Chapter Seven: “The Makings of a Monster”

Markus looked up in surprise from the book he was reading when someone gently knocked on his door. Of course, the prior evening and this entire morning had been extremely surprising. By simply accepting Mikhail’s offer, Markus had gone from being a captive to an honored guest. His steam reservoir had been returned to him, full of piping hot steam besides, and servants had shown him to a new room with a feather mattress, wash basin, a small bookshelf, and most importantly, no large mirrors that took up an entire wall. And now, after a filling breakfast and some time to himself, someone was politely knocking on his door, a door which had not been locked or guarded the night before. It was a far cry from being a prisoner.

“Yes?”

The door opened and a servant took a step inside.

“Sergeant McGrigor,” he said. “Mr. Ginken has sent for you.”

Markus took a deep breath and stood up. “Then I mustn’t keep our dear leader waiting.”

He started towards the door then stopped in front of a standing mirror and adjusted his coat. No, not just his coat. His uniform. A Sentatian soldier’s uniform. He had thought long and hard on why Mikhail had given it to him. He was sure it was not to try and win him over to the rebels for sentimental reasons.

He followed the servant to an office and stepped inside to find Mikhail sitting at a carved and gilded desk, reading letters. The man looked up and smiled.

“Sergeant, so good to see you,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

“Not really,” Markus said. “But soldiers don’t really ever sleep well, truth told.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” From his voice, he might actually have been. “If there is anything we can do, a change of bed or room, just let us know.”

“Oh, the bed and room are fine,” Markus said. “I’ll admit: it has been years since I’ve had a feather mattress under me, but I doubt you called me in here to be a good host.”

“True,” Mikhail said. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be a good host as well. You have been ill used Markus, and I want you to know that you will not be treated the same here.”

“A soldier sleeping on a hard cot in a war is not ill use,” Markus said. “It’s a fact of life.”

“You are suspicious of us, sergeant, I can see that,” Mikhail said. “Please understand: we are simply trying to be hospitable. I don’t ask that you trust us immediately, but that really is all there is to it.”

Markus gave Mikhail a tight smile. “I accept your hospitality. Now, about what you want from me?”

Mikhail nodded. “Yes, a soldier asking of his general, not a rebel asking of his leader. Of course. Very well, Markus. I suppose I should say this is your in-brief. Tell me, what do you know of the rebellion?”

“I’ve heard one or two of your men speaking on a street corner,” Markus said. “You think the Council is a sham, that the people are still oppressed by the nobility and the industrialists, and that we should throw them down and put you in their place.”

Mikhail frowned but nodded. “Much as many would hear and see, yes.”

“I also know,” Markus continued. “That King and Council don’t really view you as a pressing threat.”

Mikhail’s frown deepened. “And why would you say that?”

“It is commonly known that Lord Spears has some connection with the Rebels, yet he still openly sits on the Council. Sunset House also took action that indirectly resulted in a city block being burned down trying to find me, a revenant they only suspected existed, and yet have made no major movements or raids against your people, who are far more prevalent. At least, none that the broadsheets have decided to report on.”

Mikhail took a deep breath. “What you say hurts, but that is only because it rings of some truth. Some, I say, for it is the truth of what the people see, and often what the people see becomes the truth, whether it was in the beginning or not. Allow me to enlighten you some, sergeant.”

“What you said about us was true in that we do believe the old system of government in this country has become outdated. Once, a king alone was adequate, and then the Council became needed. But now, now nobility is just an archaic tradition that holds us back and oppresses the majority. I do not propose that the people overthrow one king only to replace him with another. I propose that the people do away with the king altogether and take their country into their own hands.”

“The power of law comes from the consent of the people,” Markus said. “And for the common good must we all agree, not be forced, to be constrained by the laws.”

Mikhail’s face brightened. “You’ve read Loche’s Essays!”

“A few,” Markus said. “I’ll be honest, it was rather lofty. Not the stuff of common soldiers and factory workers.”

“You sound as if you do not care who rules or why,” Mikhail said.

“Troena’s own truth is, I don’t,” Markus said. “And in my opinion, most people don’t either. A king is a king and nobility is nobility, whatever they call themselves.”

“Yet you have joined our cause,” Mikhail said. “Our purpose.”

“I have become your soldier,” Markus said. “I fight for my own reasons.”

“And those reasons are?”

“Ones that align with yours,” Markus said. “I am yours, so why don’t you tell me what you want me to do? As you said, a general to a soldier.”

Mikhail took a deep breath. “Yes, indeed. Very well, allow me first to tell you your place among us. We do not have an army, but instead cells. The cells have their own hierarchy, but in the end answer to our leadership, which is myself, the High Meister, and Lord Spears.”

Markus nodded. “And where do I fit in?”

“You answer directly to me,” Mikhail said. “As to Spears and Cennet, show them due deference and respect, but they do not have authority over you. Understood?”

“Simple enough,” Markus said. “And do you have a task for me already?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Mikhail sorted a folio out from the pile on his desk and slid it across to Markus. “This is information on one of our men, a low level street-speaker and coordinator of ours by the name of Jordin Dannels.”

Markus leafed through the folio and found a sketch, as well as a few pages about his schedule and habits. “I’ve seen files like these before; they were for men I was supposed to follow or kill.”

“You are an observant man,” Mikhail said.

“Why are you sending me after this man?”

“We suspect he is working with Sunset House,” Mikhail said. “I want you to confirm it, and if he proves to be an informant, I want you to take care of him rather publicly.”

“Publicly?”

“In uniform, no less.” Mikhail said. “A war is fought on many fronts, as I am sure you know. You are right, Markus. The general people are not going to understand that we are fighting for them. They have not been receptive to our message. We must not only prove to them that the rebellion is good, but that King and Council are not. If this man, who is well known to the people as a man of the rebellion, turns out to be Sunset’s creature, then you shall instead turn him into a martyr for us. The people will see a revenant in uniform killing one of my men. I trust you can see the use of this.”

Markus stared at the folio. “So I would be an assassin again? Your pet monster?”

“You have the makings of a monster, sergeant,” Mikhail said. “You hit nails with a hammer, and you turn the people against the perceived master of a revenant.”

Markus put the folio down and looked at Mikhail.

“I know you are more than this, sergeant,” Mikhail said. “But, we must all play the parts Troena has given us.”

“Very well.” Markus picked the folio back up. “I will be your monster.”

 

* * *

 

The world was pain and fire, swirling infernos and burning jets, dark spirals and cold pits. He had known life before, but it seemed so long ago. The monsters had come and claimed him, and then there had been a flash of silver and the sharp, piercing agony at the base of his skull.

The pain never lessened, but slowly, he started to feel other things. He had a body. Was that new? Once, he had been more than a being trapped in an endless hell. He had been strong and tall. People had feared him, and he took what he wanted. He had a body, but not this body. The feeling was wrong. Exactly how, he could not quite say. Still, at least he had fingers and toes.

And he had eyes. He tried opening them, but they would not respond. The faint light that crept in through his eyelids was painful enough as it was. No, he could keep them closed. He did not need to add to his torment. But he could not close his ears, and voices carried.

“How is he?”

The voice, a woman’s, was faint, like it was coming from another room. Another, a man’s, answered her.

“It’s still too early to tell, Lady Kanadis.”

“And you have done everything you can?” she said.

“Ah, yes, of course my lady,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “My earlier promise still holds, Mortimyr. But, of course, you don’t need me to remind you of that, do you?”

“Of . . . of course, my lady.”

“I want to see him.”

“I don’t know if that is wise. He is—”

“No excuses, Mortimyr.”

A door opened. For a moment, he thought of turning towards it and opening his eyes, but he barely seemed to remember that he was laying on his back, and the door was behind him. Anything else made the pain worse.

Two sets of footsteps walked up towards him, one sure and confident, the other hesitant. Memories tickled at the back of his mind. He recognized those voices, didn’t he? Something from his other life, before the pain. He was on the verge of memory, but then it disappeared again, and all that was left was the pain.

“Is he alive?”

“Ah, yes, my lady, of course,” the man, Mortimyr, said. “See, you can see his chest rising and falling, yes? He breathes.”

“I’ve seen men breathe and not live, Mortimyr.”

“Well, beyond that, I told you, it is too soon to tell.” He took a sharp breath. “My lady, please understand, I am a meister, not a doctor. And while my specialty does allow me to act the surgeon in some ways, I am far from one. I can save a man’s life, if he can endure. But when one will wake, I cannot say.”

A man. They had said it. He was a man. Not just some wretched soul doomed to suffer. He grunted, although it was more of a whimper in his ears, and he tried to move his body, to prove he had one. His arms and legs refused to obey him. It was as if he did not even know how to feel them anymore. He focused on what he did feel. They were wrong, not his arms and legs, but something that had replaced them that seemed cruel parodies. Only, they were stronger, he could tell that, if only he could move them. But how?

“What’s going on?” the woman said.

“I . . . I don’t know, my lady,” Mortimyr said. “Perhaps he’s having a nightmare.”

He ignored them and tried again. There was another grunting whimper, and he did everything he could to feel his fingers, to make them twitch. Then, instead of moving his fingers, he suddenly felt as if he had more. Only these new fingers were not on his hand, but somewhere else. Perhaps he could move them instead. Across the room, the sound of metal shifting about in other metal echoed off the walls.

The man and woman both took a sharp breath, and one, the one with the hesitant footsteps, moved over toward the sound. More metal pushing against metal, the jangle of loose bolts and gears, and then the man called out in surprise. Something came free of the pile of metal parts, and the man took a step back towards the lady.

“Why is it moving?” she said.

“I—I had hoped, thought maybe,” he said. “But it was only a guess. But truly, this is the Secret of Silver, my lady. The real Secret. He must be trying to move his hand, but he doesn’t know which hand is his!”

“What do you mean he doesn’t know which hand is his?” she said. “That one isn’t even attached to him!”

“Two spikes,” he said. “This is the power of two spikes!”

Mortimyr walked back over, his footsteps now sure. When the meister did, it made the hand easier to feel. And he not only could he feel it better, he could feel he was moving it. Only a twitch, but it moved.

A sudden exhaustion washed over him, and he lost the feeling of that strange, disembodied hand. His own were still there, unresponsive as ever, but he did not try and move them. The pain had seemed to dull as he focused on twitching fingers, but now it was back in force.

The woman’s voice was so quiet that he could barely hear her, even though she was standing next to the table. “What have you created?”

“Only what you commanded me to, my lady,” Mortimyr said. “I have made your dragon.”

“And you have also made what you wanted,” she said. “A monster.”

The pain became overpowering, and he could no longer hear. He no longer had a body, and he was no longer a man. He was a wretch in the pits of Praedin, and his entire world was agony.

 

* * *

 

Markus jostled his way through the crowd. No, not crowd. Mob. He had not spent much time in the factory district, and what he had read in the broadsheets about the protests and walkouts seemed wholly inadequate. Foundry workers covered in grime stood elbow to elbow with weavers in threadbare clothes. They called out slogans and cheered on the occasional man or woman who stood up on boxes and spoke against the industrialists and nobles. The speakers themselves were not doing much more than repeating slogans and catechisms themselves. They only did it louder.

Ahead of him, he caught sight again of the entire reason he was trying to push through the crowd. A man in a bowler hat and wearing slightly nicer clothes than those around him stopped near a weaver and spoke a few words to her before moving on. He moved a few yards further, spoke to a foundry worker, moved again, spoke to a miller. He had been doing this for the better part of an hour. He seemed to pick the people at random, and Markus had not managed to get close enough to hear any of the conversations.

Of course, Markus knew what the man was supposed to be doing. Just like he knew the man’s name. The sketch Mikhail had given him of Jordin Dannels had been fairly accurate, and according to the report in the folio, Jordin was supposed to be spreading the rebels’ message today among the crowds.

That the message needed spread in the crowds seemed odd to Markus, but he had only needed to listen to a few of the louder people in the mob to realize that these gatherings were not Ginken’s working. No, the factory workers were upset on their own, and Mikhail was simply trying to capitalize on it, to galvanize it behind his words. And to that effect, men like Jordin had to move about the crowd and try to convince people. Some brought a box and stood up and screamed out their message, and then there were those that moved about the crowd and had more personal conversations with as many people as they could. As Mikhail had said, some people respond to the preacher on the pulpit, others prefer him sitting in the pew next to them.

So, yes, Markus knew what Jordin should be doing, but if he was actually doing that, or spreading some other message, or talking to secret constable contacts, he had no clue. And so Markus had to observe him. Thus, he had asked Mikhail for his old coat and gloves back, and he had moved out. Yes, he was supposed to kill the man in full uniform and as an obvious revenant if he turned out to be a spy, but he could hardly find that out if everyone saw a revenant soldier among them. He still wore the uniform under his buttoned up coat, though, and his hat was tucked into his waistband.

Jordin disappeared into the crowd again, and Markus swore under his breath and elbowed his way through the crowd after him. The man seemed to move as easily as a fish in water among the people, which was part of the problem Markus was having with getting close enough to eavesdrop. All of the ground Markus made up while he was talking to someone was lost in the blink of an eye once he moved on.

He saw a bowler disappear into an alley, and he moved after it. He had not seen very many men wearing that particular style of hat amongst the crowd; most of the factory workers seemed to favor ivy caps or a brimless, shapeless thing that looked almost like a stocking for the head. Still, he had seen a few bowlers, and for all he knew he was chasing the wrong man. He muttered a prayer to Troena that he was not.

He came abreast of the alley and looked down, and sure enough, there was Jordin speaking to someone else. But this time, it was not some weaver or miller, not with that brown coat and high domed hat. As Jordin spoke with the constable, he constantly looked back over his shoulder, and his posture, hunched shoulders and sneer on his lips, was not that of a rebel trying to talk his way out of trouble. Mikhail’s suspicion had been right. Markus realized suddenly he had been hoping Mikhail had been wrong. Now, Markus had to kill the spy.

He watched Jordin talk to the constable for several minutes as best he could through the shifting mass of people. Finally, the constable gave Jordin something and headed deeper into the alley. Jordin stuffed the something into his coat and headed back into the crowd. Markus took a deep breath and followed him for several more minutes, just to make sure the constable and anyone else who might have seen him were far away, and then he stopped near a niche and shed his coat and donned his hat. He then took off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. When he stepped into the crowd, the reaction was near immediate. Behind him, someone screamed.

“Troena above! It’s a revenant!”

A man screamed, “A soldier? What?”

The crowd Markus had only moments ago been forced to elbow through drew back from him, creating a bubble. He walked as fast as he could, and was only inhibited by how fast the crowd could move itself out of his way. Most importantly, he was moving faster than Jordin.

He walked directly towards the man, who did not realize he was this monster’s prey until it was too late. By the time he realized that Markus was not just moving in the same direction as him, but looking directly at him, he could not manage his trick of moving through the crowd. Pressed together bodies of the panicked protesters were as solid as any brick wall, and all he could do was try and urge it to move faster.

And then he was on the edge of that growing bubble, and Markus darted forward with all of the strength and speed of his mechanical parts and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. A quick twist of the hips, and he had pulled Jordin out of the crowd and slammed him to the paving stones behind him, in the middle of the clear space.

The crowd screamed louder. The revenant had not just appeared, but it had a victim. The entire time, Markus stayed stone silent. Mikhail had not told him to say anything, and for all the stories in those penny-dreadfuls that had killers deliver clever one-liners, Markus knew the truth. An assassin did not speak. He was just there to kill a man, and any words would just be wasted on the soon-to-be corpse. The people saw him. They saw his uniform, and they saw his spike and his hand. They saw his strength. They would draw all the conclusions they needed.

Jordin looked up at him in terror, and Markus undid two latches on the side of his right sleeve. A moment later, his blade pivoted around his wrist. He drew it back to strike, and then stopped. Jordin had soiled himself, but the stench did not bother Markus. He had smelled it a hundred times before, either just before or just after the kill. He had seen terrified eyes looking up at him, uncomprehending at what was about to happen to them. He had heard prayers and pleas, begging and sobbing, and every time, he had followed through with blade or gun. He lowered his arm, and the blade retracted into it.

“What is wrong with me?” he said.

Confusion mixed with Jordin’s fear. “What?”

“I thought I could kill again.” Markus was not really talking to the man. “I thought, if I fought for a cause, I could.”

Jordin pulled himself to his knees and grabbed at Markus’s feet. Markus very nearly kicked the man’s head in by instinct, but he restrained himself. The man was only groveling.

“Please,” Jordin said. “I’m not one of them! I work for the constables! Please! Don’t kill me!”

Markus looked down at him then looked around. The crowd had fallen oddly silent, captivated and baffled by what they were seeing. They all expected to see this monster shed blood.

Markus looked back down at Jordin but pitched his voice to carry. “We know who you are, what you are: a coward and a sneak. You pretend to fight for the people, but you take the constable’s money and betray your men. What do you think will happen to you when this is done? I was a war hero, fought for the safety of this city and country. And when I returned, they cast me off like rubbish. When they are done with you, no better fate awaits.”

He walked away from the groveling wretch and back to where he had stashed his coat. The crowd still parted for him, but the panic was gone. The street was quiet enough that Markus’s steps echoed in their singularity. He took his cap off and put the coat back on, then he undid another set of recently added latches on the side of his pants leg and pulled out his grappling hook. The people only watched as he aimed for the parapet of a nearby building. And they still watched as he disappeared from their sight. As he left the street, the only other sound that followed him was the sobbing of a broken and soiled man. A man who was, oddly, not him.

 

* * *

 

The pain receded, much like the tide of the ocean, but this time as it pulled away, it left behind memories. He remembered being in a hospital, where doctors nursed him to health while promising him a quick death soon as he was better. If he ever got better. They had apparently not anticipated him to.

And then demons fit for a Troenan morality play stole him away and took him to Praedin. No. Not demons. Men. Well, not men, not entirely. More like someone had attempted to make men and ran out of flesh, so they filled in the missing pieces with metal. And not Praedin. No. A fat meister and a cold eyed lady.

The lady had offered him life. Perhaps she had been Praedin after all, and he had made a deal. The Troenans were pretty firm that Praedin was a man, the same as Troena, but what did they really know anyway? A bunch of crazy old men in robes was all they really were. What would they do to find out that Praedin was missing something between his legs, and wasn’t all that hard on the eyes, besides. Except for her own cold, heartless eyes. Those had chilled him.

He opened his eyes, almost stopped in frustration as he remembering the last time he had tried, but found his eyelids slowly parting and allowing in a dim light. He groaned, and this time it was not a whimper, but the proper low rumble of a man who had spent the night drinking. Or being turned into a monster, he supposed.

Someone moved nearby, and he turned his head and saw the fat meister. Mortimyr. That was his name. He tried to talk, but his throat was too dry, and all he got out was a croak. The man dry washed his hands briefly, then ran over to a pitcher and poured a cup of dingy water.

He accepted the water, sat up, and drank it down greedily, ignoring the man’s nearly incomprehensible mutterings to pace himself. He was thirsty, and sipping the water did not make it taste any better. When he was done, he held the cup back out.

“More.”

He looked around while the fat man refilled the cup. They were in a lab, one that he had only seen briefly before passing out. Body parts made out of gears and tubes and springs hung from the wall and from hooks along the ceiling. A work bench with tools was against one wall, and opposite was a door. To one side, on the floor, a trap door was closed, but the rug that normally would have covered it was bunched up to one side.

“Where am I?”

“In my workshop,” Mortimyr said. “You are still weak from the procedure, although I am surprised you are awake already. Not even a full day, and already sitting up. Impressive, but you shouldn’t push yourself.”

He swung his legs off the table and stood, and the meister fussed over him the entire time. As he did, the sheet that had been over him slid off, and he walked over to a mirror that hung from a wall.

What he saw made him want to stumble back in terror, but instead he just stood and stared. Everything below his neck was metal. Articulated metal plates covered his chest and stomach, and his legs and arms had solid plates that stopped short of the joints, which were open and revealed the same gear and spring workings of the body parts that hung around the shop. A large tank was strapped to his side. It was not a dream. He had made the deal he thought he had. He had allowed this man to turn him into a revenant in order to save his life.

“Please,” Mortimyr said. “You must lay back down, you aren’t fully healed yet.”

“What is left to heal?” he said.

“Well, for once, your body.” Mortimyr gently put an arm around him and pulled him away from the mirror. “Muscle and bone I can replace, but most organs are a bit harder. You are encased in metal, but your insides are still the same soft flesh they always were, and they were not in the best of conditions when you came here.”

He thought about it, and realized the pain was mostly coming from his chest and gut. His legs and arms felt fine. The thought made him look down at his hand, and he was amazed that yes, he did feel. He could feel the fat man’s hand on his back, and the floor under his feet. He then reached back and felt the base of his skull. On either side of his spine, he felt a nub of metal with silver wires.

“Two spikes,” he said. “I thought revenants only had one.”

“Normally,” Mortimyr said. “You, though, are special.”

He grunted, walked back to the table and sat down. “So what now?”

“Now, you need to rest.” Mortimyr waited for him to lie down before he started to move away. “You must be hungry. Even a halfman must eat, and it has been at least a day for you, I’d imagine. I’ll bring you something.”

“I can’t remember my name,” he said. “I can remember everything else, but not my name.”

Mortimyr stopped short at the door and looked back. “There is no reason you shouldn’t, but perhaps it is for the best. Lady Kanadis has given the others new names too. New names for new lives, she says.”

“And what is my name?”

Mortimyr swallowed. “I don’t know. I’ll let Lady Kanadis know you are awake. I’m sure she’ll want to visit you soon. You can ask her.”

He grunted, and the fat man left. He stared at the ceiling, where several arms hung from a rail. Another memory came to him through the pain, and he focused. Slowly, the hand directly above him balled into a fist.

Story by Richard Fife | Art by April Herron