The War for the Waking World (17 page)

The lights dimmed. The cylinder screen gleamed to life. There were the ramparts of No. 6 Rue de La Morte coming to life. But this time, the Nightmare Lord had not yet emerged. The on-screen Archer stood under the boughs of a deep and gnarled forest, the Drimmrwood, and a great crowd of villagers, armed with pitchforks, hammers, and torches went racing up the ramparts toward the Shadowkeep. But they
didn't get far. Merciless guards appeared, and they hacked their way through the villagers, dropping them to the street or sending them sprawling from the ramparts to a perilous drop into the chasm below.

“It was foolish of me to come to No. 6 Rue de La Morte that night,” Archer said. “But when I saw the tyranny of the Nightmare Lord as he sent all those people wheeling to their deaths, I felt like I needed to act.”

“Objection!” Bezeal shouted. “The villagers in the Dream were not really dying! They were just figments of their human counterparts' sleeping imaginations.”

Chief Justice Michael nodded. “Sustained.”

“I agree,” Archer went on undeterred. “But I did not know the villagers weren't actually people dying. I'd always heard that dying in a dream meant dying in reality.”

“Objection!” Bezeal called out again. “Does the accused really expect us to believe that a seasoned Dreamtreader wouldn't know something as vital to the Dream Realm as that?”

Archer looked up to the judge and said, “Your honor, Bezeal doesn't need to believe me. He can see it for himself.”

“Overruled, Bezeal. We'll see the Evidence.”

The screen left the ramparts of No. 6 and flashed to Archer's bedroom where Master Gabriel was pacing across the floor and gesturing wildly.

“You have no idea how relieved I am that you survived . . . relatively unharmed,” Master Gabriel said, his voice mercifully gentle. “But it was not worth the risk. Not yet.” “But the villagers . . . they were storming the Shadowkeep. They couldn't get through the guards. They were being slaughtered.”

“Dispatched, you mean,” Master Gabriel muttered. “They should not be in any mortal danger, not really. When will you understand that?”

Archer continued to stare at the ground.

“At worst, one of your kind might awaken with a bloody nose,” Master Gabriel went on. “He might be . . . haunted by irrational fears or even develop a severe sleep
disorder. No, those people who became villagers in the Dream would not likely die. The fabric keeps them safe enough physically. But this layer of protection does not exist for you. Oh, no . . . not for the Dreamtreader. You might have been killed . . . or worse. Noble intent, Archer, but foolish . . . foolish actions.”

“I'm sorry,” Archer muttered.

The screen went blank, and the lights came up. “As you can see from the Eternal Evidence,” Archer explained, “I thought that attacking the ramparts of No. 6 was the only way to save lives. I was foolish to get that close to the Shadowkeep, and even more foolish to attack the Nightmare Lord when he later emerged. But I did so, not out of defiance, but rather out of the desire to save people.”

A muted buzz flowed through the courtroom. Archer seized the momentum and went on. “For my next witness,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I'd like to call Bezeal.”

The outraged merchant shouted, “Objection!” But the clamor of the two galleries drowned out everything else. Everything but Michael's thunder-gavel, of course.

After the flash-bang of that mighty hammer, order was instantly restored . . . for the most part. Bezeal was still livid, hopping up and down, and crying out: “You can't put the prosecutor on the stand! I can't be forced to testify against my own case!”

“Dreamtreader Keaton, I am afraid I lean toward that argument,” Chief Justice Michael said. “But I will at least ask why I should allow you to put Bezeal on the stand.”

“The prosecutor built part of his case on my defying Master Gabriel to go and get that relic from the Lurker. By showing what came before that scene, I believe the court will see there were other interests at work here, things beyond my control.”

Chief Justice Michael the Archelion stared hard at Archer. Contemplation danced on the judge's brow. Now and again, he cast a sideways glance at Bezeal, who seemed to be on the edge of his seat, waiting breathlessly for the decision.

Archer felt it too. So much of his strategy hinged on what happened next. For Archer wanted far more than to simply prove his case, more even than victory for himself. It had occurred to him in a quiet moment in his cell, long after Master Gabriel had gone.

In thinking deeply about his own case, about his own evidence, so many events—so many disasters—circled back to Bezeal. If Archer's strategy worked, it might just take care of Bezeal for good.

The courtroom galleries began to stir. Judge Michael the Archelion's posture became very rigid, his expression—if possible—more stern than before. He was about to speak, about to deliver his decision.

TWENTY-FIVE

A S
LIM
H
OPE

“N
O
A
RCHER
,” N
ICK MUTTERED
. H
E
PACED THE HALFTORN
reality of his kitchen back in his Queensland home. “Well, what about Kaylie?”

Master Gabriel sighed and said, “I am not actually certain about Kaylie. Archer told me that she, too, was under the illusion that all is right with the world.”

“Why come after me first, then?” Nick asked. “Kaylie's stronger.”

“That is precisely why I came to you first, Nick Bushman. It seemed to me that you might take longer to come to your senses.”

“Well, now,” Nick said, “don't I feel a bit like a toady?”

“Spare yourself such nonsense,” Master Gabriel grumbled. “We will need Kaylie and you at the top of your games if we are to have any hope of winning.”

“Just the two of us,” Nick whispered. “Dooley.”

“I am afraid so,” Master Gabriel replied, moving the filet-of-rat sandwich to what was left of the sink. “Until Archer's trial is resolved, you and Kaylie are on your own. The Rift, Kara, the ravaged Waking World, and all its needs . . . are your concerns now.”

“But Archer will get freed, right? He hasn't really done anything bad, has he?”

“The court will decide,” Master Gabriel said. “But I cannot help but wonder at the timing of the charges against Archer as well as the agent through whom these charges have come.”

“What do you mean?” Nick asked.

“If Kara's ultimate goal was to cause the Rift and thereby assume power over the newly fused world, she has certainly done that. Why send Bezeal to press charges now? After all, Kara has what she wanted.”

“You think Bezeal is acting on his own?”

“There is no telling what Bezeal is doing. He is as devious as they come, and we know he has, at times, advised both Rigby and Kara. But it is of little import to us whether Bezeal has attacked Archer with such sudden zeal alone or by Kara's command, for we already know why.”

“We do?” Nick asked. “Well, I'm gobsmacked, so you'd better fill me in.”

“Back to the timing, Nick,” Master Gabriel explained. “If the Rift and this maddening fantasy world are permanent, there would be no need to incarcerate Archer. Whether it's Kara or Bezeal or both, someone wants Archer out of the way and right now. And that means . . .”

Nick got a chill as the idea dawned on him at last. “You ripper!” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly as he paced out into the living room. “It means there might be time yet to fix this thing. I see the plan now: take Archer off the board straight away to cripple us.”

“But Bezeal was wrong,” Master Gabriel said. “His efforts will slow us down, but we will keep fighting. What we cannot know is how much time we have. That is what I want you and Kaylie to discover. And we ought to be leaving as soon as possible.”

“Wait,” Nick said, “one thing before we go.”

“Yes?” Master Gabriel asked.

“What about Oliver?” Nick said, staring from the living room picture window. Oliver was leading his neighbor Dunny across the field in haste. “My brother . . . I've been talking to him all the time. Do you mean to say he . . . him there . . . he's not really my brother?”

Master Gabriel nodded, looked through the glass at the boy bounding over tufts of grass, and explained, “That Oliver is a mental projection of your brother. He's all of what you remember him to be,
but, no, he's not the real Oliver. Did you not notice how young Oliver appears?”

Nick shook his head. He hadn't noticed before, but he noticed now. He looked through the window and smiled. There Oliver was, just a hundred yards away, but it wasn't really him. In fact, the beautiful day, the gorgeous view of the Glass House Mountains—none of it was real. Nick had seen the fake world peel away like a curtain, revealing a harsh and dangerous place.
And I'm a Dreamtreader,
he thought.
And I fell for it. I feel for the poor blokes who don't know any bet—
“Wait!” he said aloud. “What about the real Oliver? Where is he? I've got to look after him!”

“Calm down, Nick,” Master Gabriel advised. “Your Oliver is safely occupied by a certain crab apple tree in your grandmother's front yard.”

“My anchor?”

“Yes,” Master Gabriel replied. “Oddly enough, the tree itself seems unaffected by the Rift, though in your Oliver's mind, your grandmother yet lives.”

“I don't blame him,” Nick said. “I'd like to see Granny again. You're certain Oliver will be okay?”

“He will be as safe as possible,” Master Gabriel replied. “I have left a few friends to keep Oliver occupied . . . and safe.”

“Friends?”

“Like your Dream companion, Taddy, and Archer's Razz,” he explained. “Oliver should have great fun as his new playmates are extraordinarily fuzzy.”

“What are we going to do, then?” Nick asked. “The fake Oliver is coming back, and he's bringing my neighbor Dunny with him.”

“I am afraid we must depart,” said Master Gabriel. “And I . . . wait.” The Master Dreamtreader went very still. His eyes widened. “I'm feeling something.”

“What? What's wrong?”

“I am not certain,” he replied. “I am feeling something pulling at me. Ah, yes! I know what it is, and very good timing, I must say.”

“You've lost me,” Nick said. “Pulling at you, uh . . . how? And from—”

The front door flew open, and there stood Oliver and all six-foot, five-inch Dunny, Nick's closest neighbor. He had a boomerang in one hand and a bush knife in the other.

“Oy, just what's goin' on here?” Dunny asked.

“Oh, uh . . . nuthin,” Nick stammered. “Oliver, sorry! False alarm, fair Dinkum.”

Dunny's and Oliver's eyes went big as saucers. Blue light shone out from the kitchen. Nick heard a strange muted buzzing and felt a very strong hand grab his arm. “What? Master Gabriel, what are you—”

“No time to explain,” he replied. “Suffice it to say, I am taking you with me.”

Nick gave a little wave to the fake Oliver and to Dunny, and then the blue light flooded the house until there was nothing else but the blue light.

TWENTY-SIX

O
F
F
OOLS AND
V
ILLAINS

T
HE JUDGE HUSHED THE GALLERY, THIS TIME WITH A WAVE
of his hand rather than the thunder-gavel. “This is highly out of the ordinary,” he said, “but, then again, most of this case is highly out of the ordinary. Given that both the accused and the accuser were actively involved in the events that transpired, given that we have already delved into Archer's memories for Eternal Evidence, I will allow you to call Bezeal to the stand.”

“Objection!” Bezeal shrieked.

“Overruled!” the judge declared. “Bezeal, take the stand.”

Archer turned to the merchant and dared to hope. Bezeal did not disappoint.

“I won't do it,” Bezeal muttered.

The galleries exploded in cries of shock, outrage, and even a few jeers. Chief Justice Michael struck with the thunder-gavel, not once, but twice. Even then, it took a few moments for silence.

“What did you say, Bezeal?” the judge asked.

The merchant plopped back in his chair, crossed his arms, and muttered once more, “I will not do it. I will not take the stand.”

A strange glint flickered in Chief Justice Michael's eyes. “You will take the stand, Bezeal,” he said, his words clipped and tight with threat. “The court compels you.”

“This court cannot compel me,” Bezeal replied, his voice suddenly changed . . . deeper but not distorted, resonant and as different from Bezeal's wheedling, scheming voice as it could be.

Archer remembered that voice. He'd heard it once before and, like before, he had a powerful urge to flee, to get as far away from Bezeal as he could.

Chief Justice Michael, however, actually stood up from his judge's bench. “Guards,” he whispered sternly, “please escort the accuser to the witness stand and then, if need be, chain him to the seat.”

Bezeal hissed and leaped to stand upon his chair.

Archer had what he wanted. “Objection!” he cried out.

This exclamation froze everyone in the courtroom. The judge, eyebrows raised to a comical height, turned. “You . . . object?” he said quizzically. “Dreamtreader Keaton, to what do you object?”

“I'm sorry, your honor,” Archer said. “I wasn't sure how to speak up, but it's okay. Bezeal doesn't need to take the stand.”

“It is most certainly not ‘okay.' Bezeal will stand witness.”

“He's already done that, sir,” Archer said. “By refusing. I take back my request. I no longer need Bezeal to take the stand.”