The Parallel Man (8 page)

I heard a chuckle at my side and turned to see a young man with a studious look about him, clothed in a shabby robe that looked somewhat like a monk’s habit. “The child’s right, ser,” he said. “You’re the spitting image of the Blessed King. You must have Jagellon blood all right, though by your clothing you’re from off-planet. Would you like a guide, ser? I’m a poor student and I promise you that your fee will all be spent on students’ necessaries—books and wine.”

I laughed, liking the look of the young man, and flipped him one of the golden discs from my pouch; since one had bought me admittance to the blackout I reckoned it a fair fee for a guide. His face grew grave and with an obvious struggle he made as if to hand it back to me. “This is far too much for a guide, ser,” he said. “And I can’t give you exchange.”

I pushed his hand away. “Keep it for your studies then, ser scholar,” I said, “and enough wine not to interfere with the studying.”

He laughed at that, but his eyes were bright as he carefully stowed the disc in his clothing. “This will buy me things from off-planet that will save me much time in my studies,” he said awkwardly. “I thank you, ser, and I’m at your disposal for as long as you like. Come round to the Little Gate, going through the gift shop yonder spoils the castle for anyone with taste. Do you know any Carpathian history, ser, or should I start at the beginning?”

“Treat me like a child at his first lessons,” I said.

He chuckled again and fell into a lecturing tone as we walked along the paved area with the castle walls soaring above us. “Well, ser, Carpathia was colonized just before the Wars of Unity when, of course, the remoter colonies were soon cut off. A Szilar raider torched the techno complex, which they hadn’t had time to decentralize, and the planet slid right back to the feudal age in a few generations: The colonists had to go back to the most primitive subsistence farming and the starcrew who were stranded here when their ship was torched became a feudal aristocracy. The captain of the ship was a man named Casmir Jagellon who had a hobby of reading ancient history from Home. He formed his crew into an order of knighthood and got about the long task of building up civilization again . . .”

“To restore the Golden Days . . .” I said softly. It was a phrase from my knightly oath.

The young scholar shot me a startled glance. “But if you know the oath of the Knights of Thorn . . .” he began.

I shook my head, “Never mind, go on as you began,” I said. “A child at his first lessons.”

He shrugged and went on. “Well, ser, Casmir Jagellon became King Casmir the First and built the first castle here on Castle Crag. Some colonists revolted and went off to found their own societies. But most of those reverted to barbarism. Actually we know more about this early history than we do about the later history of Carpathia because for a while some sophisticated recording devices survived which could make record chips. When those broke down or wore out records were kept only with pen and ink on reed paper, and not all of these records survived. There was a Dark Age, a period from which more legends and myth than real history survive. For instance, if you look at the shield of King Casmir the Protector on the statue outside you’ll see a winged fire-breathing lizard, a firedrake. Most scholars now say they’re only legends, influenced by old stories from Home like the Bilbo-saga. Some scholars think they really existed, but they’re in the minority.”

“Why does. . . King Casmir. . . have one on his shield?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Oh, the usual thing, he killed a firedrake and rescued a princess.”

“Was her name Delora?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

The young scholar shook his head. “Oh no, one of the Hedwigas, I think. Delora isn’t a Carpathian name, even, and I’m sure it doesn’t come into any of the legends.”

A day or so ago I would have backed my own memory against a scholar’s knowledge of legends but with my new uncertainty his words gave me a sharp stab of uneasiness. “How about Mortifer?” I said.

He laughed. “Oh yes, he comes into that legend as a cross between the wicked enchanter and the usurping regent. King Casmir eventually banished him, I think. But there are a lot of Mortifers in Carpathian history, some heroes, and some villains. Mortifer is one of the old Carpathian family names, probably descended from one of the original starcrew, though that name doesn’t appear on the log as we have it. Ah, here’s the Little Gate.”

We entered a small but richly decorated gate; again its position but not its style matched my memories. As I expected, we stood within the courtyard of the castle with the Great Tower soaring above us. Built into the wall near us was a small church; the scholar led me into its nave and left me to look at the great altar and the carved and gilded statues while he crossed himself and knelt briefly to pray. I stood looking about me, while more suppressed memories flitted through my mind; Mass at the high altar with the flash of swords and sound of trumpets at the Elevation, catechism lessons from an old priest who had been my tutor before Mortifer. How could I have forgotten?

The scholar did not speak until we were out of the church; then he said quietly, “That chapel is still the Cathedral of Thorn and for the Carpathians who keep the Old Faith, the holiest place on Carpathia. The First Chaplain is buried there and Holy Queen Hedwig. Not the kings, though, they’re all buried in the Hall of Kings on the other side of the castle. There was quite a furor a few years ago when some scientists from the Royal Academy got permission to examine some of the bodies for archeological purposes. Carpathia isn’t a monarchy anymore, of course, but the Old Carpathia Party talked about desecration of our history.”

“The king who stands before the castle . . .” I said slowly.

He nodded. “Your look-alike? He was Casmir the Tenth. He united all the little kingdoms and really started Carpathia on the road to civilization. You couldn’t be descended from him; he was quite a devout man by all accounts and faithful to the princess he rescued. Some of his descendants were a bit more—er—prolific and no doubt your family . . . Well, the direct line died out before Rediscovery and if there had been a legitimate cadet branch . . .”

He was growing more embarrassed as he tangled himself in explanations. “I take your point,” I said. “How is Carpathia ruled now?”

The scholar looked troubled. “Theoretically it’s a Direct Democracy,” he said, “but the old families interfere a lot. The present Mortifer doesn’t hold political office, he’s an Academician, but according to the Old Carpathia Party he has a lot more influence than he should have on government decisions. Right now he’s in some sort of trouble at Home and the government is resisting attempts to extradite or even question him. Well, you’re not interested in Carpathian politics. Would you like to see the Great Tower or . . .”

“The Hall of Kings, I think,” I told him. “What sort of thing does this Mortifer do? Does he live here in Thorn?”

“Oh yes,” said the young man. “He has a suite of rooms at the Royal Academy which a lot of scholars think should be put to use as research space; another example of his influence. They must be some of the best rooms in the city way up at the top of the building like that. Here, let’s go up the guards’ stair and along the battlements. You can see the Academy over on Hedwiga’s Hill across the valley.” As I followed the young scholar up the well worn familiar steps I reflected that my golden circle had been well spent. The young man was so eager to please me that I had only to express interest in a subject to be flooded with all of the information the young man had.

“There’s Hedwiga’s Hill, with the Institute on top,” said my companion as we reached the battlements. As I had half expected, “Hedwiga’s Hill” was the Mount of Sacrifice. There looked to be a small chapel of some sort on the ledge where I remembered fighting the firedrake, and the top of the hill had been carved and quarried so that the whole top of the hill was a great building. It was built of the gray local stone, but had no battlements or towers; it looked more like a monastery than a castle, but somehow it echoed the look of the castle whose walls we stood on. Some master builder had taken care to see that the two buildings which dominated the town below should not jar with each other.

The town itself was a fairer sight, looked at from this more human height, than it had been from
Argo
. I could see the glint of fountains in the squares and the green of parks scattered here and there among the streets. Around the castle were the old winding streets that I remembered, but farther away the streets went in broader curves that followed lines of the country. The rigid geometry of the city of enchanters where I had boarded
Argo
was happily absent. I began to feel a sense of belonging here, a sense of possession, and with it a sense of responsibility. “A beautiful city,” I said to the scholar.

He nodded, slowly looking out over the city. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I want to travel through the Commonwealth; there’s so much to see, to learn. But always I’ll want to come back to Thorn, to meditate on what I’ve learned. I don’t know whether I’ll ever be elected to the Academy over there, but there are humbler places where perhaps more real scholarship goes on . . .”

Just then I heard footsteps on the stairs we had come up, and turned to see the man Jelleck, who had brought me to the castle from the starport. He was followed by a burly man who eyed me with a curiously appraising look. “I’ve found you a guide, ser,” said Jelleck, gesturing to the man beside him.

“Thanks for that,” I told him, “but I have found my own guide.” If there had been some small coins in my pouch, I might have tossed him one; but if a golden “ecu” was too much for a guide, it was too much for the smaller service he had rendered, and my supply of the little circlets was limited.

My young scholar-guide cut in, “You’re not one of the regular guides,” he told the burly man. “Where’s your medallion? The Castle guides barely tolerate us scholars guiding people here; you can get into serious trouble doing guide’s work without authorization.”

Jelleck opened his mouth but the other man took his arm in what looked like no gentle grip. “We had a guide waiting for you below,” said the burly man glibly. “But if the citizen here has no need of him, we’ll dismiss him. Come on, Jelleck.” He hustled Jelleck back down the stairs.

The scholar grinned at me. “The tough had better sense than the tout,” he said. “Some unauthorized guiding does go on, of course, because you can’t be sure that one person showing another the castle isn’t just a citizen showing a country cousin the sights of Thorn. But if anyone is caught taking a fee, the official guides will take it to court. That muscleman looked the type who might try to bully an extra fee out of a timid tourist; he’ll get nailed for Uncivil behavior someday, if that’s his game. Not that he’d get far with you, ser.”

I smiled at that, but I realized now what the burly man’s look of appraisal had been; the look of one fighting man sizing up another. A faint chill of uneasiness came over me. Even if Jelleck was a rogue and had some dishonest ploy in mind, was he not risking a great deal, since I knew his name and he was known to the gateman at the starport? The sense of being pursued, which had faded with my other emotions on
Argo
, came back in full force. I looked around me as the scholar talked of kings and battles, trying to think of what I could do if I were attacked here. How many memories of this castle could I trust, how much would this strangely altered Castle Thorn fight on my side?

The Hall of Kings was new to me; a strongly built place half hall and half chapel perched on a crag at one side of the castle and connected to the battlements by a high-flung bridge of wood. I hesitated before setting foot on the bridge; the place was a cul de sac. Still, not many could come at me at once over that bridge; the passage could be defended fairly easily by a determined man.

As if echoing my thought the young scholar said, “Casmir the Fourteenth made a stand here when his enemies seized the Castle by treachery. He burned the bridge behind him and held out until loyal troops relieved him. Later renovaters have wanted to rebuild the bridge in stone but the traditionalists have always objected, and so the bridge is wooden just as in the days it was burned. Of course, the timbers have been renewed, but it still makes some visitors from high-tech worlds nervous; they don’t really trust natural materials like wood.”

The bridge was sturdy enough, and the interior of the hall which we entered through massive wooden doors had a dignified simplicity. There was a central aisle lit by clerstoty windows above, and off of this aisle was a series of alcoves like small side chapels in a great church. Some of these contained obvious mausoleums, others held statuary groups or plaques. A shield hung above the entrance to each alcove and a flagstaff projected above each shield. The flags on the staffs were tattered and faded, but you could see the Crown and Sword design on each; they had been the personal standards of the dead kings.

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!

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 growing 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.