Dream Guy (21 page)

Joe finally managed to get the sword to cooperate, and he was ready. The valet held the door open for him and led him back through the labyrinth of staircases, passageways and turnings until they were on the ground floor once again. They stopped before a set of double doors, which the valet threw open. The room was packed with a glittering array of gentlemen, at the center of whom—like the pupil of an eye in dense black and dazzling diamonds—stood Eidolon.

Chapter Seventeen

Escape

The pack of men turned to stare at Joe as he stood on the threshold of the room. It was paneled in oak wainscoting, with an oak floor on which the heels of the men clicked as they shifted. When they saw that he was a mere boy, they turned their backs on him and continued their conversations, Eidolon included. Joe edged through the doors just before the valet shut them.

Once he was confident that no one was watching him, Joe made his way to the windows. He oriented himself. The chamber was a mirror image of the great dining hall, with the same number of huge windows. Both looked out onto a terrace, which gave onto a parterre of low box hedges and turf. He must be on the other side of the house from the bedroom where he had spent the night, facing west or southwest. A brick wall surrounded the formal garden and beyond that was parkland with several great oaks and horse chestnuts, their silhouettes bare and black against the pewter sky.

He continued around the hall, listening to scraps of chatter about people he did not know and about foreign affairs he did not understand. The men were mostly talking about Spanish gains in northern France and how the French king would go about recovering Calais. They made ribald comments about the king’s romantic entanglements, laid wagers on the sex of the child his mistress was carrying and whether the old queen would agree to send any further troops to France to help him in his wars against the Spaniards. The men were clearly waiting for something, although Joe was not sure what. He looked for somewhere to sit. There were no chairs, but there was a great table, covered by a carpet which Joe recognized as a Turkish carpet, like those he had seen in Stamboul with Karabashi. On it stood a blue-and-white bowl, over half a meter in diameter. The sight of it made the back of his neck tingle and his breath quicken. He was sure that it was the bowl that Karabashi and his colleagues had been discussing the night he’d first met the scholar.

“Do you like it? A particularly fine piece by the great Chinese master Wu Xianyang.” Eidolon had appeared at Joe’s side. “A gift from a dear friend.”

“It’s very impressive.” Joe decided against making any rude comments about Iznik potters or the fact that there was no way of knowing who had made it since the marks on Ming pottery did not normally specify the name of any craftsmen. It had taken Joe a quick search on the Internet to discover that, but perhaps Eidolon was a bit of a technophobe. But the name was the same that the Ottoman scholars had mentioned, and Joe hoped that Karabashi was safe.

“Feast your eyes while you can. We’re about to go hunting.”

It amazed Joe that these gentlemen in their silks and velvets were contemplating a hunt, but they began filtering out of the room. As they entered the hall, their menservants awaited them, ready to help them remove their fine doublets and put on longer, heavier coats or tunics trimmed and lined with fur. Then they helped them tug on boots and buckle on enormous swords, daggers and spurs.

Joe lingered. His valet was ready too. He slipped off Joe’s fancy shoes, eased on the soft leather boots, fiddled with the spurs, removed Joe’s sword then strapped on a heavier, longer scabbard and garniture. Finally, he added a hunting horn made with silver mouthpiece and rim. He followed the crowd of gentlemen who had filed down the great stairs to the carriageway. To the left of the stairs, a little way off, men were struggling to control a writhing mass of dogs, yelping and moaning in anticipation of their morning’s sport. Their pelts gleamed under the winter sun, some smooth and polished as pebbles on a beach, others shaggy and brindled. There were several different breeds as far as Joe could tell—a few slack-jowled, flop-eared beasts similar to bloodhounds, several pairs of more ferocious-looking creatures with big square jaws, neat little ears like devil’s horns and the build of Great Danes and perhaps eighteen or twenty greyhounds.

There were also three pairs of mastiffs with huge chests and heads, wearing spiked collars laden with jewels and iron chains for leashes.

Then there were the horses—restless, bearing gold-embossed saddles with barding and reins in scarlet or green with gold studs, their breath steaming in the cold morning air. Each horse was controlled by a groom, with another servant standing by holding spears and gauntlets. Joe lagged behind, waiting to see which horse would be his. It was a bay, looking enormous, but with less elaborate harnessing than some of the other horses around him. He went to the left side of the animal then placed his foot in the stirrup. It was a straightforward matter to hoist himself into position. He took the reins in his left hand and the horse whickered but did not move. It seemed quite natural. Then someone blew his horn, and the huntsmen mounted and most of the lighter dogs were lifted onto horses so that they would not be worn out when it came to loosing them at the prey. At last the cavalcade set off at a tidy trot toward the forest east of the house.

They rode for about half an hour, deep into the forest made up of oak, birch, beech and sycamore, mostly mature, their branches bare, some twined with ivy, others distinguishable by their bark and shape. Quite soon the scent of log-fires rising from the brick chimneys of the great house had faded and the only sound was the jingle and clink of the horses’ saddlery, the soft thump of their hooves on the mulchy paths into the wood and occasional murmurs from the dogs. They were following huntsmen to the last known bed of the beast they were hunting. Joe had still not been able to discover exactly what animal that might be, but from the scraps of conversation that he managed to overhear, he had discovered that the animal was mature and cunning.

So far, the horse was behaving itself too, and Joe had worked out that a simple twitch of the reins would indicate to the animal where it should go. At first, it had seemed content to lag behind the main body of riders, but as Joe’s confidence grew, he began to outpace some of the other riders and gradually he drew nearer to Eidolon, who was surrounded by five other gentlemen. One was elderly, with a white beard tidily squared off about three inches below his chin. Two others were middle-aged, their eyes creased and their faces beginning to blur about the jaw line, their beards streaked with gray.

Another man was in his prime, with dancing blue eyes, a dark beard and a mischievous, curling mouth. He was doing much of the talking, making the others laugh and smirk. The youngest member of the party was a fellow in his late teens or early twenties, with light, unamused eyes and blond hair waving from beneath his dark hat, adorned with a single white feather. His hunting coat was trimmed with white fur and his saddle was the most elaborate and luxurious of all. He rode a chestnut horse, a little larger than the other men’s mounts, and he looked weary and somewhat irritated by his companions.

Eidolon largely ignored the older men, accompanying this young man most closely and pointing out to him various sights that he apparently thought might be of interest, but the fellow scarcely acknowledged his host at all. Joe found him haughty and hoped he would not attract the interest of the only other person in the group of a similar age.

By now the huntsmen had tracked down their quarry and the horn sounded, accompanied with great cries of, “Ho moy, ho moy.” A relay of the bigger dogs was released and the men spurred their horses forward. Joe’s horse raised its head and harrumphed before picking up speed, its gait shifting from a steady trot to a canter then into a full-fledged gallop. Joe’s body took over once again from his mind, steadying itself with the stirrups and sitting lower in the saddle, swaying as the horse’s legs began steadily pumping as the animal swerved and veered across the uneven forest floor.

It was so hard to keep his seat that Joe did not notice that his horse had outpaced the other riders. It came to a sudden halt almost on top of six of the fiercest dogs, all poised in a clearing around a black, hairy creature making a frenzied, squealing noise, its small eyes red, its mouth wide and saliva dripping from its livid mouth. The boar feinted first to its right then to its left, but was kept at bay by the snarling dogs.

Joe adjusted his hold on his spear. It had been positioned into a slot at his stirrup, but now he knew he would need it. The dogs would not be able to hold the creature for long, and he sensed that as the largest target, he was the most likely object of its imminent attack. He leveled the spear, working out the best angle. His horse seemed blessedly calm, and he wondered if it would stay that way while he struggled with the boar. He hoped that other hunters were not far behind. He had no idea which section of the boar’s anatomy he should aim at, but he knew it needed to be low and dense, otherwise the boar would twist away from the spear and if he were to succeed in merely wounding it, it would become even more dangerous. It was making noisy panting sounds now, its feet churning up the earth beneath it as it readied itself to charge. Joe held his horse steady, then it came at them. As the boar hurtled forward, the hounds leaped and twisted out of its way and onto its back, one burying its teeth into the nape of the beast’s neck, one savaging its spine, a third grasping a thick hindquarter while a fourth slid beneath its feet and whined as the fearsome tusks tore at its flesh. Joe closed his eyes as he plunged the spear into the side of the animal, and the force jarred up his whole arm, but he held steady and urged his horse forward. He did not know which was stronger, the boar or the horse, but he knew that if the horse gave way, it would lose its balance, leaving both of them vulnerable to a goring. He would not let that happen, and he grappled with the boar on the end of the spear as it wrenched and writhed under the onslaught of dogs and iron. Blood pounded in his ears, but over the harsh breath of beasts, he could hear the halloos and cries and horns of the other hunters.

The hooves of both boar and horse were scrabbling at the earth then more dogs burst out of the undergrowth. With another blast of the horn, the dogs fell back from the boar, its pelt now running with blood. With a rush of feather and two dull thuds, a pair of crossbow bolts embedded themselves in the boar. Joe held on, though he could feel his horse’s strength waning. As more blood pulsed from the boar onto the leaves and earth below, its force began to ebb, and the dogs came back, worrying at it. It jerked, almost hauling Joe’s arm out of its socket as it writhed and twisted to escape the hounds.

With his last remaining strength, he yanked his spear clear and watched as the boar circled, its life receding, its small eyes confused as it blundered. Its rear legs gave way and finally, it fell with a crackle of leaves and twigs, twitching for seconds that seemed to stretch into minutes before finally going limp.

The grove where he’d killed the boar filled with horsemen and huntsmen in an instant. Joe threw down his spear and caught his breath. He was shivering. He kept his left hand, which held the horse’s reins, steady on the pommel of his saddle while he tried to control his shaking. He wanted to throw up. His nausea increased as he watched some of the men take their knives and begin flensing the corpse. Others started a fire, and he heard the hooves of the main body of hunters drawing near. Swallowing back the bile, he looked around and saw an opportunity to escape. There was no way he was going to cope with some sort of swordfight later today, and he certainly didn’t want to spend any more time at Eidolon’s mansion. Now was the time to escape. Once he was clear of Eidolon’s land and people, he could sit and think about how to get out of this dream.

He guided the horse away from the clearing. The animal was tired, he could tell, and it was also so richly dressed in its bright leather that he knew it would be conspicuous. He dismounted and led it to where some of the hunt servants had tethered their animals. He lifted the reins over its head and tied it next to one of the other animals. He looked up and down the line of animals and found what he was looking for—a small, sturdy horse with a plain saddle that had eaten its fill of the hay that had been spread for its fellow creatures. He untied it and led it, the bulk of the resting horses shielding him from the gaze of the hunters, and he unsteadily climbed into the saddle, his right arm sore and aching.

He encouraged the horse into a walk then a trot. He could see the sun through the trees beginning to sink to the west. Following it would lead him back toward the mansion. It felt counterintuitive, heading into the darkness, but since the terrain was entirely unknown to him anyway, he didn’t see that it made much difference.

At first, he was concentrating so hard on making his way through unfamiliar terrain that he had no time to think. It was only after he had reached a path that cut through the forest that he could relax, and it was only when he relaxed that he began to think. It was only when he began to think that various problems occurred to Joe.

His worries crept up on him stealthily. First, he wondered how long he had until Eidolon noticed his absence. Then he wondered what Eidolon would do. A mislaid guest would not look good in front of men he was trying to impress, however insignificant that guest might be. With thirty or more hunting hounds at his disposal and expert trackers who had been able to read the size and weight of their quarry from the spread of its hoof-prints in the woodland earth, Joe did not hold out much hope for his chances of permanent evasion. He had become legitimate prey.

Added to which, he had still not worked out how to break out of Eidolon’s dream.

He did not want to get caught. If he could remain free, even in Eidolon’s dream, it was better than being locked up in that house with no idea of what would come next. But he could almost see the men in charge of the lymers receiving their orders, and he knew that once they were on his scent, his flight would be over.