Dream Guy (20 page)

Karabashi looked at Joe warily. “But he is dead. It is documented.”

“He is not dead. I have met him. He is keeping me prisoner.”

“How can you be here?” The scholar fidgeted uneasily with the clasp of the manuscript he had been reading.

“In much the same way as I have been here before. In my dreams. But I believe I am also a prisoner in his dream.” Joe’s gaze did not waver. “I need your help. I have to defeat this man. He is alive. I don’t know how, perhaps by inhabiting someone else’s body, but however it comes about, he is still alive.”

“You are not the same as he is?” Karabashi half stated, half asked of Joe.

“I am not. I don’t want to do any of these things that he does. He’s vile and revolting. He’s wicked. He deliberately dreamed that his family was killed, so that they really died. I’d never do that. Never.”

“Does that mean you could not dream that he is killed?”

“I don’t think I could. I think I’d have to try to kill him myself, without dreaming it, otherwise what proof would I have that it was true?”

“But if it takes place in a dream, then it will still be a dream. You must discover how his spirit survived his execution.” Karabashi stroked his beard and thought. Then he took Eidolon’s book out of his hands and examined it carefully. He returned it to Joe and said, “Continue reading, if you can bear to. I know when the book was written, and there will be traces of this creature in other histories of the time. Let me find these out and perhaps we will discover enough to help you.”

Karabashi rose. With a swirl of his robes, he went to the bony librarian and was directed to a corner of the library. Joe returned to Eidolon’s boastful, repellent account of his loathsome life. The accounts of dreams dwindled but not the accounts of horrific acts. Then Joe stopped and reread a section. He flicked back through several pages, read them again and began to think.

Any challenge issued by Eidolon would undoubtedly feature the subject’s humiliation. The challenge would be organized in one of three ways—Eidolon would demand the fulfillment of an impossible task, perhaps clearing the Augean stables or sending a camel through a needle’s eye. Except that Joe knew that a needle was another name given to one of the horseshoe-shaped gates which marked the entry into a walled city in the Middle East. Eidolon set riddles, and riddles could be solved.

Alternatively, Eidolon might require Joe to go into unequal combat, to fight a lion equipped only with a net and a short sword or perhaps duel with a fully-trained swordsman. But it occurred to Joe that if he could read Arabic script in this dream, he might be able to fight, even if he were in Eidolon’s dream.

Finally, he might have to seek out some unattainable item—a phoenix or its egg, a dragon’s eye or its hoard, the feathers of a winged horse or the horn of a minotaur. But Joe thought that kind of challenge unlikely as Eidolon would have to send him out of captivity to find whatever item he wanted.

From Eidolon’s memoirs, his favored option seemed to be grossly unequal combat. After all, most of his victims were not warrior material, Joe included. But perhaps, if Eidolon nominated a champion, he too might name someone else to fight on his behalf. Whatever challenge Eidolon picked, however, he was likely to cheat to win it.

Karabashi approached Joe. “I have discovered more about this man. On the night before his execution, he had a visitor. The guards saw the visitor depart. They saw the prisoner before his final night’s sleep. He protested that he was not what he seemed. His hysteria was dismissed as the ravings of a condemned man. When the guard changed, they did not check the prisoner. But by the morning, he was dead.”

“So Eidolon used the visitor. He switched bodies. Is there any record of the visitor’s identity?”

“There is. The jailer noted the arrival of the executioner. He always visited his victims the night before their death. This particular executioner was extremely effective. His career was long and his pension substantial. He was succeeded by his son, who was equally competent.”

“Eidolon would have enjoyed being an executioner. But it can’t have held his interest for long, not if he’d been the second most important person in the kingdom.” Joe looked at Karabashi. “I wonder if I could switch identities?”

The scholar’s gaze and tone were dry. “I do not propose offering my identity.”

Joe grinned. “Of course not.”

But it gave him enough of an idea to be going on with. He wasn’t sure that he wished to be exiled from his own body, but if that was what it took to fool Eidolon, he was prepared to do it. The next thing he wanted to discover was exactly whose body Eidolon was currently using.

Although Joe thought about taking Eidolon’s memoirs with him, he doubted he would be able to read the text outside his dream, rendering the book useless. Instead, he spent as long as he could be reading and memorizing Eidolon’s traits and twisted plans. But as evening approached, even Karabashi could not keep the librarians from pointedly suggesting that his young friend had spent enough time with his book and that it might be time to leave.

Karabashi led Joe away from the library. They found a deserted courtyard and sat in the shadows as the faltering sun gleamed on the rippling water of a rectangular pool.

Joe bade farewell to the scholar. “I hope we meet again, but if we don’t, thank you very much for all your help.”

“I don’t know that I have done so very much. I almost wish we might change places so that I might meet this enemy of yours and examine your world as you have had the opportunity to examine mine.”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t think you’d enjoy meeting him. But if I can find a way to show you my world, I will. Be ready, just in case.”

“I will.”

They shook hands, then Karabashi left with a sweep of his robes and a final wave of farewell. As Joe watched his silhouette recede into the cool of the palace corridors, fear gnawed at him, but he suppressed the urge to call the man back. It would only mean delay. Joe wanted action.

* * * *

When he woke, still in Eidolon’s dream, it was still dark, but there was a change in the quality of the light, and Joe rose from his bed. Shivering, he went to the window. It opened into the room, but then he had to unbolt the shutter and push it out. There had been snow overnight, and the gray half-light of those winter minutes before sunrise allowed Joe to see where he was.

His window was three stories up in a red-brick house with gables and wings. He was in the southernmost of three wings, each with great mullioned windows. To the east lay rolling acres of field, to the south, woodland, black and jagged against the pristine sheet of snow that covered the land and trees. To the north were hills, and there Joe could see still more snow clouds gathering. He could see no hamlets or villages before him. Even if he could get out of his room and the house undetected, there would be little chance of a full escape. There must be horses somewhere in the establishment, presumably in stables somewhere near the house, although not visible from Joe’s window. But since Joe had never sat on a horse, he imagined that finding the stables would be a futile exercise.

Although given that he had been able to read Arabic, there was no reason to suppose he couldn’t ride a horse or engage in swordplay.

Joe went to the table by his bed and saw the candle with a tinder box beside it. He spent anxious moments trying to raise a spark sufficient to light a spill, but eventually he managed it.

With the spill, he lit the candle and thoroughly explored his room. There was a massive dresser. He opened it. It had drawers and each held clothes. There were smallclothes, shirts, doublets, sleeves, ruffs, buskins, cloaks and caps in velvet and damask and taffeta, silk and woolen stockings, muslin cloths and heavily embroidered garters, handkerchiefs and kidskin gloves. There were ostrich feathers and swans down trimmings, ermines, ocelot, sable and ribbons and laces of mulberry and raspberry and crimson and navy. Everything was so carefully folded that Joe did not dare disturb the exquisite array.

He closed the drawers and the great doors before investigating the huge chest at the foot of the bed. There, he found some things he thought might be useful. Leather belts with loops for scabbards and two slender velvet cases, each over a meter long. He took out the dark green velvet case first and flicked up the catches. Inside was a simple rapier with a sweeping hilt designed to protect the sword hand. Joe held it up in the classic fencer’s pose he remembered from films. He flexed his wrist, pointing the sword up, down, then drawing circles in the air with it. He moved forward a few paces then back. He lunged forward, and it was as if the sword led him, for he began to parry, feint and strike out as if he were confronting a real opponent. He stopped. He glanced around the room then once more imagined he had a real opponent before him and fought, pressing his enemy hard with a flurry of passes that should have left his arm aching, but it did not hurt at all, just as if he practiced daily.

He replaced the first sword in its case and removed the second one. It was far fancier than the first, with jewels in the hilt and in the
ricasso,
below the hilt and above the sharpened section of the steel. It also had a matching dagger. He examined both, gazing at the jewels there, the rubies and diamonds winking in the dawn light. He was surprised by the lightness of the weapons until he thought about using them in a sustained fight. It would be no good having heavy weapons that would wear out your arm muscles more quickly.

It seemed best to replace everything where he had found it. He hoped that it would not cross Eidolon’s mind to arrange a duel. However competent he seemed to be with a weapon here in the privacy of his room, he was not at all sure that he would keep his nerve when faced with a challenger of true ability. The fact that he could fence at all was also a useful secret against Eidolon.

Joe measured the length and breadth of his room as he turned over and over in his mind any possible means of escaping Eidolon, overcoming and finishing him off. There had to be some simple way of eluding the man, but the solutions to his problems evaded him. Stray sounds from the house distracted Joe—the call of servants, a cockerel, a distant crash and raised voices as someone broke something and received a scolding.

The key turned in the lock and the silent valet entered, carrying a tray with a bowl of some steaming mess and a tankard. He plonked it on the bed and said, “Eat this quickly. The master wishes to see you as soon as you are dressed.”

Joe sat on the bed and picked up the bowl, smelling its contents. It reminded him of one of Mum’s soups.

“It’s just pottage,” said the valet. As Joe continued to gaze dubiously into the bowl, the man sighed. “It’s what we servants have for breakfast. Vegetables, mainly from last night’s table all cooked up in a broth and mashed a bit so it has a bit of substance. You’ll need the strength.”

He dipped his spoon into the indeterminate hot sludge. He lifted it to his lips, aware that he had not eaten the banquet the night before, nor while visiting Karabashi. He had not wanted to eat Eidolon’s food the night before, but he was too hungry to stop himself now. Hoping that it wasn’t drugged, Joe ate. It tasted bland, with a hint of seasoning as if someone might once have passed a stick of cinnamon over the cooking pot then thought better of it. After a few mouthfuls, he took a swig from the tankard and nearly spat it out again. “What is this?”

“Small beer. Why?”

“I don’t suppose— No, you’ve probably never heard of tea.”

“Tea? What is tea?”

“A drink that will catch on in another fifty years’ time, I should think. It comes from the orient. It comes from a plant, and you brew it with boiling water then you add sugar and milk. It’s delicious.” Joe took another swig of his small beer. It tasted much sweeter than normal beer, but serving it at room temperature did the flavor no favors. He was about to ask for water, then thought it would probably be germy beyond belief.

The valet ignored Joe, focusing instead on the delicate issue of what clothes this guest should wear. He opened the great clothes press and fiddled and hummed as he chose this, rejected that, hemmed and hawed over the other and finally assembled a complete ensemble.

Joe was to be dolled up in a sleek blue velvet outfit, liberally embroidered with silver thread. There was no ruff, but his shirt collar was stiff with seed pearls and his silk stockings were white. The fellow had chosen a pair of blue leather shoes with white rosettes. Joe was relieved that there was no mirror in the room. It was embarrassing enough having to wear this get-up without having to see his reflection. Nell would be smiling in derision. That was for sure.

There was no clock in the room, so Joe asked the time. The valet thought it was between seven and eight, but time here was not so precise as Joe was used to. He hoped that the dream was speeding on much faster than real life and that back home, it was still deep night.

Once he had been laced into his clothes, the valet stood back and examined Joe carefully. “You’d look better with a decent head of hair, but I suppose you’ll do well enough. At least a hat can hide the worst.” He had a sort of beret with a fringe at the ready that he tweaked into place.

He went to the chest at the foot of the bed, pulled out one of the sword belts and strapped it around Joe. “I don’t suppose you know how to handle a sword, being more familiar with tea and so forth. But you must wear a sword now, for you’re nearly a man, and gentlemen do wear swords here.”

Joe shrugged. The valet took the plain sword out of its case and handed it to him. Joe made a great show of struggling to get it into position, appearing to find the thing unwieldy and almost impossible to manage. The valet raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll have to manage better than that, or we’ll have no fun at all this afternoon.”

“What do you mean?”

“The master has set up a challenge for you against another guest, an expert swordsman from Padua, I hear. Out for blood, he is. Well, there’s a line of gentlemen waiting to fight him, so I daresay we’ll get some sport out of it, even if you aren’t up to providing it.”