Perilous Dreams

by Andre Norton

  The dreamers of Ty-Kry were very well known. Operating out of the very ancient hive presided over by the Foostmam, they could create imaginary worlds, adventures, which they were able to share with anyone able to pay their high fees. Some of the dreamers were permanently leased out to a household of the multi-credit class inhabiting the upper reaches of the sky towers, where their services were for the amusement of a single individual or house-clan. Others remained at the Hive, their clients coming to them.

  While entwined mentally with a dreamer, that client entered a world seeming utterly real. And an action dreamer of A rating was now fashionably expensive. Itlothis surveyed the room in which her quarry now lay lost in his dream.

  There were two couches (the Foostmam was overseeing the preparation of two more which would crowd the room to capacity). On one lay a girl, thin, pallid of skin, half her head hidden in a helmet of metal which was connected by wires to another such covering Oslan’s head where he rested on the adjoining couch. There was also an apparatus standing between their resting places hung with bottles feeding liquid into the veins of their arms.

  Itlothis could see little of Oslan’s face, for the helmet covered it to nose level. But she identified him. This was the man she had hunted. And she longed to put an end to her frustration at once by jerking off that dream cap, bringing him back. Only the certain knowledge that such an action was highly dangerous made her control her fingers.

  The Foostmam’s attendants had set up one couch beside the dreamer and a tech made careful linkages of wires between that of the cap now worn by the girl, and the one waiting to be donned. While a second couch was placed beyond Oslan’s, another cap adjusted to match his.

  That uneasiness was growing in Itlothis, akin now to fear. She hated beyond all else to be under another’s will in this fashion. On the other hand, the need for bringing Oslan back was imperative. And she had the medico to play guard.

  Though she showed no outward reluctance as she followed the orders of the Foostmam, settled herself on the waiting divan and allowed the helmet to be fitted on, yet Itlothis had a last few moments of panic when she wanted to throw off that headgear, light and comfortably padded within that it was, to run from this room…

  They had no way of telling into what kind of an adventure Oslan had been introduced. No two dreams were ever alike and the dreamer herself did not often foresee what pattern her creations would follow once she began the weaving of her fantasies. Also the Foostmam had been careful to point out that Oslan had supplied the research tapes and not relied on those from the Hive collection. Thus Itlothis could not know what kind of a world she might now face.

  She could never afterward be sure how one did enter the dream world. Was there a moment of complete unconsciousness akin to normal sleep before one opened one’s eyes upon… this?

  Itlothis only knew that she was suddenly standing on the rough top of a cliff where rocks were wind-worn into strange shapes among which a flow of air whistled in queer and mournful moaning. There was another sound also, the drum of what she recognized as surf, from below.

  But, she knew this place! She was at Yulgreave, on her own home world! She need only turn away from the sea’s face to see the ancient, very ancient ruins of Yul in all their haunted somberness. Her mind was giddy. She had been prepared for some strange, weird dream world, then she had been abruptly returned to the planet of her own birth! Why… how?…

  Itlothis looked for Yul, to make sure of her situation.

  But…

  No ruins!

  Instead heavy and massive towers arose unbroken, as if they had grown out of the cliffs own substance, as a tree grows from the earth, not as if they had been laid stone upon stone by man or manlike creatures. The ancient fortress in all its strength was far more imposing in every way than the ruins she knew… larger, extending farther than the remaining evidences of her own age suggested.

  And, remembering what her own time deemed Yul to be, Itlothis shrank back until her shoulders scraped against one of the cliff pinnacles. She did not want to see Yul whole, yet she found she could not turn away her eyes, the dark rise of tower and wall drew her.

  Yul, Yul had been in ruins when the first of her own species had come to Benold’s world a thousand planet years ago. There were other scattered traces of some very ancient civilization to be seen. But the least destroyed was Yul. Yet, eager as her own kind had always been to explore the mysteries of those who had proceeded them in rulership of any colonized world, the settlers on Benold did not willingly seek out Yul. There was that about the crumbling walls which made them uneasy, weighed so upon the spirit of any intruder that sooner or later he withdrew in haste.

  So, though it was viewed from a distance, as Itlothis viewed it now, and tridees of it were common, those were all taken from without. Why had Oslan wanted to see Yul as it might once have been?

  The puzzle of that overrode much of her initial aversion. That this dream had a real purpose she guessed. It was not merely a form of pleasant escape. The girl moved away from the crag against which she had sheltered and began to reconsider her mission.

  Oslan Sb Atto, he was heir to the vast Atto holdings, after the custom of Benold. Thus when Atto Sb Naton had died six planet months ago it had been very necessary that his heir take up Clan-Chief duties as soon as possible. His brother, Lars Sb Atto, had hired Itlothis’s agency to bring back with the utmost dispatch the heir who had cruised off world. Later, when the continued absence of the Atto heir had taken on political ramifications, the search became a Council matter.

  But why had Oslan come to the dreamer’s planet, sought out the Hive, and entered a dream set on his own home world in the far past? It was as if he, in turn, might be searching something for importance. Itlothis thought this the truth.

  What did he so hunt?

  Well, the sooner she discovered that, the sooner they would both be freed to return to the right Benold and Oslan’s duties there. Though Itlothis hated the very thought of what must follow, she began to walk toward Yul, certain, as if Oslan himself had told her, that there lay the core of this tangle.

  At least the visible forms of life familiar in her own time had not altered. Overhead swooped the seapars, their crooning cries carrying above the boom of surf, their brilliant orange, blue, and green plumage bright even on this day when the sun was cloud-veiled. Among the rocks grew small plants, almost as gray-brown as the stones about them, putting out ambitious runners toward the next cupful of soil caught between the crags.

  Itlothis kept a wary watch on Yul. Though its walls were now entire, its towers reaching high, unbroken, she could detect no sign that it was any more inhabited than in her own time. No banners were set on those towers, nothing showed in the windows, which were like lidless eyes staring both seaward and toward the rise of sharp hills to the west.

  Yul lay on the edge of the Atto holdings. Itlothis had seen it last when going to confer with Lars Sb Atto before leaving Benold. They had flown hither from Killamarsh, crossing the mass of rains to reach that inner valley beyond the hills.

  In fact, the House of Atto could claim this cliff and the ruins had they so wished. But the ill repute of Yul had made it no man’s territory.

  Determinedly Itlothis scrambled over the rough way, listening to the cries of the seapars, studying the grim pile of Yul. She had thought, that, plunged into Oslan’s dream, she would meet him immediately. But apparently that did not follow. Very well, she must hunt him down, even though the trail led to Yul. For the belief that it did grew firmly in her mind, in spite of her desire to be elsewhere.

  As she approached the now unbreached outer wall, the huge blocks of its making added to her uneasiness. There was a gate in that wall, she knew. Oddly enough it did not face the interior of the land, but the sea. And, if she were to reach that, she must follow a perilous route along the verge of the cliff.

  There was no road, nor even path. That there had been none such had always baffled the experts among her own peo
ple. Why had the only gate not fronted on some road impressive enough to match the walls? Also there was no trace of harbor below, no sign this had ever been part of a port.

  Itlothis hesitated, surveying the way before her with a doubt which began to shake her self-confidence. She had initiated this quest believing that all her experience and training prepared her for any action. After all, she was a top agent, one with an unbroken number of successfully concluded cases behind her. But then always she had been operating in a normal world… normal as to reality, that was. Here she felt more and more cast adrift, all those familiar skills and safeguards challenged.

  In any real world… she drew a deep breath. She must make herself accept for the present that this was a real world. If she could not regain her confidence she might be totally lost. After all many of the planets on which she had operated with high efficiency had been weird and strange. Thus, she must not think of this as being a fantasy Benold, but rather one of those strange worlds. If she could hold to that, she must regain command of the situation.

  The way ahead was very rough and she did not know whether the strip was under observation from Yul. She kept glancing up at the windows, to see nothing. Yet she could not escape the feeling she was being watched.

  Setting her chin firmly, Itlothis crept forward. The space between the edge of the cliff and the wall seemed very narrow, and the thunder of the surf was loud. She set her back to the wall, slipping along sidewise, for she had the feeling she might tumble and fall out and down.

  There were many upward jutting rocks and by each she paused. Then she crouched into hiding, her heart beating wildly, her breath shallow. For more than seapars now soared over the waves!

  Whatever the thing was, a flying craft perhaps, it came at such speed as to make her wonder. And it was homing on that sea gate toward which she crept. Like an arrow shot from some huge primitive bow it sped into that opening with the same unslacking speed.

  Craft… or some living monster? Itlothis could not be sure which. She had a confused impression of wings, the body between them shining with metallic brilliance. Man-made… or living?

  She was startled by a flicker of movement overhead and glanced up. There, well above her, she was certain that someone, or something, had moved into a window opening.

  Itlothis leaned far back against the rock which sheltered her. Yes, head and shoulders were framed in the window opening. And, by comparison of size, either the stranger she sighted or the window itself was far out of proportion, for the body was dwarfed by the frame about it.

  He, he was climbing out on the sill!

  The girl gasped. Was he going to jump? Why?

  No, he was moving cautiously, hunkering down to swing over, Now he appeared to find some support for his feet. But how did he dare? He was pressed tightly to the wall, inching down, with hands and feet feeling along the stone for grips.

  Itlothis was tense with empathy for the strain of that descent. That he was able to find a way seemed to her a miracle. But he moved surely, if slowly, seemingly certain he could find the holds he sought.

  The sight drew Itlothis from her shallow hiding place to the foot of the wall immediately below where he hung so perilously. She lifted her own hands to skim that surface, unable by eye to distinguish any break in it. Then her fingers dropped into a kind of niche cut so cleverly that it must have been fashioned for no other purpose than to so afford an invisible ladder for a climber.

  She stepped back a little the better to watch the man descending the wall. There was a familiar look about his head, the set of his shoulders. Her eyes trained to value such points identified him.

  Oslan!

  With a sigh of relief Itlothis waited. Now she need only make contact, explain the need to break his dream. Then they could return to the world of reality. For the Foostmam had admitted that Oslan’s desire held the dreamer’s efforts in balance, that, whenever he wished, he could awake.

  Perhaps he had already completed whatever purpose had brought him to this ancient Yul. But at any rate Itlothis’s message was important enough to keep him from lingering any longer.

  Having made sure of his identity, she noted he was wearing clothing alien to any she had seen. The covering clung tightly to his body but was elastic, as if fashioned from small scales, one fitted to slightly overlap the next. Only his hands and his feet were bare. The exposed skin was brown enough to match the stone down which he crawled.

  His hair made a smooth cap, dark enough to show better. Itlothis knew, though she had not yet seen his face, that he had the well-cut features of his clan; he could be counted handsome if in the tridees she had seen there had been any expression to lighten a dull, set countenance.

  Still a way above cliff level, he loosed his hold, ending his descent with a leap. He breathed heavily as he landed. Itlothis could guess the cost in effort of that long trip down the wall.

  For a moment he remained where he was, gasping, his hands and feet both resting on the ground, his head hanging as he drew air into laboring lungs.

  “Clan Head Oslan,” Itlothis spoke with official formality.

  He flung up his head with a jerk, as if he had been so hailed by some monster out of the sea below. His gaze centered on her as he scrambled to his feet, planting his back against the wall. His hands balled into fists, prepared to front some attack.

  She saw his brilliant green eyes narrow. There was certainly no lack of expression in his face now! No, what she faced was raging anger. Then his eyes half closed, his fists fell to his sides, as if he saw in her not the danger he had expected.

  “Who are you?” His question came in almost the same monotone as the Foostmam used, his voice might be willed not to display any revealing emotion.

  “Per-search Agent Itlothis Sb Nath,” she replied briskly. “Clan Chief Oslan, you are needed.”

  “Clan Chief?” he interrupted her. “Then Naton has died?”

  “In Ice Month Two, Clan Chief. You are badly needed on Benold.” Itlothis was suddenly struck by the oddity of their present position. They were on Benold. A pity the dream world was not the real one. It would save so much valuable time.

  “You have not only clan affairs to settle,” she continued, “but there is a need for a new treaty over the output of the mines, a Council affair much pressed by time.”

  Oslan shook his head. Once more a look of mingled alarm and anger crossed his face.

  “No way, no way, agent, do you get me back yet!” He moved closer.

  In spite of herself, Itlothis, to her annoyance, retreated a step or two.

  “Now,” he said with a whip-crack note in his voice, “get out of my dream!” It was as with each word he aimed a stun bolt at her.

  However, his open opposition brought a quick reaction. Itlothis no longer retreated, standing firm to meet his advance. This was not the first time she had faced an unwilling quarry. And his negative attitude steadied her.

  “This is a Council affair,” she replied briskly. “If you do not…”

  He was laughing! His head was flung back, his fists resting on his hips, he laughed, though his amusement was plainly fired with anger.

  “The Council and you, Per-search agent, what do you propose to do? Can you now summon an armsman to back you—here?”

  Itlothis had a momentary vision of yet another couch, another dreamer, if any such could be crowded into the Hive chamber, an armsman ready to be transported. That was utterly impossible. On this case she did, indeed, have only herself.

  “You see,” he took another step closer, “what good is any Council authority here? The Council itself lies uncounted years in the future.”

  “You refuse to understand,” Itlothis retained her outward calm. “This is of the utmost importance to you, also. Your brother Lars, the Council, must have your presence on Benold by High Sun Day. I have the necessary authority to get you on the nearest hyper ship…”

  “You have nothing at all!” Oslan interrupted her for the second time. “Thi
s is my dream and only I can break it. Did they tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then you know. And you are my captive here, for all your powers and authorities, unless you willingly agree now to let me send you back.”

  “Not without you!” Even as she retorted, Itlothis wondered if she were making some fatal choice. However, she had no intention of giving up as easily as he seemed to think her willing to do.

  “Do you wish to be cited as relinquishing your clanship?” she added quickly. “In this matter the Council has extraordinary powers and…”

  “Be quiet!” His head turned slightly toward the walls of Yul. So apparent was his listening that she did also.

  Was that deep humming note really a sound, or a vibration carried to them through the rock on which they stood? She could not be sure.

  “Back!” Oslan flung out his arm and caught at her, to drag her to him until they both stood pressed to the wall. He was still listening, his face grim, his head at an angle, as he stared up at the outer defenses of Yul.

  “What is it?” Itlothis asked in a whisper as the moments lengthened and he did not change position.

  “The swarm. Be quiet!”

  Highly uninformative, but his tension had communicated to her the necessity for following his order. This was Oslan’s dream and he had come out of Yul, therefore he plainly had knowledge she lacked.

  There came a burst of light, like that of an alarm flash, aimed at the air over the sea. Another and another, issuing from the cliff-facing gate and shooting over the waves so rapidly Itlothis could not see more than what seemed balls of fierce radiance. Then these were gone, quickly lost far out over the water.