Dreamquake: Book Two of the Dreamhunter Duet (9 page)

The Grand Patriarch’s assessing stare was so prolonged and intent that Laura dropped her gaze. Then she heard Father
Roy shuffling his feet. When the Grand Patriarch resumed his questions, his tone was careful, almost gentle. “Your aunt says that the letter you sent me was not in your own hand. Did you therefore mean to get away with it?”

Laura nodded.

“And you involved someone else in your plans.”

“Someone copied the letters for me.”

“Your cousin?”

“No!” Laura was horrified. “I wouldn’t do that to Rose! This was my responsibility. But I’ve done enough now, and I don’t want to do any more. Everyone knows now. Someone else can figure out what to do next.” She stamped her foot, in petulance and frustration and weary misery.

The Grand Patriarch told her to calm herself. Father Roy approached and handed her a handkerchief. She took it, spread it open, and held it against her face. The wounds on her lips had reopened, and they printed the white cotton with bright red blotches.

“There are dreamhunters who get on the wrong side of the Regulatory Body,” the Grand Patriarch told her. “And I’ve tried to help them. They’ve confided in me—misgivings, fears, rumors.”

Laura removed the handkerchief and licked her bleeding lips.

The Grand Patriarch said, “Have you ever heard of a dream named Contentment?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like a nightmare.”

“No, it doesn’t. Have you heard of the Depot?”

“That’s a funny name for a dream,” she said. “Dream names tend to be descriptive.”

“I don’t know that it
is
a dream.” The man regarded her steadily. Laura could see he was weighing something in his mind. He said, “Do you know what a master dream is?”

“No, not really.”

“You may have ‘done enough,’ Laura, but you don’t
know
enough.” The Grand Patriarch shook his head. “The Regulatory Body sends you off into the Place with signal whistles but without a full education!”

The Grand Patriarch watched the Hame girl, feeling vexed and sad. He found her lack of shame deeply offensive. The sullen set of her battered mouth, the stubborn ego looking out of her eyes.

But when she answered back, he was less offended than surprised by her coldness. “This isn’t about what I know,” she said. “What I did at the Opera will open a public discussion. We will all soon know more.” She spoke as though she were an angel guarding the gates to Eden.

The Grand Patriarch took a deep breath and began to rethink his approach. He wanted to help this girl more than he wanted simply to ease her misery. She had been left—orphaned and formidably gifted—to find her own way. She had gone off the rails—as the saying went—but in her own peculiar way. She might have gone looking for love and ended up in some unsuitable entanglement. She might have gone looking to forget and drugged herself with dreams or drink. Instead she’d found refuge in this hard, self-righteous autonomy. Though she was clearly suffering, in a way her heart had stopped. To Erasmus Tiebold it was clear that he must find some way to start her heart up again. And he must do it before he sent her to her father. Hame could help his daughter just by turning out to be alive. Finding her father should restore the girl’s faith in the general shape of her life. But right now, looking at Laura, Erasmus felt that he was watching water
set into ice. There were forces at work, altering her soul—the nightmare itself, the act of sharing it, and her obvious terrible loneliness.

The Grand Patriarch had an inspiration then. He said, “Laura, you haven’t injured me. But I’d like you to explain to someone you have injured why you felt you had to do what you did.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t do any worse than I already have,” Laura said, brisk and unfeeling.

The Grand Patriarch retrieved the letter. He turned away, touched Father Roy’s arm, and conducted him out through the small door at the base of the dome. Once they were down the stairwell, Erasmus Tiebold said to his secretary, “She’ll need clothes for her journey. Let’s have her cousin deliver them to her.”

6

HE DREAMHUNTERS WERE HUDDLED IN A DISPIRITED GROUP AT ONE CORNER
of the porch of the rangers’ station at
DOORHANDLE. NO ONE WAS STANDING ANYWHERE NEAR THEM. AROUND THEIR FEET WERE THEIR DUST-COVERED PACKS AND BEDROLLS. THEY HAD BEEN IN TO GET BEAUTIFUL HORSE. BUT NONE OF THEM HAD BEEN ABLE TO CATCH IT.

Buried Alive
was
—it turned out—a master dream and could not be overwritten. It had to be endured for six to eight nights at least. The dreamhunters were waiting to be escorted out to the Regulatory Body’s dream retreats—cabins on the near slopes of the Rifleman Mountains. They were “guests of the Body,” detained and guarded by rangers.

The Chief Ranger appeared to explain the delay. He was having trouble finding volunteers. Rangers were not normally so skittish, but the combination of newspaper reports on the riot and the sight of these dreamhunters emerging from the Place with freshly bleeding mouths had proved a little too much for some. “They’re behaving like novice dreamhunters with superstitious tales of fatally indelible dreams.” He spread his hands, made a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sure you’d rather
not
be escorted by men I had to force.”

Grace asked if she’d have time to send another wire.

“Certainly, Mrs. Tiebold.”

Sandy asked if he could go with Grace to the telegraph office, then said, as he fell into step with her, “I want a word with you in private.”

Grace pulled a paper from the pocket of her long silk coat and handed it to him. It was a message she’d received earlier. Sandy smoothed the paper out against his chest. He read,
LAURA IN MARTAS CARE STOP SHE DID NOT SLEEP STOP ONLY FRIGHTENED STOP ROSE.

Sandy read the telegram twice, then hurried to catch up with Grace. “Where is Mr. Tiebold?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “And Rose didn’t bother to tell me where
she
is—though I’m told she’s back at school. Still, that is what you wanted to know, isn’t it? Where Laura is?”

“When I found Rose outside the Opera, I could see she hadn’t slept. She said Laura hadn’t either. I guess they were talking.”

The telegraph office was brightly lit. There was one key man and two clerks in the booth. Grace stood at a counter in the center of the room and wrote her message. “Do you have any money on you?” she asked Sandy.

“Yes.”

“Have you wired your parents? They might be worried. They’ll have seen your uncle George’s name in the papers.”

Sandy shrugged. He said, “I’m reluctant to wire my parents. My father’s attitude will be that, since I’ve decided to take up a ‘frivolous and unproductive’ life, I deserve any difficulties my decision brings me.”

“He’d really say that?”

“Probably.”

“We’ll be detained for a week,” Grace said. “Or, at least,
you
will.” She went up to the cage and pushed her message and money under the bars. Then she and Sandy trailed back to the others.

Maze Plasir’s apprentice was sitting on the steps, rocking back and forth, his face wet with tears. George Mason leaned toward Grace and said, “If I was Plasir, I’d be on my way here already to protect my investment.” He nodded at the weeping boy.

“Plasir seems to go through apprentices pretty quickly.”

“Do you think he will come?” said Mason.

“I’ve offered him a lot of money,” said Grace.

“For what?” Sandy was bemused.

His uncle said, “Several of Plasir’s dreams are master dreams. He can catch—say—Secret Room and overwrite this nightmare. Would you like me to send him on to you, Alexander? I’m splitting Plasir’s fee with Mrs. Tiebold, though obviously she’s first in line.”

“Plasir might not agree,” said Grace.

“Well, if he does decide to, you’d better make sure our guards know to direct him to us,” said Mason.

Grace nodded and went indoors in search of the Chief Ranger.

“I can’t contribute anything toward Plasir’s fee,” Sandy said. The idea of being alone in the forest with Maze Plasir made him feel queasy.

Plasir was a Gifter—he could take his own memories of real people’s faces and manners and graft them onto the characters in the dreams he caught. He was often employed by people who wanted what they couldn’t have, and his dream repertoire included dreams that weren’t at all respectable. Plasir wasn’t respectable, though he did have powerful friends.

Sandy said to his uncle, “I’d better just tough it out.”

“It’s your funeral,” said Mason, and chuckled at his own black humor.

Grace returned, followed by a group of grim-faced
rangers. One clapped his hands to get their attention. The drooping, hollow-eyed dreamhunters started with fright. “Get up!” the ranger ordered. His men scooped up their packs and bedrolls. They were led away from the station and out of the village. Five rangers walked before the dream-hunters, setting the pace, and five brought up the rear.

Sandy felt herded and corralled. But he was the son of a shop steward in a factory that made flax matting. He had been raised in a house with strong views on the rights of working people. “You know what we need?” he whispered to his uncle as they tramped along. “We need a union.”

7

OSE CAME IN ALONE WITH LAURA’S BAG AND PULLED THE LITTLE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HER, AS IF SHE DIDN’T
want what she had to say to get out into the open air. She at once began to speak, commencing an attack. A few moments later Laura, thinking she would confound her cousin, wet her finger and thumb, and closed them on the wick of the room’s single candle.