Waking in Dreamland (39 page)

“That’s right, sir!” Lum shouted at the populace. “And I’m a corporal of the palace guard. We can’t be corrupted!”

“But you take orders,” Brom said, impassively, not having to raise his voice. “You don’t give them. Certainly not to Her Highness.”

“Well, no. . . .” Lum said, puzzled.

Brom met Roan’s gaze with his glowing eyes. “You have lost control here. You will never be in control where I am concerned.”

“There’s a trick here,” Spar growled. “Keep an eye out.”

“Yessir,” Lum replied. Roan braced himself, wondering what Brom would do next.

“Enough of this affray!” the super said, stepping between them. “Now, then, when we notified the king, he informed us he is sending a messenger to escort his royal daughter home.” He looked upward, and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Here he comes now.”

A graceful white figure appeared between parted clouds, and circled in above them. Everyone gazed up at the man on the winged horse. The crowd made room on the cobblestones, and the Night’s horse landed in their midst. He jumped lightly off his steed’s back and bowed to the police chief. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the horse turned into a white convertible automobile, and the white hawk which circled in to land on the rear seat became a huge white hound with a noble face.

“Hail, Sir Osprey!” Roan called. “We need your help here!”

The messenger turned and recognized Roan, and frowned at the chains on his wrists. “You are in trouble, friend. I would aid you, but I have a mission to fulfill first. Where is the princess? My lady! Are you all right?”

Leonora fought free of her well-meaning hosts, and stood tall. “Help us, good Sir Night,” she said. “I don’t want to go home. They’ve arrested Roan, and he has done nothing wrong. This is the man who should be arrested.” She pointed at Brom.

“I’m sorry,” the Night said. His eyebrows drew together with concern. “My orders are clear, my lady. My commission is to bring you back to Mnemosyne at once. Nothing else. You can appeal when we return to the capital.”

“I’m not going,” Leonora said. She went to Roan, pushing past the police as if they were not there, and threw her arms around him. He clutched her, conscious of the heavy chains weighing down his hands.

“My lady, you must come home!” the messenger said, distressed. He touched her arm.

“If you were a true Night of the Dreamland, you wouldn’t let such an injustice be done,” Leonora said, shaking off his hand. Her eyes were full of tears. Roan embraced her more tightly. She must not be taken away from him, not now, or ever!

“I have no choice, Your Highness. Please come with me,” Sir Osprey said, unhappily. He appealed to Roan. “Friend, do not make this difficult for all of us. Let her go.”

“She stays with me,” Roan said.

“Come on, boyo, we don’t want to hurt you,” a burly man said, pulling Roan’s wrists outward. Gradually, the pair had to be separated by force, Leonora with gentle but inexorable pressure, Roan with no consideration at all. His hands were pinioned behind his back with another chain, heavier than the first.

“Leave him alone!” Leonora shouted.

“I am sorry,” Sir Osprey said to Roan. “I will plead your case to the king when we return.”

Leonora was bundled into Sir Osprey’s car by the crowd. The Night shut the door behind her politely but firmly. Leonora sat in the front seat with her arms crossed, the gold wreath tilted over one ear. She wore a defiant expression that boded no good for the messenger, but she didn’t move as he picked up Golden Schwinn and placed it in the back seat behind her. Roan thought she was biding her time to make a protest.

“Peregrine!” the Night said. “Guard!” The white dog on the top of the rear seat assumed a protective pose over Leonora’s head, showing his teeth. “Superintendent, and Roan, I promise you she will be well protected until she is safely delivered back into her parents’ hands. Farewell.” He bounded over the door and took his place behind the wheel. The crowd parted, and the white car sped away.

“Very well,” Roan said, turning away from her reluctantly to confront the police chief. “You have fulfilled that warrant. Now, what about Brom and his people? Now that the matter of Her Highness is settled, you do have a legitimate warrant for their detention.”

“That’s true,” the super said, turning to Brom. “In the name of the king, I arrest you—” He reached out to take Brom’s arm, but his hand passed straight through it. “What in the eye of Nightmare . . . ?”

“Hell’s whirlwinds, he’s done it again!” Spar shouted. He went for the motorcycle litter, and ran through it into the crowd on the other side. The shrouded Alarm Clock, its bearers, and their steeds popped like a soap bubble. “Insubstantial!”

Brom turned and gave Roan one last leering grin, and the scientist was gone. Nothing was left but a glint hanging in the air where Brom’s eyes had been. The superintendent and his officers looked baffled.

“They’ve escaped!” Roan said. “They’ve used an image to distract us and left the city. They did the same thing in Mne mosyne only a few days ago. Super, you must go after them! Help us. Release me!”

He held out his chains to the chief of police and started toward him, but his feet were held to the ground as if glued there. Spar and the others attempted to come to his aid, but they, too, were stuck in place. Colenna let out one squawk of surprise, then began to rummage in her purse. The Reveridians muttered to themselves. Roan did not like their mood. They were still angry, at him!

“We are not your foes,” he tried to explain. “Brom is the villain. He will still try to destroy our homeland. This affair of the princess is a blind.”

At the word “affair,” there were more angry mutters.

“I mean, situation,” Roan hastily amended. Unconvinced, the crowd took a pace closer, crowding the others about him. “Superintendent!”

“Those people were just an illusion,” the super said, holding on to what he did understand. “Immaterial witnesses. I can’t arrest them, because they aren’t here. The warrant will remain in force. If they ever come back into Reverie, we’ll see justice is done. As for these recreants,” he pointed to Roan and his companions, “they shall stand trial here.”

“Only me, superintendent,” Roan said, standing forth bravely. “I am the only one responsible for Her Highness’s presence, and the only one you must judge whether I put her in any danger. These soldiers are from the palace guard. They should go back to the capital now that she will no longer be with us.”

“In a pig’s eye,” Spar muttered.

“Very well,” the chief of police said, raising an eyebrow. “You can wait in this city until a pig’s eye is available.”

“I’ll keep going on,” Spar said. “So will my guards.” The other three nodded vigorously. “That’s what Her Highness

would want us to do, right? She just didn’t have time to put the orders in words, like. If anyone else wants to drop out, they’re welcome.” He glared at Felan.

“Not me,” the historian said, quailing away from the captain, who was looking his largest and most official.

“Thank you, Spar,” Roan said, warmed by their devotion though they were all still in danger. Who knew what other mischief Brom could have engineered while they were distracted by his illusion. “You’ll be in charge, Bergold. Lum will help you track them. He’s much better at it than I am.”

“Aw, sir,” the young soldier said, much gratified.

“It’s true. I’ll catch up when I can,” Roan said. He rattled his chains in emphasis. “
Find them
. That’s the most important thing of all. Find them.”

“Right you are,” said Bergold. With a frown of concentration, he mustered Roan’s narrow features on his face, and made himself tall and thin. “I can’t really take your place, but I’ll do my best.”

“I’m already on the scent, sir,” Lum said.

“You’d better go,” Roan said, as the angry townsfolk continued to close in on him. They seemed to grow taller and more fearsome. They brandished ropes, whips, and pitchforks. Some of them were slavering, like wild beasts. Fearing attack, Roan backed away from them. He lost sight of his friends. Bergold was the last to disappear amidst waving arms and swaying bodies, and Roan was alone within the mob. They shuffled towards him, blotting out his surroundings, forcing him to walk backwards.

“You’ll probably have to wait until you get out of town to find their trail . . . !” he shouted to the companions he could no longer see. The wall of humanity engulfed him, shutting out all light and sound. Roan cried out, gasping for breath.

When the darkness passed, Roan stood by himself in a small enclosure facing a shadowy, tiered gallery of people. He could not see their faces well, but their brow ridges and the down-turned corners of their mouths were full of darkness. Spotlights bloomed hotly from the ceiling, turning him into a glowing column of light. Under his hands was a wooden rail which he clutched for security. He was in the dock in a court of law.

“Order! The prisoner will face the bench!”

Roan turned slowly, scanning the chamber. Before him soared a wall of dark, carved wood twenty feet tall. Roan had to tilt his head right back on his shoulders to see. Yes, there was a judge seated at the bench, wearing a vast scarlet robe, half-glasses with gold frames, and the traditional white wig that lapped onto his shoulders.

“Order in the court!” the judge shouted, pounding his gavel. He pointed the hammer at the bailiff. “Read the charges!”

The bailiff stepped forward, and unwound a scroll. “Unlawful pursuit of court officials, restraint of a Royal Personage, harassment, malfeasance, misfeasance, nonfeasance, and unfeasance!” The legal gobbledygook puzzled Roan, but the most important thing on his mind was not himself. He felt bereft without Leonora.

Another bewigged man in a black gown, the prosecutor, walked back and forth before the dock, then spun hard on his heel to point at Roan.

“State your name!” he demanded.

“I am Roan Faireven.” Roan clutched the rails. “Why am I being tried here instead of in Mnemosyne?”

“The prisoner will not ask questions,” the prosecutor said, tilting his head so he could look haughtily down his nose. “The prisoner will answer them.”

“I will be happy to answer any questions you have,” Roan said.

“Very well,” the judge said, banging down his gavel. “We will put you to the test. Begin!”

Chapter 25

The courtroom vanished. Roan found he was seated at a wooden desk in a very small room with stone walls. The desk was small, too. His long legs were hunched up underneath with his knees jammed up against the scarred top. In front of him was a sheaf of paper three inches thick. Printed on the sheet uppermost was “The Test.”

Roan felt around the pile of paper. There was nothing to write with. He lifted the test paper and looked under it. He lifted the desk top, and found nothing in the metal interior but a few dried-up spitballs and a legend carved in the paint, “Jeff luvs Mim.”

Roan looked around. There was only one door in the room, a blackened, iron-banded door so low he’d have to stoop to walk through it. Not that he could: it was closed with a heavy iron hasp and bolt with a padlock the size of his head.

Light came from a small window cut into the thick stone wall. He peered out and saw that the room was in a tower a hundred feet high. Down below, the tiny figures of Bergold and the others were just visible riding out of town on the main road leading towards the north. It was funny to see himself walking away. He squinted into the distance. Brom’s party was nowhere in sight. They had given themselves a good head start with that illusion.

THWOCK!
A wooden ruler slapped down onto his knuckles, and Roan snatched his hand away from the windowsill.

“Pay attention! Your time is limited!” said a thin-faced person in an black academic cap and gown, brandishing the ruler. Roan sat down at the desk. He felt in his pockets. They were empty of everything except his wallet and pocket knife, which did not have a pen attachment. He promised himself to update the knife when he next had the chance.

“May I have a pencil, please?” Roan asked the austere figure. It grew taller and taller until its mortarboard touched the ceiling.

“Unprepared?” the proctor demanded in an awful voice. “Ten points off!” Roan shrank back in his seat. The proctor reminded him of one of his earliest and most formidable schoolmasters. However, two unsharpened number 2 pencils were slapped down beside Roan’s test paper.

“Thank you,” he ventured, timidly. “Is there a pencil sharpener?”

“No talking!” The ruler waved threateningly. “If you do not finish this test correctly, you will be sent to the dean’s office for the rest of your life!”

With a wary eye on the ruler, Roan got down to business.

He whittled the pencil ends quickly into points, brushing the shavings neatly into an ink-stained depression at the top of the desk, and turned over the first sheet of the test paper. In huge black letters above a blank page was the first question:
WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF YOUR JOURNEY?
Roan stared in dismay. It was an essay test. He put the eraser end of his pencil in his mouth.

How to begin? he wondered. Best to phrase it simply, but would that be acceptable to the judge? With dread, he put the point down on the paper and began to write.

“We are attempting to stop a device being carried to the Hall of the Sleepers that when set off would wake them up,” he wrote. “It is vital to the safety of the Dreamland that the perpetrators be found and brought back to the king.”

There, that wasn’t so bad. Now at least the page wasn’t blank any more. But his answer was too short. The blank whiteness below chided him. There were dozens of pages left to fill. He had to say more.

“As a special investigator for the king, it was my duty to pursue the device. All of the people who accompanied me were volunteers, including Her Highness, Princess Leonora. They came to defend the Dreamland from the threat of discontinuation.”

Roan kept writing, conscious all the time Brom was getting farther away. They’d been fooled, no doubt about it, and by one of the oldest tricks there was, deluding Roan into following a lure into a trap. And Brom had wriggled out of the snare himself with the same trick he had used before. How could they have forgotten?