The Collarbound, page 8
‘Are you ready?’ Tatters asked.
Alistair nodded, but didn’t attack. Tatters gave him a few seconds to make up his mind.
From their conversation before, Tatters surmised that Alistair wasn’t too bothered about losing, which meant that trying to shame him wouldn’t work. Going by his quiet personality, Tatters guessed he wouldn’t be much of an invader, either.
We’ll have to lead the offensive, said Lal.
Tatters was aware of the crowd’s growing impatience. He crossed his arms.
‘I’m not going to go down on my own, you know,’ he told Alistair. The boy took a deep breath which hissed through his helmet’s mouthpiece. A few people shouted encouragement from the edges of the arena.
You want to impress the girl? asked Lal. Then let’s do this together.
On the poor kid? Isn’t that overdoing it?
You want to be a nice person, or you want Isha’s attention?
Alistair attacked.
He charged towards Tatters, pulling a long sword from his scabbard. Tatters glanced at it with interest. When the weapon drew an arc in front of him, he imagined the blade shorter, so it wouldn’t reach him.
He was surprised to find the weapon was clearly pictured in Alistair’s mind, imbued with precise feelings – the pain of being cut, the weight of a real sword. It wasn’t that easy to change. A bit late, Tatters ducked to avoid the hit. The tip of the sword caught him. It struck like a real blade. Of course, the sensation was a fake one, made by Alistair. But it still stung, and Tatters heard his body gasp as the metal ripped against his ribs.
Tatters jumped backwards. In his place, he drew a figure, which he strongly invested with the sense of ‘motherness’. She was a mother. Someone’s mother, Alistair’s mother. She didn’t have a face – but she didn’t need one. She shrieked in pain as the sword tore through her and she collapsed to the ground. Tatters was liberal about painting blood. He filled the image with the conviction that this death was Alistair’s fault. Alistair shuddered to a stop; his helmet gave nothing away.
For extra safety, Tatters took a few steps back, out of reach of the sword. From the corner of his mind, he felt Lal as she manifested behind Alistair. She chose to picture herself wearing a male page’s outfit, complete with the little feathered cap. Her long red hair was tied in a bun under the hat. She was young enough that it was difficult to pinpoint her gender.
Some members of the audience spotted her, but Alistair didn’t. Those who had seen Lal before leaned forward excitedly. Tatters saw Kilian nudging Isha and pointing, to show her what was happening.
Alistair remodelled the figure before him, so its features shifted from a woman’s corpse to Tatters’. Tatters’ limbs grew heavy. Cold spread across his fingers like frost – Alistair’s idea of death. The ground underneath his feet cracked, as if it were as brittle as ice. Alistair imagined Tatters falling – not only falling through a hole in the floor, but falling as a corpse, draped in colourful fabric, flung over the Edge to the underworlds where his soul would be trapped.
Tatters let himself drop. But as he fell he became lighter and, as the Temple told them they might one day, if they were good enough, he imagined becoming a lightborn. From time to time, lightborns could be seen flying at night. They were a moving ray of light, dashing back and forth across the sky. The aurorae, as they were sometimes called. The Temple worshipped the lightborns like gods, but to Tatters that was like worshipping birds. They existed, yes, they were beautiful, that was true, and they could fly. But that didn’t make them sacred.
Tatters rode the ray of light, which deposited him softly before Alistair. Lal was right behind. It was time to strike.
Tatters decided that if arrogance wasn’t the issue, maybe low self-esteem was. He sent Alistair a vision of a mediocre mage in his home village, ordained, certainly, but unremarkable. He used petty tricks to extract money from his serfs. His wife was his parents’ choice; she didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her. His children lived with their nurse and barely knew his name. Every day was exactly the same. And every day he wasted his life, and his mindlink talent, being nothing more than a local administrator, doing nothing more than what was expected of him.
Before Alistair could counter this image, Lal pushed her hand through his back, her fingers curled like the talons of a bird of prey. She grabbed his heart and tugged it out of his body, shredding flesh, with the disgusting sound of his vertebrae tearing.
Alistair screamed. He might have been able to block one of the attacks, but he wasn’t expecting two of them at the same time, from different angles. Mental and physical pain flooded him. The solid knight dissolved into a mush of insecurities. This sometimes happened – it was called soulsplintering. When a person broke in mindlink, parts of themselves unravelled suddenly. Images flashed through Tatters’ mind – bits and pieces of Alistair, memories and dreams and fears.
The face of another disciple as they did an impressive display of mindlink. Staring at his hand as he sat on his bed, the tinge of envy colouring his skin. Someone, maybe his father, a tall silhouette with greying hair, hitting him hard – too hard – and knocking him off his feet. A voice roaring in his ears. Liquid-hot fear running down his spine.
Normally only Tatters and the settler could see these images – that is, if Caitlin was doing her job right. That’s what a settler was for: to prevent the loser from splintering in front of the audience, and eventually to protect them from the winner, in case they decided to abuse their power and trash their opponent’s mind as it snapped. Tatters backed down, as was required of him.
That was too brutal, he scolded Lal. They were children. Misgivings about their future or who they might have sex with was enough to destabilise them. No need to go for the kill.
He’s learnt something, she said.
Tatters didn’t insist, but he let Lal perceive how annoyed he was. This was why he tried to avoid including her in mindbrawls. In some ways she was like Hawk. She didn’t do practice shots.
He focused on his sense of touch – rough wood under his legs and against his back, the warm glow of torches against his skin. He left Caitlin’s mind.
In the tavern, Alistair had fainted. The innkeeper took out a wet cloth to dab at his forehead and neck with the quick, expert hand of someone used to dealing with Tatters’ mess. There were a few coughs and chairs scratching the floorboards, but no-one dared look Tatters in the eye. Soulsplintering was considered bad luck at best, bad form at worst. Caitlin clapped, and a few apprentices followed, if only out of habit, but the applause was lukewarm.
They’re clients, not enemies, he grumbled. Look at what you’ve done.
Lal was smug. She was pleased with the effect she’d had on the crowd. The problem with sharing the same mental space was that they couldn’t lie to each other. She could’ve said she was sorry, but he already knew she wasn’t.
Once they’d put the chairs away, he made a point of checking Alistair was all right. He and Caitlin helped Alistair to the counter, where they bought him another drink and spent a few minutes giving him advice. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t want Tatters’ company – he left quickly.
‘You’re in a good mood today,’ Caitlin scoffed, as soon as Alistair was out of earshot. She spent her recently-earned money on a bowl of food, with a splash of red wine inside the soup, which the innkeeper gave her for an extra coin and which made it edible. She laughed it off, but it meant no-one else would fight Tatters this evening. They’d wait for a better day to challenge him, one where he was more playful, less intent on winning.
When Tatters returned to his booth, Kilian and Isha were deep in conversation.
‘He’s done it a few times,’ Kilian was saying, ‘but it’s difficult to maintain, so he usually doesn’t.’
Tatters sat down beside them. Isha glared at him. She wasn’t impressed, or at least, she didn’t want to seem that way. Maybe Lal was right. This girl rose to a challenge like hares jump over fires.
‘Kilian said you can split your mind in two.’ She made it sound as if she doubted it.
‘That’s pretty much it.’ Tatters nodded.
Isha crossed her arms. ‘I thought Caitlin was cheating.’
It wasn’t very funny, but it made Tatters smile. ‘If she ever cheats, I hope she does it more discreetly.’
That was one of the problems when picking a settler, of course. How could you be sure someone was impartial when it was your mind you were entrusting them with? There was no good solution. Audience members could sometimes spot cheating and discredit the settler. When the duels had higher stakes, two settlers were appointed, one picked by each opponent. And, of course, the settler must have no interest in the duel’s resolution – hence Caitlin was paid the same sum whoever won.
It wasn’t in Caitlin’s interest to help Tatters. She would gain an outlawed man’s favour but lose her chance at becoming one of the Nest’s official settlers. The trade wasn’t worth it, and most apprentices understood this. They tended to trust her for that reason. It didn’t hurt that she was a good settler. She was, amongst the disciples, one of the best.
‘How did you do it?’ asked Isha.
He explained that the idea was to fragment your mind into several versions of yourself. In mindlink, dividing your personality into facets meant that, if you were damaged, only part of you was – and if you attacked, you could do so from several different places in the opponent’s mind at the same time.
Which was the truth, but not what Lal was.
‘And in your case, it’s your adult self and your child self, right?’ asked Kilian.
It was a convenient lie. Tatters assented.
‘That sounds useful,’ Isha said. ‘Why don’t more people use it?’
Tatters shrugged. The Nest lacked imagination. High mages didn’t believe in evasion, in breaking themselves down to shards. Maybe they feared it would hasten their change into lacunants.
Kilian piped up: ‘It’s difficult to get right.’
That was also true. Creating items or armour, or even ideas like ‘a mother’ or ‘someone dying’, was relatively easy. But creating something that acted independently, trying to think two actions at once, and imagine them as coming from distinct people, was a tough trick to pull off.
‘Do you want to try?’ he asked.
Isha pinched her lips together. She didn’t want to say no, he could tell. But the duel had shaken her after all. As it would.
‘You do training, as well as duels?’ she said.
He explained the difference to her – he won money on duels by people betting for or against him, and keeping part of the innkeeper’s commission. But people paid for training. Isha put some coins on the table.
‘Kilian, my good man …’
‘I’ll be the settler,’ Kilian said, before Tatters could even finish his sentence.
Doesn’t want anyone else prying in his girlfriend’s mind, said Lal.
It’s rather touching, actually, said Tatters. I’ve never seen him act protective.
Lal did the mental equivalent of rolling her eyes.
Tatters projected himself into Kilian’s settled mind. The theatre, despite its gold and silver ornaments, was as shabby as ever. When Tatters paced the stage, the hollow wood didn’t echo under his feet. Kilian had been too lazy to imagine sound inside his arena. As Tatters waited for Isha, he noted that all the seats were the same colour, however far from the light source. It made the place too bright; flat and unfinished in more than one way. As was his habit, Kilian sat in the front row of the theatre.
When she joined them, it was clear Isha’s mindlink figure had improved. It was about her size, but thinner and more elongated, with a chiselled face. The tattoo was fudged, as if it were a light scar. Her grey robes fell more comfortably around her. It was a tame projection, with nothing original about it, but it was still better than her previous incarnation.
‘Not bad,’ said Tatters.
But a terrible giveaway, said Lal.
Of course.
Tatters lifted his hand. It wasn’t hard to imagine Isha with her tattoo – it was such an important feature of her face that he could see it with his eyes closed. He drew her tattoo with the tip of his finger. It crawled from underneath her hair like small black insects, a swarm of ants or flies spreading on her skin. Shuddering, she backed away from him. She radiated – not shame, as he had expected – but rage, helpless anger at having been branded, at belonging without choosing to belong.
When she pushed against him, Tatters let go. The tattoo faded.
‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘It’s like the collar. People see it. They know it’s important. That’s where your strongest defence needs to be.’
She rubbed her face. She tried to hide that she hadn’t been expecting this.
‘No-one went for the tattoo before you,’ she protested.
Tatters couldn’t help smiling at that. So, people had played nice so far? What did they think training was for?
‘Right. People pretend they’re polite. But when push comes to shove, they’ll fight dirty. They’ll go for the tattoo first.’
Isha took a deep breath and nodded. She replaced herself in the centre of the stage, legs spread to take up more space, fists lifted before her, ready to fight.
‘Show me your other you.’ She presented it like an order, not a request.
Lal came of her own accord. She took shape beside Tatters, her bare feet stark on the dark wood of the stage. She stuck with the young page imagery, which was probably safest. Removing her feathered hat, she gave Isha a bow.
‘I do like the bold ones.’ Lal smiled.
Isha glanced from Lal to Tatters and back. Kilian leant closer to the edge of his seat.
‘Your double is a girl,’ Isha pointed out.
Tatters was surprised that she was so perceptive, but he only shrugged. ‘She represents my feminine side.’
‘So, she’s a part of you, but she hasn’t got the collar,’ said Isha.
‘She’s a free spirit,’ said Tatters.
Isha joined her hands and closed her eyes. Her tattoo re-appeared across her face. First, it deepened in colour. It grew darker and darker, pitch-black. Then, it started growing. It shivered like a living thing and spilled over Isha’s skin. It was as if the ink was boiling, and the pressure building up was pushing it out of her, until the tattoo dripped onto the ground. Tatters examined the process, which mimicked the technique Hawk had taught him – she advised breaking up the procedure of making a double by imagining steps the mind could follow.
Soon, ink was flowing from Isha’s face to the floor. Kilian watched in awe. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ he said to no-one in particular.
‘Yes,’ said Tatters. ‘She is.’ He had never seen an apprentice capable of splitting their mind after one week.
The ink solidified into a black-fleshed figure, which turned out to be a bird – something hefty and clawed, a bird of prey or a crow. This ink-bird Isha was the colour of the night sky, even its eyes and beak.
The bird had achieved something else: it had taken the tattoo off Isha’s skin. She had split herself into the person who was what the tattoo represented, and the person who wasn’t.
‘That is … excellent,’ said Tatters. ‘Can you move independently?’
Isha nodded. She approached Tatters from the left, circling him as if they were going to wrestle with punches and kicks. The bird took flight, heading for Lal.
Is she going to be able to fight like this? wondered Tatters.
Lal was brimming with excitement, primed for battle. But Tatters wasn’t sure this was such good news. Isha could complete a complicated mindlink technique that required months to stabilise. She couldn’t have spent only a week learning it. It was impossible. But during her last fight, Isha had behaved like a first-timer. How did those two elements fit together?
Maybe Passerine had taught her. It was uncanny to know Hawk, whose blazon was a bird, and to see this girl, who had picked a bird to be her double. It was the sort of sick humour that Passerine would indulge in.
While he was distracted, both Ishas pounced. Tatters wasn’t sure what the bird did to Lal, but she’d been ready – which was more than could be said of him, taken completely off-guard.
Isha sent him a picture of his life at the tavern, growing older as apprentices grew younger. She projected an unambitious, drawn-out life, in which he took petty pleasure in humiliating younger mages, who then went on to be ordained and rule the Nest. They grew in might and glory while he continued to pretend he was a great mindbrawler by bullying kids. He was nothing but an impostor.
Tatters was lucky, because Isha miscalculated. Growing old in a modest setting wasn’t what he feared – it was what he hoped for.
Although he withstood it, Tatters was shaken by the unexpected flood of images. Isha’s mindbrawl was still too amateur to evoke all five senses; she didn’t drag emotions from the core of his chest. But it was a decent attempt.
Isha’s attack subdued, like the moon waning. Lal laughed in delight.
‘Still think you can afford not to focus when we fight?’ Isha asked. Her voice was defiant. ‘Do you still think …’
Before she could finish her sentence, she collapsed. The bird dissolved. The tension of maintaining herself and a double, all the while crafting two distinct assaults, had been too much. She couldn’t sustain it. Her concentration failed her; she couldn’t stay in Kilian’s arena, as she couldn’t focus enough to project her mind outside of herself. She disappeared suddenly.
Tatters opened his eyes. Isha hadn’t fainted, but she’d nearly fallen off her chair. She held onto the table with one hand, moving erratically.
‘You killed another one?’ asked Caitlin. She was drinking the dregs of her soup, sitting on the opposite side of the table. ‘Go easy on us, or there’ll be no-one left.’
A few apprentices turned to stare. Isha shook her head in frustration. She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
