by Glen Cook
“I don’t know.” I hoped I sounded sincere. “The snow was heavy all night. Last time I looked-before he showed up-I couldn’t see a thing. Maybe I’d better go down.”
“Don’t bother.” He adjusted his chair so he could watch the square. Later, after he had accepted tea from Elmo and finished it-concealing his face by turning away-he mused, “Raker eliminated. His vermin in panic. And, sweeter still, the Limper embarrassed again. Not a bad job.”
“Was that true?” I asked. “About Elm?”
“Every word,” in a fey, merry voice. “One does wonder how the Rebel knew the Limper was out of town. And how Shapeshifter caught wind of the trouble quickly enough to show up and quash it before it amounted to anything.” Another pause. “No doubt the Limper will ponder that while he’s recuperating.” He laughed again, more softly, more darkly.
Elmo and I busied ourselves preparing breakfast. Otto usually handled the cooking. So we had an excuse for breaking routine. After a time, Soulcatcher observed, “There’s no point to you people staying here. Your Captain’s prayers have been answered.”
“We can go?” Elmo asked.
“No reason to stay, is there?”
One-Eye had reasons. We ignored them.
“Start packing after breakfast,” Elmo told us.
“You’re going to travel in this weather?” One-Eye demanded.
“Captain wants us back.”
I took Soulcatcher a platter of scrambled eggs. I don’t know why. He did not eat often, and breakfast never. But he accepted.
I looked out the window. The mob had discovered the change. Someone had brushed the snow off Raker’s face. His eyes were open, seemed to be watching. Weird.
Men were scrambling around under the table, fighting over the coins we’d left behind. The pile-up seethed like maggots in a putrid corpse. The crowd was indifferent to the dead Rebel. “Somebody ought to do him honor,” I murmured. “He was a hell of an opponent.”
“You have your Annals,” Soulcatcher told me. And, “Only a conqueror bothers to honor a fallen foe.”
I was headed for my own plate by then. I wondered what he meant, but a hot meal was more important at the moment.
XVI
They were all down at the stable except me and Otto. They were going to bring the wagon round for the wounded soldier. I’d given him something to get him through the coming rough handling.
They were taking their time. Elmo wanted to rig a canopy to shield Otto from the weather. I played solitaire while I waited.
Out of nowhere, Soulcatcher said, “She’s very beautiful, Croaker. Young-looking. Fresh. Dazzling. With a heart of flint. The Limper is a warm puppy by comparison. Pray you never catch her eye.”
Soulcatcher stared out the window. I wanted to ask questions, but none would come at that moment. Damn. I really wasted a chance then.
What color was her hair? Her eyes? How did she smile? It all meant a lot to me when I couldn’t know.
Soulcatcher rose, donned his cloak. “If only for the Limper, it’s been worth it,” he said. He paused at the door, pierced me with his stare. “You and Elmo and Raven. Drink a toast to me. Hear?”
Then he was gone.
Elmo came in a minute later. We lifted Otto and started back to Meystrikt.
Winter’s Dream
A story in the Dragon Never Sleeps universe.
Anyone who reads “Winter’s Dreams” will instantly be aware of its many shortcomings. This is my first assay into short fiction in fifteen years. Some minds are better suited to long, I suppose. Some lack the capacity to leave things out. My last short work appeared in Asimov’s, Mid-December 1982 issue. 1985 saw publication of a 240,000 word trilogy prequeling events in that story. “Winter’s Dreams,” for me is noteworthy for the thousand things left out. It is ever thus. There are always more questions to answer about these people from other dimensions and more events in their lives to chronicle. If they survive.
In effect, “Winter’s Dreams” is like an artist’s preliminary pencil sketch for one panel in a triptych. A lot of detail and color and polish need to be added before a satisfactorily finished whole appears to my eye.
1
The light of three racing moons drenched the smoky city. Silver shadows schooled lazily amongst crowded spires and steeples and minarets, making the gargoyles appear to stir and stretch. Mist crept through the narrow, tortuous alleys and streets, heavy with odors foul and sweet. The air scarcely stirred. Tall black prayer banners rose toward the weary stars, swaying like kelp beneath a gentle sea.
A broad-winged shadow wheeled like a hunting moth, began a circumspect descent that seemed to ignore but never moved out of sight of a certain open window high in the city’s tallest tower. The separation dwindled. Then ceased to exist.
An indeterminate form perched on the windowsill, wrapped in its own darkness. The city was silent but a deeper stillness gathered ‘till it seemed a clash of cymbals would not dare speak louder than a whisper. The darkness stole inside. A faint, crackling acetylene light tickled the necks of the grey towers facing the window. The gargoyles stirred uneasily.
2
The room was cramped with gaunt, pallid, hand-wringing men in black, few of whom had any business being there. Functionaries and menials, there was not a fat cell among them. Senior Magician Ymarjon Shredlu thought they resembled nothing so much as a brood of devoutly terrified mantids.
“What’s wrong with her?” a reedy voice demanded.
Shredlu glanced at the only fat man present. “I’ve only just arrived, my lord. But as a preliminary I suggest she be allowed more air.”
Lord Everay Sloot shooed retainers. They continued to hold their long, bony hands before them as they retreated, robes flapping like raven’s wings. Agitated whispers stirred like the soft rustle of trampled leaves. They sensed trouble.
Lord Everay continued to bluster and throw his weight around. Though not half so imposing a figure himself Shredlu ignored the man. He concentrated on Sloot’s daughter.
Everay Ake Winter was a golden child-goddess, a throwback to the Star Walkers, perfectly proportioned, at fifteen summers swiftly approaching the peak of her beauty. The Everays bred stronger by the generation. Already Winter outshone her mother’s best.
Master Shredlu hardened the shell round the spark he was amazed to discover still dwelt within him. There was a fierce and alien taint to the air; a smell of something from the Old Times. It troubled him deeply, as though he recognized it down on some near-instinctive level like an almost-forgotten fear-fragrance from early childhood. He rested the tips of the central pair of fingers on his right hand upon Winter’s forehead, each and inch above the eye. He shut his own eyes to the gothic splendor surrounding him.
An electric tingle climbed his arm. “Uhm! Tackoo?”
“What?” Everay demanded. “What is it? Is she in danger?” Winter was his beloved and overly indulged daughter, in keeping with tradition, she carried his successor already, conceived within the fortnight, with the Senior and Master Magicians chaperoning the rut to guarantee the quickening of a son. Though he saw it every generation, Shredlu did not enjoy witnessing those couplings. But it was essential to the stability of the domain.
Shredlu paid Lord Everay no mind. The man was fatter, but weak. Shredlu turned Winter’s head slightly. In profile she resembled her mother more strongly. He beckoned his apprentice. “Shubam. Razor and soap. Quickly.”
“Instantly, master.”
“What is it?” Everay demanded. He indulged Shredlu’s moods. Shredlu had been around a long time.
“A moment more, my lord.” Shredlu stepped to the window. The alien scent was stronger. He stared out at the grey towers while brushing the sill with the spatulate fingertips of his left hand. The sensitive cells there picked up more of the musk and a strong, ugly taste.
Perhaps the auguries were overly optimistic. Of the thousand futures foreseen for Winter only a scatter in the far estuaries of probability shone brigh
tly.
Apprentice Shubam announced proudly, “Razor, hot water, towels, and shaving lather, master.” Shivering, Shredlu turned. His face betrayed nothing. He considered Shubam. The boy was enthusiastic but sloppy-despite knowing what had befallen his predecessor. He had cut no corners with so weighty a witness present, though. The razor was sharp, the towels and water hot, and the lather were of a precisely calculated temperature and consistency. Shubam did well when he concentrated.
Shredlu turned Winter’s head farther. “Hold her there, Shubam. Gently!” He daubed lather. Lord Everay continued to fuss but stayed out of the way. Shredlu did not listen. He was old enough to entertain doubts that weight and condition of birth bestowed divinity.
It took just two small strokes of the straight razor to confirm his fears. “Clean her,” he told Shubam, dropping the razor into the water.
“My lord, she hasn’t fallen into a coma at all. A tackoo came in the night,”
“Spare me any witchmaster’s obfuscations, Shredlu. Speak only with precision and concision. What might a tackoo be?”
Shredlu maintained his bland exterior. Even an apprentice as raw as Shubam-who had gasped-knew, though no tackoo assault had been reported for generations. Magician’s generations.
But the dark reaches of the world still harbored many nightmares from the Old Times. Shredlu summoned one or another himself occasionally.
“Tackoo. One of the Artifact Folk. A vampire of dreams. See the mark on her temple.” That was a rusty hourglass an inch tall formerly concealed by Winter’s hair. “It took her dreams. Now she is trapped in a sleep where no dreams occur. If she does not dream, she cannot awaken as Everay Ake Winter.” Shredlu straightened a strand of golden hair, then thumbed open an eyelid, exposing an empty blue iris. It was not necessary for Sloot to know she could be wakened as something else. “My lord. It’s going to be a long siege amongst the books.”
Lazy Shubam made a whimpering sound.
3
In private, Lord Everay Sloot seldom betrayed the impatience and petulance so often demonstrated before an audience. Shredlu suspected the public Sloot of being a pose. Indeed, he suspected Lord Everay wore several personas, onionlike; the real man might never be found by peeling. Shredlu did not let Sloot concern him overly much. One day he would be replaced by the yet unborn Vonce. Sfoot waited quietly while Shredlu consulted his library. Shredlu instructed Shubam who directed a covey of raven men who made haste to comply, lashed on by Lord Everay’s unforgiving gaze.
Shredlu sketched a gesture with his right little finger. The light went out of the book before him. It closed itself.
“Magician?”
“This is a matter best not discussed in every pantry and alleyway, my lord.”
“As ever, your advice it without flaw, Shredlu. All of you, leave us.”
Shredlu nodded at Shubam, who seemed uncertain if the directive extended to himself. Alone with Sloot, Shredlu announced, “My memory betrayed me only in the details, my lord. Tackoo do, indeed, dote on a relish of stolen dreams. They are among the oldest of the Artifact Folk. Literally. They do not die. Neither do they breed. There cannot be more than three left alive in this late age. Our night-visitor will have been the tackoo Syathbir Tolis.”
“You put a name to the demon so swiftly?”
“Of the three tackoo known, at most recent report, to survive, only Syathbir Tolis has the capacity for flight. Tackoo are undoubtedly hardy, but I hesitate to credit that even the most resolute non-flyer could clamber past the wards and gargoyles to reach Winter’s window.”
“Why would even a flyer visit the child? Can her dreams be so much tastier than easier prey found far nearer the lurking places preferred by Old Time things?”
“A flyer would if it were conjured and constrained and placed under obligation.”
“A Magician is responsible?”
“Such a conclusion is inevasible, my lord, Your reasoning is apt, no Old Time demon would descend upon us while easier prey is available closer to home. Someone selected Syathbir Tolis from the literature, then found it and bound it to his will. Tackoo appear to be dull of wit and, once located, easily manipulated.”
“Who?” Sloot wondered aloud. “Why? I have no enemies.”
“We all have enemies, my lord. Occasionally, our enemies do not declare themselves publicly. Often we find the source of their rancor inaccessible or obscure. I suggest we concentrate instead upon freeing Winter, knowing that quest will certainly expose your enemies.”
“There is hope?” Sloot brightened. He did love his daughter in more than a carnal manner, as a vessel for the Everay seed, far more than he ever loved their mother.
“The tackoo is a vampire of dreams but seldom a destroyer or vandal. They cherish and keep them. They can be reclaimed. They can be restored. Unless your enemy is so virulent he has compelled Syathbir Tolis to repudiate his very nature. I choose not to believe this is possible.”
“What is accomplished by this blow? Vonce resides in her womb already. The progression cannot be interrupted... She will not perish of this, will she?”
“She will go on as one in a coma. For however long her allotted span. The cruel truth, though, is that Vonce will enter the world with no dreams, either. The Everay progression can be maintained but you will the last to think and rule.”
Shredlu saw the suspicion poison Everay’s thoughts. Sloot’s eyes narrowed. They became evasive as he examined the possibility that his enemy was his own Senior Magician, bent on rule through a progression of empty-minded puppets.
“Not I, my lord,” Shredlu said. Not this time.
“What will you do next?”
“Locate Syathbir Tolis. The Tackoo is the key.”
“Find him. Be not retiring in assessing his chastisement.”
“Fear not, my lord. Rue and woe. Rue and woe betide.”
Shredlu watched as Lord Everay waddled out of the library. Sloot was lost in thought, perhaps reflecting on the strange circumstances that had made him master of Everay a generation before his time.
He was not deep and persistent. Thought would abandon him once he reached the pleasures of the bath and seraglio.
4
Not all Artifacts and Old Timers were confined to the shadowed reaches of the world. Only those whose aspect offended or whose talents terrified and who were not otherwise useful on a regular basis. And those considered too dangerous to Real People. Shredlu saw several of them as he passed through the domestics corridors. They did not see him. Not even the guards. He wore an illusion supplementing their natural disinclination to see the thing that did not belong. They felt him. They moved out of his path, puzzledly, though even under torture they would recall with certainty nothing concrete.
Shredlu returned to the principal hallways for the final approach to his destination. Manners forbid making his entrance like a servant. He scratched at the appropriate door, waited patiently. She would come when it became clear he would not go away. Someone might pass and remark upon his presence.
Lady Everay Non Ethan appeared beautifully serene when she opened the door herself, more swiftly than Shredlu anticipated. She had prepared herself to receive company. Elegantly gowned and coifed and bejewelled, she appeared a regal vision of Winter, tall, lithe, blonde, her forty-six summers unbetrayed by cunningly engineered lighting. “Shredlu. Will you stand there gawking ‘till some roving band of functionaries tramples you?”
The Magician stepped forward. “You surprised me, Ethan You were waiting.”
“Am I so isolated and deaf that alarums and tumults fail to reach me entirely? I hear Winter’s name whispered when they think I cannot hear. What disaster has befallen the child so soon after her cheerless nuptials? Has she been laid low by melancholy, like her mother before her?”
Ethan confused melancholy with bitterness, Shredlu feared. Her bottomless well of bitterness was the principal reason he came visiting so seldom anymore. “She is laid low but wicked magic was the agent. Someo
ne sent a tackoo to steal her dreams.” His gaze swept the decadence around him. Ethan certainly made Everay pay for her participation in its progression.
“How could that be? Tackoo and dorado and the gell people.... They’re nightfears you Magicians made up so you can extort a livelihood from the rest of us.”
She did not believe that. It was a play-argument from a time when there had been less cool between them.
“This is no game, Ethan. A determined and abiding malice has turned its countenance upon Everay. The weight of its animosity is being born by Winter but it is not she who won the motivating hatred. She’s never been out of the tower.”
“Perhaps she has an enemy inside. Tuft Yarramal springs to mind. Yarramal hates everyone.”
Shredlu examined the proposition from obscure and descant angles. Tuft Yarramal did indeed hate everyone but only as a mannered attitude. Nor did Yarramal hate herself enough to devise her own destruction. “It is a thought, Ethan. I shall consult Yarramal.”
“Will you go without so much as touching me?”
“My time is no longer my own. I came as a courtesy, to inform you, to caution you.”
“Caution me?”
“Catastrophe has struck once. Forewarned, we need not let it slide into our midst again.” Shredlu surveyed his surroundings once more. He turned to the door.
“Don’t go.”
He steeled himself against her loneliness. “I must. I must reclaim Winter’s dreams.”
He was gone before she whispered, “And what of Ethan’s dreams?”
5
In addition to Senior Magician Ymarjon Shredlu and his varying apprentices, Everay employed Master Magicians Rolo Kintrude and Aleas Dubbing, their several apprentices and Journeyman Magician Tuft Yarramal. Yarramal was the sole female in the magical establishment. She subscribed to none of the purported feminine weaknesses, she considered all soft emotions vices. Shredlu suspected she would become a Master at an early age and a threat to his position, if not his person, soon afterward.