I walked softly down the aisle until I came to an alcove below a familiar shield. The alcove contained nothing but a massive rectangular slab of dark stone. Plunged into the stone slab as if driven there by a mighty force was a sword I recognized. I stood there gazing somberly at it, wondering if I were a ghost or a living man, whether I stood before this dark slab or lay beneath it.
A sharp gasp from the young scholar aroused me from my reverie. Following his gaze I saw the burly man who had accosted us along with Jelleck, striding across the bridge. He was followed by three men even bigger and brawnier and all of them looked grim and purposeful. Suddenly the gatekeeper’s odd looks at me and his delays, Jelleck’s odd eagerness to help me into the city and the burly man’s appraising glance came together into a sinister pattern. I had been sniffed out by the faceless enemies who pursued me and skillfully herded into this trap, a trap that was about to close on me!
9. Face to Face
My next move was half instinctive, half desperation. I reached for the hilt of the sword on the tomb and pulled. It came as easily into my hand as if it had been in a greased sheath. Above my head a great bell tolled once; perhaps an alarm set off by my impulsive action. But I had no time to think of that; I ran sword in hand for the door, to meet my attackers on the bridge where they could surround me. I took a grim delight in their faces as I burst out of the door, sword at the ready. The first man fumbled at his belt, but before he could draw any weapon I had dealt him a stunning blow on the side of his head with the flat of my sword. He crumpled to the floor of the bridge and I leaped over his body to dash the pommel of the sword into the face of the next man following. He staggered back into the arms of the next man and two quick swipes with the flat of the sword stunned them both. The last man was a little out of reach, but I feinted a thrust at him to keep him off balance. His nerve broke and he turned and ran.
I wheeled to see if any of the others were recovering, but the young scholar was standing over them with what looked like a heavy candlestick, snatched perhaps from some altar in the Hall of Kings. We exchanged grins and he started to speak, but suddenly there was a curious sound, half howl, half whistle, from the air above us. I looked up to see a circular platform swooping down upon us. On it stood a woman in dark blue garments with a stylized shield covering her chest and a close-fitting helmet on her head. “Oh lord, a monitor,” said the scholar. “If these men deny that they meant to attack us . . .”
I stepped close to him and with an odd reluctance pressed the sword hilt into his hand. “Keep this under your robe and walk slowly into the Hall,” I said in a low voice. “Restore the sword to where it came from while I parley with this . . . monitor.” If the woman approaching us was a keeper of the law I had no wish to use a sword on her, and if I had no weapon in my hand I could play the injured innocent better. The scholar grinned again and slipped unobtrusively back to the door of the Hall as the woman maneuvered her flying platform to land on the wide space on the battlements where the bridge to the Hall of Kings began.
As soon as her platform touched ground the “monitor” leaped lightly off of it and came toward me, a stubby instrument of familiar aspect held in one hand, the dark lens pointing at my chest.
“What’s going on?” she asked in a voice that was musical yet filled with authority.
I had decided on a story that kept fairly close to the truth. “This man offered himself as a guide; when I refused he grew angry. When he came at me with three companions I thought it best to strike first.”
She lifted an elegantly arched eyebrow, stepped past me without taking her eyes from me or ceasing to train her weapon on me and turned over one of my assailants with a booted foot. “Their faces make good witnesses to your story,” she drawled. “This one’s a known tough and Wilder. If you’d come to my prowler, citizen, I’d like a statement from you.”
At her gesture I preceded her to the platform, which was surmounted by a stubby, waist-high column which held blinking lights and cryptic levers. “Step on the black area, please,” she said and I did so. She stepped on the platform opposite me and put a hand on the column. Suddenly we were in the air and I clutched frantically for a hand-hold which protruded from the column. “I’ll return you to Castle Thorn after your statement,” she said calmly. I risked a glance below to see houses spread below us like a pampered child’s model city. When a bird flew under us I turned my gaze to the sky. The woman smiled slightly. “You can’t fall off,” she said. “The gravity effect keeps you on.” I tried to look a great deal calmer than I felt, but I probably did not deceive her.
My stomach protested as we swooped down again to land. I looked around; we were on the roof of a building which towered high over the city; I could see Castle Thorn on its crag across the valley filled with houses. Suddenly an alarm bell tolled in my mind. This must be the building on “Hedwiga’s Hill,” the Academy as they called it. Below me, perhaps just under my feet were the apartments of Mortifer!
I must have stiffened because the woman took a step back and trained her weapon on me. “I see you’ve guessed something,” she said. “You have two choices now, walk or be carried. It will be easier for both of us if you walk.” I shrugged and followed her directions to stand on a marked area of the roof. She spoke into a small disc she took from her belt and the whole area flashed white and vanished; we sank slowly into the room below, a featureless antechamber. A door flashed into being on one wall and I was ushered into a richly furnished room. Seated on a thronelike chair was the man I had come so far to see, Mortifer the Enchanter. I was meeting him on his own terms, but at least we were face to face at last.
There was no other chair in the room but there was a massive table not far from him; I strolled over to it and sat on its edge. Crossing my legs I waited for Mortifer to break the silence. He had to turn his head a little to see me and his lips tightened with an annoyance he could not quite hide from me.
The woman’s voice came from behind me. “He laid out three of the toughs and the other took to his heels. Lucky I was there in reserve, Councillor.”
Mortifer’s voice was dry as he said, “You did your job, they did not. It is noted.” He was always a bad leader, grudging of his praise and cruel in his reprimands.
I turned my head to look at the woman and gave her a smile. “You were quick and clever,” I said. “Well played.” She was so startled that she returned my smile for a moment until Mortifer’s growl took the smile and the color from her face and sent her scurrying out of the room.
I turned to Mortifer. “You’re better served than you deserve,” I said, “as always.”
He glowered, but did not rise to the bait. “You would have stood where you are standing long before this,” he said, “if you had not been a stubborn maker of trouble.”
“As always?” I asked blandly and his control snapped.
“Always!” he sneered in icy rage. “You are a creature of a moment; I grew you in my tanks not two years ago. What you think you remember I put into your head, except for those two years. During that time you were a puppet in a toy theater of my devising. For a while it looked as if I might learn a little from you, but interfering fools spoiled that. You’re a bit of apparatus for a botched experiment; it’s time to throw you on the trash pile before you do more damage.”
It was something I had half feared, ever since I had heard the story of Justinian Droste’s case against Mortifer and then soon after the story of young Benton’s boars. Yet there was some comfort in that, if I understood it rightly. “Grown, perhaps,” I said, “but from what? Did you desecrate a dead king’s body for the flesh from which you grew me, Mortifer of the Royal Academy? And if you did, can I not say that I am Casmir’s flesh and Casmir’s bone? Can’t I say, even that I am Casmir?”
His eyes lit up with a dark glee as he replied. “Your prototype was always enamored with hair-splitting and useless metaphysics. it seems that I didn’t manage to suppress that in you. Well, riddle me this, metaphysician. If g
rowing you from Casmir’s tissue samples makes you Casmir, then what about the other one I grew from those samples? If you are identical with Casmir, so is he. But things equal to the same thing are equal to each other, aren’t they? So you two must be the same. But you’re not; for one thing you’re here and the other one is—elsewhere. So neither of you can be Casmir.”
It was a shock, but it was also a triumph, for I felt sure that it had been no part of his plan to tell me of this other Casmir. Trying to keep an appearance of calm and keep pressure on Mortifer, I shrugged and drew myself up to sit tailor fashion on the table. “It doesn’t follow, Mortifer; you were always weak at logic,” I said mockingly. “All you’ve proved is that both of us can’t be the original Casmir, not that one of us can’t.”
Weak at logic or not Mortifer had a passion for argument; I had often lured him into disputes when his lessons bored me. He leaned forward, clutching the arms of his chair, his face dark with anger. “Nonsense,” he said venomously. “There’s nothing to choose between you; cultured from the same sample, put in identical artificial environments, subjected to the same stimuli. That was the point of the whole thing; to show, to prove that you’d act identically, that humans are as much machines as andros are, that free will is a philosopher’s dream!”
“And did you prove it?” I said mockingly, probing at the weakness I sensed behind his bluster.
His refusal to answer was itself an answer. He rose to his feet, his eyes blazing. “The experiment was botched, spoiled,” he cried, “and now its time to throw away the mess that’s left.”
I tensed, but my feet were not quite set—if I could only buy a moment’s time . . . Then a faint musical note sounded from the back of Mortifer’s chair and a woman’s voice said, “Councillor, there’s a mob coming up the Hill toward the institute.”
Mortifer half turned toward the chair back and said impatiently, “A mob? What has that to do with me? How dare you interrupt . . .”
The voice, which I was sure was that of the woman who had brought me here said, “Ser, they’re led by a man in a scholar’s robe; I think the same fellow I saw just before I landed at the Castle, talking to the man who is in there with you. And they’re shouting something . . . something very odd. Something about ‘Casmir’s come again.’ ”
There was a moment’s silence and I could hear Mortifer grinding his teeth, a nasty habit of his when in a rage. “Prepare the disposal chamber,” he said after a moment. “They’ll find no Casmir here.”
“But ser,” the voice came, “this man is . . . you said he was little more than an andro, but . . .” I blessed the impulse that had made me praise the woman and make some sort of human contact with her. It was a good moment to improve on that Contact.
“I am a citizen of the Commonwealth,” I said, baring my wrist with its green circle, hoping that the woman could see into the chamber by some spyhole. “Have you no laws against killing a citizen? Is there no punishment for that, even for Mortifer’s servants? For the killer at least, even if he escapes?” My feet were nearly set now; it was hellishly uncomfortable but they were side by side under my buttocks, with enough contact with the table to give me some leverage. I slouched to give my arms as much flex as possible; my hands were flat on the table.
“I’ll torch you myself,” screamed Mortifer, beginning to draw something from his garments, “and that insubordinate bitch,” I launched myself straight into his face, with every ounce of my strength, bringing my arms up after I leaped so that my clenched fists on either side of my head made my head and arms the head of a human battering ram.
My leap was not quite as strong as I had hoped; I struck him in the chest and not in the face. He was protected in some way, it was like hitting an image of stone but my weight and momentum could not completely be nullified by his defenses; I heard his breath whoosh out and his chair went over with a resounding crash, sending us both to the floor. I grabbed him by the arms and rolled toward the heavy table I had been sitting on. He would hardly have received me alone without guardsmen to hand but if I could get that table between me and the door and keep hold of Mortifer perhaps I could make him my hostage.
Now we were under the table. I lay with all my weight on Mortifer and kicked the table top from underneath. It toppled, and I had my barricade. Suddenly I felt Mortifer’s arms move in my hands and something hard thrust into my belly. “Let go,” Mortifer grated, “or I’ll torch your guts out.” If he could have done it without risk to himself, my racing brain told me, he would have done it, not threatened; I made as if to obey, relaxing my hold on his arms, then as he thrust me away from him, I dropped my hands to capture his and jerked suddenly upwards. Over his head, his weapon would be useless, and I could pin him again.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash; my eyes were dazzled and my face burned. I could smell my own burned hair and for a moment all I could do was hold on frantically. But then there was no strength to Mortifer’s limbs, no resistance, and I raised myself to hands and knees, peering down at the ruined body below me. There was an acrid smell, but it was not the smell of burned flesh. Liquid flowed sluggishly, but it was dark, not red. I looked down, and as the dazzle cleared from my vision I saw below me the wreck of Mortifer’s form. The false flesh curled back like burned parchment and beneath it was the glint of half molten metal, uncounted tiny threads of varied colors, enigmatic crystals. Mortifer, the enchanter, was a magical puppet, not human flesh and blood! Then my dazzled senses failed, my overstrained muscles relaxed and I fell to the floor, half conscious of a rending sound behind me, as the floor seemed to shake, then strike me in the face with a mighty blow.
Part II
10. Under the Hills
Firedrake slayer; a good name to die with if one must die. As the mighty monster slipped off the edge I thrust my left hand into a rent in the wing I had made with my dirk, and plunged the dirk itself into the base of the wing, using it again as an anchor. My feet scrabbled, but could find no purchase; I hung by my hands alone as we left the ledge, and the frantic beating of the blinded beast’s other wing tossed us in mad spirals. Down, down, down, nearer to death on the crags below. I was hanging below the beast, it would land on me and crush me.
A branch whipped my cheek and I suddenly smelled evergreen sap. With the greatest effort of will of my life I made my hands release their hold and I fell through the air. Branches cracked, my fall slowed, and for a second I dared to hope. Then my leg hit something solid and snapped as the branches had snapped. There was a terrible pain and I lost consciousness.
There were fevered dreams afterward that seemed to last for centuries. But one day I awoke to brightness in my eyes and the smell of bread baking somewhere. A serf’s dull eyes were regarding me from a face that seemed to float above me. Then as I tried to move the face vanished and I nearly lost consciousness again in the pain from my leg and ribs and head. The room swam around me, then came into focus again; my own room at Castle Thorn. The sword of my fathers was back in its rack on the wall, a newly painted shield beside it. The arms were my own, the sword and crown, but without the “file,” the “difference” which marked me as the oldest son of the king. That shield should be borne by my father, not by me. I was staring dully at the shield, my mind refusing to work, when Stanislaus, the court physician, bustled into the room, his face beaming.
“Hail, firedrake slayer!” he said. “Hail, Casmir, protector of the kingdom! Rest now and heal. All is well.” I must have made some feeble gesture toward the shield, because his face became grave. “Your father’s heart could not hold the sorrow of your peril and the joy of your victory without bursting,” he said solemnly. “Casmir the Ninth is dead. Long live King Casmir, Tenth of the Line!” That was too much and I lapsed into Unconsciousness again.
After that were long lazy days and nights with less pain and fewer nightmares. Delora came to me once or twice, suitably chaperoned and laid a cool hand on my brow. Her skin was reddened and her eyebrows and lashes scorched away, but she w
as lovely as ever. Her thanks were flowery, but had little real warmth behind them and a dull irritation stirred under my lethargy. She was lovely but was there a real woman behind that beautiful facade? I remembered . . . what did I remember? Laughing faces, tender looks . . . Were they real memories, or fantasies? I slept again.
Little triumphs marked my days; cutting my own meat, being supported, none too gently, by two serfs as I got out of bed to use the garderobe. There was a day when I knew that I had my life back, if not all my strength; I was a man who had been broken and was weak, no longer a broken man. It was on that day my old life ended.
I was lying in my bed in a sort of restful doze, postponing the moment that I would have to take up the reins of power.
Mortifer was away and that gave me time to drift and heal. As soon as he returned there would be a test of wills, one I meant to win. My father’s age and weakness—yes weakness, I could call it by its name now—no longer put me in Mortifer’s power. I was no longer his pupil and would never be his puppet. I was determined to show him that. If only the Falling Sickness did not betray me, as it had done before in confrontations with Mortifer . . .
Suddenly I realized that the small noises of the everyday functioning of the castle had ceased. I looked over at the serf who stood by the door ready to summon help or run errands. He was unnaturally still and as I gazed at him I realized that he was not breathing, not even blinking. The hair rose on the back of my neck and my skin tingled. Enchantment! Mortifer must be back, and this must be his way of attack, sudden, swift and silent. Was I, too, paralyzed? No, I felt as fit and able as ever. As blood coursed in my body in response to the challenge I felt fitter than I had since my fight with the firedrake. I leaped to my feet, and ripped my sword and shield from the wall. I thrust my feet into the soft boots beside the bed and tiptoed to the door.
The Parallel Man Page 8
