by Tim Akers
“Oh, right. The guy you killed.”
“No! I mean yes, but not...” I turned to Matthew who was watching out of the corner of his eye. “How am I supposed to explain this?”
“I have never tried,” Matthew said. “Not worth the grief. To me, or them.”
That seemed to close the matter for the rest of the team. Eric kept asking questions, but they deflected everything and allowed nothing. Finally, he settled in next to me.
“Your new friends are kind of dicks,” he whispered.
“Yeah, well. They lead strange lives,” I said. “So, Esther, where are we going?”
“Fulham Recreational Park and Marina. We’ll do the recharge on the way. Tem, can you pass out the supplies?”
“It is against my better judgment,” he said. The big mage pulled a cooler out from under his seat and produced a series of vials. Cold fog wisped out of the open container, and the vials bubbled maniacally in his hands. He passed them around, one for each member of the team.
“That address sounds familiar. Fulham Rec Park. Why do I know that address?” I mused. Chesa turned and looked back at me, her eyebrow arched smartly. “Guys, what day is it?”
“In the conventional calendar, it is the day of binding Saturn and sacrificing him to the sun,” Tembo answered as he handed a vial to Chesa. He turned to face me. “By old Martian, we are facing the downgrade of lament, and—”
“The calendar day. In mundane terms.”
“In the U.S., it’s Memorial Day weekend. And I’m pretty sure we’re still somewhere in America,” Esther said, leaning over the side of the boat. “I can see cornfields, at least.”
“Oh, yeah. I know where we’re going,” I said. Chesa shook her head and sighed.
“Where?” Matthew asked.
“Let’s just say it’ll look familiar,” I answered. Tembo handed me a vial. It was cold in my hand, but the liquid inside looked like it was boiling. The vapor coming out smelled sweet and a little bit sickly. I grimaced.
“Oooo, libations!” Eric said. He tried to pluck one from Tembo’s hand, but Tem snatched it away.
“These are not for mundane hands,” he said. “It is the purest dream-stuff, gathered from the dew of the first tree.”
“So, like, Mountain Dew?” Eric asked.
“It is nothing like dew from a mountain,” Tembo said. “There are no dreams in that dew. That is only for burning at a wight’s funeral, and also polishing the mirror of atonement. If anything—”
“No, he’s right,” I said, licking my lips. “It’s pretty much exactly like Mountain Dew.”
“You weren’t supposed to drink that yet!” Tembo snapped. “We have done none of the rituals. You haven’t even filled out your will, or the employer indemnity form!”
“Hey, you pass out drinks, I drink!” I said. “Besides, what’s the worst that could... MY HANDS! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY HANDS!”
And then the worst happened.
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
THE FRIENDASSAINCE
Dreams are great. I like dreaming so much that I’ll sometimes do it while I’m awake, rather than interacting with other people, or paying attention to my job, or...anything else productive. If there was a way to make a living by dreaming, that’s what I’d be doing.
Well. Wait. Maybe that’s what I am doing. Hm. Hadn’t thought of it like that. Knight Watch as professional dream fulfillment. Interesting.
This was not dreaming. First off, I was awake. And screaming. And nothing that I was seeing was dreamy, by any definition of the word.
Recharging felt like having a barbed sunbeam shoved through your forebrain, down your spine, and out your ass at a million miles an hour. I was happy and scared and nauseous and more than a little sweaty. My heart burst a dozen times. My brain...my brain...my brain did a verb. I don’t even know what it was, other than uncomfortable.
And then it was over. I slumped against the side of the boat and stared down at the swirling clouds. My skull was several sizes too small for my beautiful brain.
“That was...that was horrible,” I said peacefully. “I’m never going to move again.”
“It is worse every time,” Tembo said. The mage sat in a meditative pose in the center of his plank, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed. “But it does not kill.”
“You’ll wish it did,” Bethany said from the floor. She was lying face up on the deck, her body wracked with hiccups. “And you haven’t even gotten to the hangover yet.”
“Enough bitching,” Esther said. “We’re coming in for a landing. Time to do the hero thing.”
Grumbling, the team moved slowly around the deck, collecting their gear and preparing to land. Eric sat despondently next to the cooler. Esther kept her eyes forward, working the pedals of the Naglfar. We clipped through a cloud that briefly covered the deck in a drenching mist, cloaking us in an eerie silence. When we burst through the other side, a steady rain was falling.
A medieval encampment spread out beneath us. Bracing myself on the rigging, I went to stand at the side of the boat. Tembo came to stand next to me.
“This could be trouble,” he said.
“Because there are a lot of people down there with swords?”
“No. Because if anyone is going to see a Viking nightmare ship swoop down from the clouds to deliver judgment and war,” he nodded to the crowds swirling below. “It’s this lot.”
The banner that hung over the entrance welcomed us to The Friendassaince, The Fortie-Therd Gathering of the Houses. The misspelling was done in an attempt to be historically accurate, by people who didn’t know much about the Renaissance, or the Middle Ages, or really even spelling. But that didn’t matter. The houses were gathered. I was back among my people.
Friendassaince, or the Fren Faire, as we called it, was the largest assembly of medieval reenactors on the continent. Everyone was welcome, from filthy casuals walking around in jeans and a jaunty hat, to hardcore medievalists pronouncing knight like Chaucer did and wearing uncomfortable underwear under their uncomfortable clothes. It was worth going just to watch these groups interact. You could almost see the temporal distortion waves rippling through the air.
I’ve been coming to the Fren for ten years, ever since I was one of those vaguely uncomfortable casuals in a cape my mom made out of a blanket, with stern instructions to keep it out of the mud, or I’d be “sleeping in the dark ages,” whatever that meant. If all this other nonsense hadn’t happened, and I had defeated a perfectly mundane Douglas Hosier in a perfectly mundane competition, I would be participating in the sword and board tournament this weekend, defending the honor of the Elderwood and fighting to win my place on the platform. I would also be drinking, because what’s a weekend in the mud without a little ale, other than a very dirty weekend.
But that’s not what was happening. Unlike everyone else here, I had been to a real castle, trained with a real knight, died on a real sword, fought a real dragon, and had my well-being threatened by a real Bethany. My life had changed in impossible ways. Glorious ways. And I couldn’t tell a damned soul.
“Just once. Just a hint. Come on,” I begged. My words came out in a muffled wheeze. I was wearing full plate, with the visor stuffed with cotton to disguise my voice. It wasn’t a bad plan. I knew everyone here, and as far as they knew I was dead, either in that initial explosion at the soccer field or later, when a tornado hit my parents’ house. My demise must be legendary by now.
“No. You can’t say anything to anyone about anything,” Tembo whispered. He had one hand wrapped firmly around my arm. “Now stop looking around like a moron and march!”
“And stand up straight,” Chesa ordered. “You have a particular way of slouching. Someone is going to recognize you.”
I threw my shoulders back and tried to walk straight. Chesa was on the other side of me, striding in all her elfish glory. I was a little jealous. She wasn’t wearing a disguise at all. Chesa Lazaro finally looked like the elf she had always aspired to be. Her
glowing eyes, flowing hair, starlight-silver armor, and faewood bow got a lot of attention.
Seriously. People were bowing as she passed. The small faction of faux-elves that populated every ren faire was following us around, marching in solemn procession and singing songs of the ancient places. It was deeply disturbing.
“Did you bring these guys from your domain?” I asked her, glaring over my shoulder. “Because that doesn’t feel fair. I have followers in my domain too, you know. A dog, for example.”
“You could have brought your dog, if it made you feel better,” Chesa said.
“No, I don’t think I could have, actually. He’s pretty big.”
“I’m sure he is.” Chesa waved to a chorus of elven maids who fell in line as we passed. “No, these are my people by another meeple. Dreamers, aspirants, the hopeful fae. And I am their queen.”
“It’s actually a pretty dangerous distraction,” Bethany muttered. “We’re not supposed to draw attention to ourselves. If people start treating us like royalty, we’re not going to be able to do our job.”
“What am I supposed to do? Disperse them?” Chesa asked.
“Look, there’s Thomas Tomasson. I don’t know him that well.” Truth was I had been stalking Tom’s career since I first got involved in the Faire. Known as Sir Tom, Dubbel Tom, or Tom Tom among his fans, Tomasson had developed a clever forte guard technique that won him four national sword and board championships, and which had gotten me killed by Clarence on his training ground no fewer than twelve times. “Just a quick passage of swords. What can it hurt?”
“Do you really have no idea the danger we’re in here?” Tembo asked. He dragged me stiffly away from Tom Tom and his gaggle of admiring squires. “These people are only a hair’s breadth away from triggering an anomaly or falling into their very own hell realm.”
“Hey now, be nice. They’re just having fun.” A group of wandering bards pushed their way through our little group, serenading Bethany and Esther as they passed, eyes lingering on Chesa, making a joke about my sword, and finding three rhymes for holy as they circled Matthew, all of it improvised and in perfect iambic pentameter. Eric applauded as they left, dancing and nearly joining their parade. Esther dragged him back into our group.
“They mean well,” Esther said sharply. “But the game is over for you. We’re here on business. Focus up.”
The rest of the ready team was as tense as a drawn longbow, and twice as dangerous. Matthew’s mask barely hid the glow of his face, and the deep illumination of his skin gave his white clothes an aura of silvery light. If I hadn’t known it was true magic, I would have been really impressed by his use of LEDs and semi-translucent cloth. Bethany was buttoned up and stiff, her usual swagger replaced with guarded caution. The guards at the gate had tied peace knots over each of the twelve daggers on her twin holsters, but I knew there were another dozen blades hidden in her boots, cloak, belt, gloves...literally anywhere a knife could fit. I was surprised she didn’t clatter when she walked.
Even Esther had gotten into the act, though I didn’t fully understand her costume. Faded green fatigues with frayed cargo pockets and a scattering of burn marks contrasted sharply with a few pieces of traditional armor. A doughboy’s helmet, like the troops wore in the First World War, hung from a strap around her neck, and a complicated leather harness held a simple sheath, along with a metal shield and the widest sword I’ve ever seen across her back. The shield was painted olive drab, and had a military badge in the corner, framed by an obscure rank insignia that I didn’t understand. At one point she caught me staring.
“There have been wars you didn’t learn about in school,” was all she would say. When I pressed further, Tembo tapped a bony finger against my helm. I left it at that.
Tembo was the only one who seemed relaxed. The mage had descended from the Naglfar with a look of deep calm on his face and a looseness to his gait that was typical of the tall mage. I wondered what it took to rattle the man. But now that we were on the faire grounds, his grip on my arm had gotten progressively tighter. I glanced over at him once, but his face was hidden in the deep shadows of his hood.
Eric was having none of this doom and gloom. My friend still wore his bard’s costume, though he had added a cloak he had rummaged from the Naglfar. He danced his way through the muddy streets of the faire. It was good to have him there. We had met at the Fren, always went to the Fren together, used to plan our summers around the annual trip. It would have felt weird to be here without him, even in these extreme circumstances. He caught my eye and winked, then buried his face in a leather beer stein.
“So what are we looking for?” I asked. The crowds were thick and the faire in full swing. A parade of bards and bawdy dancers wound its way through the press, filling the air with music and muddy flesh. I don’t usually get to see this part of the faire, especially once the tournament begins. I could hear the clash of metal and the roar of the crowd in the direction of the tourney grounds. “We don’t know whose face the Fetch is wearing, or why it’s here. How are we supposed to find it?”
“It takes a great deal of magic for a Fetch to change its form, so it probably still has the shape it had when it attacked Chesa,” Tembo answered. “Which means we’re looking for you. Or something that looks somewhat like you. It is probably here, drawn to the Friendassaince—”
“Fren Faire, man,” Eric said. “Don’t act weird.”
“It is drawn here because the veil is so thin,” Tembo continued. “Just as the barrier between the mundane and magical worlds was pierced when you fought Kracek, so may it be pierced here. If our villain exists in the magic world, the Fetch may need to come here to cross over. And if they live in the mundane realm, and are trying to manipulate events in the unreal, this is the ideal place to do so.”
“Man, I don’t understand the first damned thing that’s happening, but you guys are a lot of fun to hang with,” Eric said. “You’re taking all of this very seriously.”
“We flew here in a magical boat, buddy,” Bethany said. “Maybe you’re not taking it seriously enough.”
“Enough screwing around,” Esther said sharply. She was facing away from us, slightly separated from the group. There were a lot of people admiring her getup, though she didn’t seem to notice. She looked over just long enough to make sure that she had our attention, then nodded toward the beer hovels. “Chesa, is that him?”
We all followed her gaze. There was a guy who could have been my brother, lurking behind a flickering neon sign that proclaimed Ye Olde Style. He was dressed for the faire, with one glaring exception. The twin daggers at his belt weren’t peace knotted.
Chesa didn’t answer directly. Instead, she dropped to one knee and drew her bow. Tembo hissed and pulled her arm away from her quiver.
“Not in this crowd,” he said.
“I wouldn’t miss,” she said. “I never miss.”
“Because of magic,” Tembo said. “And this whole place is trembling on the verge of anomaly. If you do the elven thing, we will have a full-scale anachronism on our hands.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Eric said with a smile. “Take the shot, Ches.”
“I’ve got this,” I said. “Bethany?”
“Already on it,” she answered. She slipped into the crowd, dodging between legs and over barrels. Chesa cocked her eyebrow at Bethany’s fleeting form.
“That’s not magic?” she asked.
“No. That’s talent,” Esther answered. “Don’t lose sight of her, Rast.”
I started after the Fetch. It was shrouded in shadows, almost as if the sun couldn’t quite reach it, even though it was the middle of the day. The crowds were pretty thick around here, and I was forced to shove my way through without causing too much of a commotion. The others were half a step behind. I heard Eric say something about “staying behind to ensure I drink everything here first,” though I suspected I was finally seeing my friend’s true colors. He just wasn’t the heroic type.
But I was. Damn it, I was a hero. No matter how badly I’d screwed things up with Chesa, or how thoroughly I’d messed up the whole domain thing, this was something I could do. All I had to do was catch that doppelganger. I could do it. I could be heroic.
I was halfway across the yard before it looked up and saw me. There was a flicker across its face, like a dozen different visages looking out from those cold, dead eyes. It grinned that small toothed grin and grabbed its daggers.
For the briefest moment, it seemed like it would stand and fight. I had one hand on the hilt of my sword, working the peace knot free as I ran, swearing at myself for not tearing it off the second I was inside. But that would have attracted attention, and we were trying to avoid that. Unfortunately, running through the crowd in a flying wedge formation, with half our company drawing swords and daggers, while Tembo’s staff was bathed in an aura of living flame, wasn’t the best way to avoid attention.
The Fetch looked past me at the rest of the party and did some quick math. It ran, disappearing among the hovels like a whisper in a concert. I caught sight of Bethany just as the Fetch disappeared. A second more and she would have had it.
“Halt in the name of the King!” I shouted. A passing bard hissed at me.
“Did you just assume the royal gender?” he shouted at my back.
“The law, then! Halt in the name of the law!”
That caught the attention of the crowd. The Fren Faire was the kind of place where yelling about the law while in costume would be part of an act, rather than some kind of legal declaration to halt. A half dozen middle-aged men in black leathers and well deep in their cups stumbled away from the shade of a nearby tree. They sloshed half-empty steins in our direction and struck a pose in our path.
“The law has no place in this...place!” Their leader declared, planting his fists on his hips and thrusting his groin in our direction. “We, the Black Band of Bawdy Bards, will put an end to your oppressively tyrannous tirade! Gentlemen, to arms!”