by Tom Stacey
He swore and bounced his head off of the wood, causing a swarm of angry wasps to buzz to life inside his skull. He swore again, louder.
“Quiet in there!” yelled the driver, his mouth wrapped awkwardly around some kind of food. Callistan’s stomach growled at the thought of food. He had to get out of here, if only to catch a decent meal.
Abruptly the wagon began to slow down. The driver sawed viciously on the reins, heaving the wagon to a stop and swerving it to one side, causing Callistan to be flung on to his face. The prisoner groaned as the wind was knocked out of him but fought his way back to a sitting position, trying to ignore the driver’s raucous laughter. There was the jingle of traces and the heavy tread of booted feet outside the wagon. Sarifs and veteros challenged each other to be heard over the din, crying orders and curses alike in a harmony of gruff and melodic voices.
“Make way! Make way!” a hoarse voice called as the clip-clop of hooves drowned out the other noises — a cold staccato that filled Callistan with dread. Fear welled in his stomach and ran clammy hands up his neck to wrap around his throat. He coughed and flushed purple as a thin whimper that he was too weak to contain slipped into the morning air.
A shadow of a man blocked the meagre light at the leather opening, then moved aside. Callistan brought his wounded hand up to shield his eyes from the unfamiliar glare as the figure turned to address someone out of sight.
“I wish to talk in private with the impostor, Vetero,” said a voice that mocked his own.
“Yes, milord.”
“You may leave us, but do not stray too far. The arts of our enemy are many.”
“Of course, milord. We’ll be close by."
Callistan watched as his doppelganger climbed up on to the wagon and folded himself through the slit in the leather. Blinded by the brief exposure to daylight, his eyes could not focus on the figure before him. All was shapes and shadows.
The Doppelganger smelt like soap and cloves and rosewater and something altogether unpleasant that Callistan could not quite place. There was a sibilant sound of fabric on fabric and then a rasp as a small flame flickered to life. The Doppelganger cradled the fire in one hand, twirling a small but thick taper in the other. As it caught, it spilled its wan light around the darkened space, chasing shadows lazily into the corners.
Callistan resisted the urge to gasp as the light revealed that perfect parody of his face, now but a few inches away. There was no mistaking it. This man was an exact copy of him. The weak firelight rendered the Doppelganger’s face in hellish tones and lit the eyes like jewels so that Callistan could make out his own features in the distorted reflection: bruised and swollen, but otherwise identical. It was like staring into some ghoulish mirror.
“You stink,” said the Doppelganger. Callistan did not reply but instead took a moment to study the face before him: the curl of the lip, the penetrating, unblinking gaze.
When Callistan replied, it was in a quiet voice, firm and measured. “As do you,” he paused. “My Lord.”
The face before him creased with genuine amusement. “How admirable. Defiance.” The Doppelganger moved into a more comfortable position, squatting before Callistan with the slow-burning wand of fire held aloft like some ceremonial torch. It cocked its head as if considering how to continue. To Callistan, it felt as if some great predatory bird was sizing him up. “Do you know what the men are calling you?” The Doppelganger paused and Callistan realised that it was waiting for a reply.
“Enlighten me.”
The Doppelganger grinned. “The Deceiver,” it said grandly. “Face-Stealer. Cuckoo.” It waved a hand. “There are some more colourful and markedly less poetic ones, but I think you get the point.”
“The point is that one of us is a man, and one of us is something else entirely.”
“Very astute. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said the Doppelganger with what could have been a playful wink, “that is, if I had not just heard myself say it.” Callistan said nothing, for he was unsure how to reply. “I take it that you are unaware of the nuances of your situation?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“And that is exactly the point I am making.” The Doppelganger wagged a finger triumphantly. “You do not follow. You do not comprehend."
“I do not remember,” Callistan growled.
The Doppelganger leaned closer, eyes flicking across Callistan’s face. “No, you do not. And therein lies my advantage.”
Callistan stayed silent, a knot of anger and frustration tightening in his gut. To him, it seemed as if his reflection had come to life with a will of its own, a mirror image taunting him as readily as if from behind the safety of polished silver.
“What a joy it is to see the limits of the human imagination,” the creature said. “Men you’ve lived with, men you’ve commanded as unable to recognise you as you would be to find a chosen pebble on the beach.”
Annoyed, Callistan felt his cheeks grow warm. Was this impostor so sure of itself that it could gloat so freely?
The thing before him continued. “I must admit, for a brief moment I thought my imitation was an imperfect one.” It snatched up Callistan’s damaged hand with snake-like speed and squeezed hard, rolling its grip so that the bones grated against one another. Blood began to flow. “I thought I would have to chew off a finger.” It raised his captive hand to its mouth, wide open as if ready to clamp down. Callistan whimpered reflexively and blinked tears from his eyes. Yet, even with his misted vision, he could see that another, larger set of teeth hid behind the Doppelganger’s stolen ones. They were wide and sharp like spades.
The Doppelganger snapped its mouth shut with an audible click, champing down on thin air. It laughed shrilly and rocked backwards, releasing Callistan’s hand.
“I do so detest self-mutilation.” It spread its hands — hands that, though gloved and clothed in Callistan’s flesh, hid gods knew what. “Alas, it is sometimes a necessity. Your wound is recent enough for it to be ignored: a mishap, perhaps, on your way to stoke revolution. I could spin things a thousand ways. Besides, those who know you — sorry, knew — knew you as a whole man.” It touched its own chest. “I am the whole now. I have assumed your place. You are the false friend. Perhaps you should call yourself Callistan Fourfinger to help you remember?”
Callistan breathed shallowly, and for a long time, the Doppelganger seemed content to let him be still. Finally he spoke. “Why tell me this? Does it entertain you?”
“Perhaps.” It seemed to consider that for a moment. “Maybe I am bored. Maybe I want to study you.”
“Study me?”
“Of course. How else am I to take your life away from you?”
Callistan flexed his wrists against the manacles but it was no use. They were as strong as they had been before and he was just as weak. He cursed himself inwardly for a fool.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” asked the Doppelganger.
“Would it make a difference?”
“No, but then you are not the bluff soldier you pretend to be. You do not attack your foe without first knowing him, knowing what he wants.”
“How can you be so sure?”
It smiled icily. “I know everything there is to know about you. You have been watched for far longer than you would ever think possible. A lifetime is as the passing breeze to the forgotten ones, those I call ‘master.’ This,” it hesitated, “usurpation is part of something infinitely greater. I am not alone, you see. Those of my kind are legion, and we all have our roles to play.” It reached out and gripped him by the chin, almost tenderly. “Yes, you see. I play the role assigned to me very well. Very well, indeed. I have already taken your face, your command, your reputation.” The Doppelganger savoured every syllable. “Soon I will take your position and your wealth, your lands.” It paused again, pointedly, and its eyes lanced into Callistan’s. “Your family…”
Callistan raged against his bonds, chafing the skin. He knew it was a futile gesture
but it made him feel better.
“Such a strong reaction,” the Doppelganger frowned, but to Callistan’s secret pride, shuffled back farther out of reach. “Tell me, what are their names?”
Callistan gritted his teeth. “What?”
“Come now, your family’s names. The identities of these people that provoke such emotion within you.”
Callistan strained his mind. A small hand in his; a woman with red-gold hair laughing; a large, comfortable house with an orchard and… he bowed his head.
“No, I thought not. I bet you cannot even remember how many—”
“I have a son and a daughter, beast,” Callistan’s voice was magma. “Their names may escape me for the moment, but they are mine, and if you lay your cursed flesh upon them, I shall strip it from you and smother you with it!” Hot rage tore the words from his throat and he collapsed in a heap, coughing and spluttering until he tasted iron. When he looked up, the Doppelganger was smiling faintly. It could not have picked a more unnerving expression.
The tension was cut by the hoarse voice from outside the wagon. “Milord? Are you okay?”
The Doppelganger replied without breaking Callistan’s gaze. “Quite alright, Vetero.”
“We heard shouting. Raised voices, milord.”
“Yes, thank you, Vetero, I know what shouting is.” The Doppelganger sniffed. “Apologies, Vetero. The devil has me riled. He taunted me. All is well. I will be out shortly.”
“Of course, milord.” They both waited until the footsteps had retreated.
The Doppelganger held up a hand. It was gloved in silk — something that struck Callistan as peculiarly feminine — but the Doppelganger slowly pulled it off to reveal the hand underneath. It was Callistan’s left hand as it had been: smooth skin, strong fingers and a spider’s web of faint scars that contrasted against the tanned flesh. Callistan’s stump throbbed in envy of its counterpart.
“You think to threaten me?” Its voice was subtly different now, a low hiss, hollow like the echo from an empty vase. It had discarded the deep tones that matched Callistan’s so eerily. “You think I have not been flayed before? How then do I wear your skin?” It laughed but, this time, there was no mirth to it. “Skin is not like a cloak. One does not put it on and change it for a warmer one when the wind turns. No, Fourfinger. It binds to me. Your flesh and mine are one. The only way to remove it — as I shall when my task here is done — is to cut it off.” It pulled a small yet wickedly sharp blade from a pocket concealed deep within the folds of its tunic and, for a second, Callistan thought that he was about to die.
Yet the Doppelganger did not lash out. Instead it slowly and methodically sawed at the skin of its wrist, careful not to let the blood stain its clothes. Once it was done, it returned the blade to its hideaway and regarded Callistan once again. “I am part of a slave race, you see. Much as you have been and shall be again. It is the fate of my people that our lives must be a farce of mummery and mimicry. In my time, I have worn a dozen skins at the behest of my masters and, after yours, I shall perhaps wear a dozen more. Do you know what it feels like to wear somebody? Of course you don’t. It itches, Fourfinger, and it smells. Man is plagued with repellent oils and waters that would turn the stomach of most creatures. Yet I endure because I serve something infinitely more terrible than the consideration of my own comfort.” It pinched the tip of its ring finger between thumb and forefinger and gave a vicious tug. The skin pulled away with a deep, sucking sound, as easily as the silk glove had a few moments before.
Its true hand had nine fingers, each very long and thin. They had been folded and tucked in pairs inside the human hand it wore. Each finger had multiple joints, betrayed by the slight bump of a knuckle here and there. Yet each joint seemed free to bend in any direction. The skin, though streaked with blood, was a pale white, almost translucent like gristle. The whole thing reminded Callistan of a great spider, and he flinched as the Doppelganger reached out to grip the crown of his head in a cool and surprisingly strong grip at odds with the seeming frailty of its fingers.
“The arrogance of man is that you think you are supreme in this world. This will be your downfall. You were not first, nor shall you be last. Did you think my masters would forget? That they would retreat into the shadows and fairy stories that you use to scare your whelps?”
“What are you?” asked Callistan, failing to keep the terror from his voice.
The Doppelganger stood to its full height and began to curl up its fingers, ready to slip its fleshy disguise back on. “Think of me as the waking dream that leaves you in a cold sweat.” It tugged on the loose skin and flexed its constricted fingers in perfect imitation of a human opening and closing its fist.
Callistan’s mind raced, but he needed answers. “But why… why am I alive?”
The Doppelganger smiled that cruel smile. “Because you, dear Fourfinger, are the song that lulls the world of men to sleep. I shall proclaim you as the enemy in our midst, sent by those who would seek to bring us down. With your unwilling help I shall be able to remove anybody of worth and replace them with my own kind, or leave them dead altogether — it’s all the same in the end. Oh, don’t worry, you’re not alone. There are others like me dealing with others like you, and once they are finished, then all will be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“The nightmare, of course. The return of my masters.”
“I don’t understand,” said Callistan lamely, his head swimming.
“You won’t have to. You’ll be a head on a spike soon, if I know enough about the Empron’s ailing wits. Guard!”
There was a flurry of movement from outside and the thing that wore Callistan’s face made to step outside. The Vetero’s head appeared between the leather curtains. “Is all well, milord? Did you get what you wanted?”
The false Callistan nodded. “I think I did, Vetero. Our prisoner was very informative.” It looked back into the gloom where he lay. “For example, did you know that this low creature has a family?”
“No, my Lord.”
It grinned and, even silhouetted against the daylight outside, Callistan could see the second set of teeth that spread throughout its jaw. Its mouth opened with a wet sound and uttered something that made Callistan’s stomach drop.
“Me neither.”
V
He buried the bodies deep. It was hard work, hacking at the frozen ground with a blunt and pitted axe. It took several hours and the sky was well dark before he finished, but the Forester felt strangely responsible for the corpses of the men he had slain. He paused and leaned on the stave of the axe, aware that his breathing was deepening. The air was thin up here yet the cold made it better, richer somehow. The Forester balled his hands into fists and then splayed them out, keeping them warm. Gloves would have kept them warm but at the cost of a firm grip, and an axe wound was not something he could afford. He felt up to reach his brow and grunted with satisfaction. Dry as an old bone. Perhaps he was not as unconditioned as he had thought. That was good. To sweat out here was to die, frozen in a web of your own salt water like a candle covered in rivulets of dried wax.
The Forester looked at the fresh mounds of dark soil. They stood out amongst the brilliant snow like rotten teeth. Soon each would be buried again as Winter devoured the landscape. The beasts of the forest would have it hard to get at them, yet he knew it would not stop them from trying.
He thought of another grave not far from here. Its occupant had turned to dust long ago yet he still kept it neat, even now. No animals had bothered her tomb, nor would they. He had seen to that. “You are a sentimental old fool,” he said aloud, placing the axe on a broad shoulder and turning to leave.
It was time to move on. He did not know where he would go but the forest was no longer safe. He could not stay here. As he walked, he thought on the men he had left in cold, nameless graves beneath the snow. Why so many? Surely they no longer feared his name as they once had? He was approaching his sixtieth year, well past his pri
me, and though he had won, his muscles and joints still creaked at the day’s efforts. In a way, it was flattering that they had come to find him in force. They clearly still considered him formidable. Yet it was also insulting. None had been true warriors, none a challenge. Many had been too old or young, and one grossly overweight. The Forester grimaced as he thought of the youngest. Killing him had been unnecessary. He hadn’t even had a beard. As he had laid the boy’s body in its icy tomb, he had accidentally brushed a handful of loose snow on to the boy’s chin. Despite the coolness of the dead flesh, it had melted quickly, yet for a brief moment, it made him look like a child playing dress-up, frosting his face with snow to look like an old man.
He should have let the boy live.
No, he thought. That is weakness talking. He had seen others fooled by innocence before, slowed by the saintly smile of a child or the pretty face of a woman who cradled a knife behind her back. He remembered the conquest of Threshia years before. How many men had been found with their britches down and throats slit?
The Forester sighed. The boy had been a victim of fate. At least it had been quick.
He had been considering vengeance. A stirring of the old anger had flushed through veins stained with the passage of adrenaline. Yet he had put that thought aside. He didn’t want to revisit those days. The bloodlust had awakened briefly in his gut and it had taken an effort of will to put it down again. Vengeance was for the young, for those with something — someone — to fight for. He had none of that. He was alone with his pride, and that could suffer wounds better than it used to. He would not kill for pride. Not again.
