan could not help but despair when he saw the gallows and the headsman’s block, stained with old blood. Three men stood with their gazes fixed firmly on their feet, nooses around their necks. There was a fourth noose but it was occupied. A small but bloated corpse, black with flies, swung gently in the breeze. Even from this distance Callistan could tell that it belonged to a woman. Would that I had died in the battle, thought Callistan.
The wagon came to a halt before the steps that led to the top of the platform. Several soldiers in crimson armour beat a path through the crowd with long staves and huge rectangular shields, each emblazoned with the Leaning Man, Illis’ sigil. The Doppelganger curbed his horse alongside the wagon, dismounting and handing the beast off to an aide. He stopped at the foot of the steps to watch the proceedings. A bored looking man was reading aloud from a tablet and gesturing every now and again at the three men behind him. Each time he pointed, the crowd booed and hissed.
“Lord Fuller, Master of the Imperial Purse, accused of witchcraft and sorcery and high treason. The Empron has learned that you are one of the notorious group of renegades that call themselves the ‘Sons of Iss.’ Through your position of influence, you did encourage a state of war within Veria against the Imperial Crown. His Imperial Majesty calls you traitor and skin-changer and sentences you to death by hanging.” The crowd roared and a variety of rotting vegetation rained on to the stage. The bored man grimaced with distaste then continued. “Gabriel Nommis, Pentilarch of the Seventh Expeditionary Army and Advisor to the Crown, you stand accused of witchcraft and sorcery and high treason…”
Before long, the supposed sins of all three men were read out and the crowd was thrumming with violent anger. Callistan looked again at the men and tried to see past their bruised and swollen faces and filthy clothes. It was like trying to grab fog.
Sudden clarity hit him like a bucket of cold water. These were Imperial Council members. Their robes of deep blue lined in gold were the mark of their power and status. Could they have caused the rebellion?
“Execero? You may proceed.” The bored man stepped back and waved forward a short man dressed in tight-fitting black clothes. His face was hidden by a hood that had eye holes torn into it. He stepped up to the man called Fuller and seemed to engage him in conversation for a moment. The condemned man shook his head and spat, all without looking up from his feet. The Execero shrugged his shoulders and stepped smartly to a wooden lever on the side of the stage. Without much in the way of ceremony, he yanked it backwards, and the floor fell out from the feet of the three men. There was a sickening crack as they came up short against their ropes and two kicked weakly and then went still, but one kept kicking, for his neck had not broken as intended. It was Fuller, the Master of the Purse, and he was a large man with a neck like a bull. It could not stop him from shaming himself; the front of his robe darkened as his bladder let go. The crowd laughed and jeered and a cabbage bounced off of the dying man’s chest, yet still he kicked and struggled, though with less vigour every passing moment.
The Doppelganger took this as his cue and began to climb the stairs. As he went, he turned and winked at Callistan, before spinning to face the crowd and raising a gloved hand for silence.
“Good people of Veria, death to all traitors!” he pointed and the crowd roared their approval. “What news I bring you this day.” A great cheer pounded Callistan’s ears. “The war is over! Our enemy has been crushed beneath us like an insect!” Again they screamed their delight, again the Doppelganger raised a hand for silence. “Though it was not a war without losses. Many brave sons of Veria and Temple herself lie in the cold ground.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. “Yet do not weep, gentle mothers, for they are warmed by the knowledge of their sacrifice. They have bought us victory over those who would see us brought low, those foolish sons of a foolish city, and so we give thanks.” He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. The thousands assembled in the square struggled to follow suit, jostling and pushing each other for the space to kneel down. “To our brave guardians. May death bring you the rest you seek.”
Several people mimicked his words. Callistan had to admit, the Doppelganger was a masterful performer.
The Doppelganger stood and threw his hands high, restoring the party atmosphere to the gathering “Rejoice now, for we are at peace once again!”
“Thanks to you, milord,” yelled a distant voice and the crowd took up the chant.
“Call-i-stan! Call-i-stan!” The Doppelganger waved down the chanting and smiled broadly, like a proud parent.
“You honour me. Too much, I fear. I was but one sword among many, though I did my duty proudly.” There was a cheer. “I am not worthy of such praise. Besides, do you not know? I had help.” This was followed by hoots and guffaws of laughter as the meaning sunk in. The Doppelganger clapped his gloved hands for Callistan to be brought forth.
The cage was flung open, and two fully-armoured men grabbed Callistan and hauled him roughly up the stairs. They threw him before the feet of his double, who took a step backwards and bowed mockingly.
“Behold, my twin!” cried the Doppelganger.
Callistan struggled to his knees and did his best to look defiant, whilst every instinct he possessed quailed and told him to throw himself on the mercy of the crowd. He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Fuller had stopped kicking now, but he was gurgling and his face had turned a dark purple colour. It was a stark promise of the future that awaited Callistan and his neck ached with the thought. He scanned the sea of faces before him: a fat whore with sagging dugs and a handful of rotten teeth; a whip-thin boy, his features scarred with the pox; a tall, grim-faced man in a bloodstained leather apron. No, he thought. They might see me bleed, but they will not see me break.
Behind him the Doppelganger continued with his pageantry. “I must confess, good people, that I never knew I had a twin. Perhaps my mother was busier than I had imagined.” The crowd roared. “These foul things have infested our noble government at more levels than I could care to guess.” A soldier gripped Callistan by the hair and drew him upwards so that the crowd could see his face. “A man as like me as my own reflection,” the Doppelganger paused theatrically and raised a finger, “and yet not a man.” A hush fell over the crowd as the truth of what their Lord had said sank in. “Not a man.” He strolled to the edge of the stage and pulled a small package from a pouch on his belt. With great drama and a teasing slowness, he undid the thread tied around the package. Inside was a bloodied finger, still wet with gore. Callistan wanted to speak out for he knew what was coming, but the man holding him had drawn a wicked-looking knife and now placed the tip at his throat.
The Doppelganger held the severed finger aloft. “This was cut from the hand of the creature behind me.” He spat. “The thing that wears my face. It looks like it could have been cut from the hand of any man, does it not?” The crowd fell silent. “But yet…” The Doppelganger gripped the severed finger between his thumbs and ran the sharp nail of his thumb up its length. A thin, pearly-white thread that Callistan recognised as one o
f the bizarre fingers from the Doppelganger's own hand fell to the floor. The Doppelganger crouched and picked up the thread, which flicked and twisted in his hand like a snake. “This is the strength of their disguise, good people. Human skin concealing something monstrous.” He flung the snake-like appendage into the crowd who screamed with mock terror. “Now, observe.” The Doppelganger nodded to the soldier holding Callistan, who dropped the knife and seized his prisoner’s left arm by the wrist, holding it high. Then, momentarily letting go of his handful of hair, he stripped away the filthy rag covering Callistan’s hand. Callistan hissed in pain as the rough cloth dragged across the stump of his finger, but it was largely for show, because his focus was elsewhere.
He was staring at the knife that the soldier had dropped. It had stuck point-first into the wood of the platform and stayed there quivering, unnoticed by the soldier, who still held him by the hair and by the hand.
It must be a throwing blade, thought Callistan. The way it had landed suggested that the weight was concentrated at the tip rather than balanced where the handle met the blade. Callistan allowed his head to be turned so that he could look at the Doppelganger. The false Callistan was still in full flow, inciting the crowd to a righteous vengeance. Callistan tried to pull his left hand from the soldier’s grip, but the soldier squeezed harder, simultaneously loosening his grip on Callistan’s hair. Callistan let the weight of his head drop, so that he could look at the knife. It lay just out of reach, but if he stretched…
“What am I to do with this thing that would steal my very image?” asked the Doppelganger. A great clamour arose in the square and people began to shout out suggestions.
“Hang ‘im!”
“Cut his throat, milord!”
“Off with his head!” yelled one who then fell silent, as those around him grumbled and threw things once meant for Callistan in his direction.
“Too quick! Too quick for 'im!”