It was sick, perhaps, poisoned, affected by the same substances, but not collapsing. The dungeon had copied his state and then improved it, just as rumor promised. Strong men had received stronger selves. Lucien, poisoned and weakened, had received a poisoned self, but it could still stand.
A more perfect dying man.
Panic punched through his careful thoughts.
Lucien tried to raise his sword. His fingers refused. The blade scraped uselessly against stone. He needed the treatment. He needed it now. The plan had reached the edge where cleverness became stupidity, and he could feel the fall beneath him.
His hand moved to the green flask.
'Drink it.'
'Heal enough to fight.'
Or drink it and ruin the copy's condition? No, too late. The copy was formed. The trial had begun. If he recovered and it remained stronger, he would die. If he did not recover, he would die faster. There was no good out, only a bottle and a narrowing throat.
He dragged the treatment toward his mouth.
His fingers spasmed.
The flask slipped.
Lucien's eyes widened as it struck the stone, bounced once, and rolled away from him.
"No," he tried to say, but only a wet breath came out.
The green-glass flask rolled across the platform, turning lazily, almost mockingly, until it stopped against the copy's boot.
The copy looked down.
Then looked back at Lucien.
Its smile widened.
Lucien tried to crawl. His elbows shook. His vision pulsed black, then blue, then black again. The copy bent and reached for the treatment.
Just before its fingers touched the flask, darkness spread across its arm.
Poison.
Black veins erupted beneath its skin, racing from wrist to elbow, from elbow to shoulder. The copy stiffened. Its smile vanished. Its hand twitched open and closed, missing the flask entirely. It took one unsteady step back.
Then another.
Its chest jerked, then heaved as it grasped its chest. Clawing at his own clothes from the pervasive poison.
The copy fell to one knee, mouth opening wide as putrid blood poured over its lower lip and spilled onto the platform. Its body convulsed harder than Lucien's. A sound tore from its throat, half cough, half laugh, half something that had never belonged in a human mouth. It slapped at its side with frantic hands, searching for something.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Lucien watched through drowning eyes.
The poison had worked. It took its sweet sweet time.
But it had worked.
The copy's hand closed around something at its side and pulled it free.
Lucien's heart nearly stopped.
A card.
Black-edged.
The same deck. The same impossible cold. The same silver-black lines. The dungeon had not merely copied his body. It had copied the Black Arcana.
The card in the copy's hand was upside down.
Lucien saw the Jester's painted smile.
"No," he rasped.
The copy's lips peeled back, dark blood staining its teeth. It then howled as it pointed the card forward.
"Death Jester."
The card split open.
Laughter exploded through the chamber.
It did not echo like normal sound. It bounced from the pillars, crawled across the platform, shook the blue flames, and sank into Lucien's bones. It was shrill, delighted, breaking into hiccups and gasps and sudden sharp little screams of joy. The Death Jester manifested between them in a whirl of funeral cloth, bells, daggers, and painted madness. Its mask was white, its grin too large, its limbs too thin, its motley stitched from mourning veils and scraps of noble banners. A noose hung loose around its neck like jewelry.
It bent backward until its head nearly touched its heels and laughed harder.
"WHAT FUN!" it shrieked, clapping with both hands as if applauding a stage play. "WHAT A FILTHY LITTLE MIRROR! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL, POISONED, BLEEDING JOKE! TWO OF YOU! ONE DYING BADLY, ONE DYING WORSE! OH, FATE, YOU SPOIL ME!"
The copy coughed more blood onto the stone and pointed at Lucien.
"Kill him," it snarled. "I order you!"
The laughter stopped.
So suddenly that the silence slapped the chamber.
The Death Jester's head turned.
Slowly.
Its painted smile remained, but something behind the mask sharpened.
"Order?" it whispered.
The copy's face twisted. "Kill him!"
The Jester stood upright.
Then it giggled.
Once.
Twice.
The sound grew, becoming a trembling, breathless cackle. It pulled a dagger from behind its back, long, thin, and gleaming black along the edge. The blade looked wet though no blood touched it. The Jester spun it over its fingers, then began walking toward Lucien with exaggerated little steps, heel to toe, heel to toe, like a performer crossing a stage.
Lucien could not move.
His hand scraped against the stone, trying to reach anything. Sword. Card. Treatment. Air. It did not matter. His body had become a prison of spasms and burning blood. The Jester stopped above him and raised the dagger high.
Its grin filled Lucien's vision.
"Poor little dealer," it crooned. "First day with a proper deck, and already choking on your own cleverness."
Lucien tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
The dagger descended.
Then stopped.
The Jester's head tilted.
It looked toward the copy.
The copy was grinning through black blood, one hand braced against the floor, certain of victory.
The Death Jester sighed.
A long, theatrical, disappointed sigh.
"I hate taking orders."
Its wrist flicked.
The dagger flew backward without warning and struck the copy directly between the eyes.
The copy jerked.
For a heartbeat, it remained upright, mouth open in disbelief. Then the body sagged, black blood pouring from its nose, lips, and the wound in its forehead. It collapsed fully onto the platform, one hand still reaching toward the treatment flask it had failed to grab.
The Jester skipped over to it, plucked the green-glass flask from near its fingers, then twirled back toward Lucien.
"Being free," it sang, crouching beside him, "is much more fun."
It pressed the treatment into Lucien's trembling hand, then closed his fingers around it with surprising gentleness.
"Drink up, little corpse-that-isn't. I want to see what the next joke looks like."
Lucien did not waste strength wondering whether mercy had just worn a monster's smile.
He tore the stopper out with his teeth and drank.