Dreamseeker

by C. S. Friedman

  Isaac’s mouth was suddenly so dry it was hard to force words out. “I . . . I didn’t even know they had a codex. Much less who might have created it.”

  “No doubt if you had known, you would have told us about it as soon as you returned.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. If Isaac had known about the codex and not informed his Guild about it, that would have been a mortal offense. He remembered how the boy in the binding ritual had died and he shuddered; with a single word, Virilian could consign him to the same fate.

  “You were with the Colonnans while they were here. For how long?”

  Suddenly he was very aware of how intently the Guildmaster was watching him. The fact that the Shadowlord had forsworn human emotion in himself didn’t mean that he couldn’t detect it in others. Isaac needed to choose his words with care. “I met them the week before I returned to Shadowcrest. I believe they had just recently arrived.”

  “And you taught them about us.” The Guildmaster’s voice was deathly cold. “Do I have that right?”

  Isaac’s heart skipped a beat. “Grade school basics, your Grace. The stuff every commoner is taught. Nothing about the Shadows. Certainly nothing about codexes.”

  The Guildmaster’s expression was unreadable. “Go on.”

  “I travelled with them for a while after that. But they didn’t trust me enough to tell me their plans. They didn’t trust anyone from this world, to be honest.”

  The subtle lift of an eyebrow warned Isaac that he might be saying too much. Don’t talk about your relationship with them, he told himself. Even if your words reveal nothing, he may sense the emotion behind them. “We split up as soon as we got back to Luray. They dropped me off at the south docks. I don’t know where they went after that.” He paused. “They could have gotten the codex from someone in the city.”

  Or from Sebastian, he thought suddenly.

  He suddenly remembered what the Green Man had told them of his history, specifically his past conflict with the Shadowlords. Remembered the look in Sebastian’s eyes when Isaac had asked about the death of Guildmaster Durand. Remembered all the fetters on Sebastian’s coat, dozens of them, some of which manifested powers Isaac had never seen before. A man who knew how to obtain such fetters would know how to have a codex altered. And he would have the contacts necessary to do it.

  “You remember something,” Virilian said quietly.

  Isaac hesitated. God knows, he owed Sebastian no particular loyalty. The Green Man had made a show of saving his life in the Warrens, but there had never been any real threat to Isaac; all he ever had to do was let the raiders know who and what he was, and they would bend over backward to get him home safely. Sebastian had done nothing more than protect Isaac’s masquerade.

  A loyal Shadow would tell the Guildmaster everything he knew about the Green Man, right now. A loyal Shadow would be pleased when Hunters brought Sebastian in for questioning, and proud to witness the ritual wherein Sebastian was murdered, his spirit bound to slavery, forced to serve the Guild he despised. A Shadow would be pleased that an enemy of the Shadows had been neutralized. But the man who had tried to save Isaac’s life in the Warrens deserved better than that. Hell, anyone deserved better than that.

  Virilian was waiting. Isaac had to say something.

  “I took them to the Assessment Fair.” Isaac gazed off into the distance as he spoke, partly so he’d look as he if he was trying to access an elusive memory, but mostly so he didn’t have to look into Virilian’s eyes. “They went off on their own for a while. Someone might have contacted them then. Maybe word of their arrival had gotten out, and someone thought they might serve as a useful tool. I don’t know. Why would someone want to destroy the Gate, anyway? Surely they know we could just rebuild it. I mean, I can understand why the Colonnans would have wanted to destroy the Gate behind them, to keep people from following them through it, but why would someone here help them do that? What would they have to gain from it?”

  The Guildmaster stared at Isaac for a long moment. “Our Guild has its enemies,” he said at last. “As do the Greys, and the Potters, and every other Guild whose livelihood depends upon interworld commerce. What better way to strike at us all than to destroy a Gate we depend upon, then sit back and watch while we blame each other for its loss?” He paused. “Now you understand why it’s so important for us to find out where that codex came from.”

  “Of course,” he said evenly. “And I’m sorry I can’t help more.”

  “But you will help in the future, if you can. Yes? You will bring me any new information you find. And bring it directly to me, not entrusting it to servants or messengers?”

  “I . . . yes, your Grace. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” he said curtly. He stared at Isaac for another long moment, then gestured toward the exit. “That’s all for now, Apprentice Antonin. You may leave.”

  Heart pounding, Isaac bowed deeply to the Guildmaster, then backed out of the chamber without looking up. It was an apprentice’s gesture of humility, a statement of innocence: Behold, I am nothing but a servant of my Guild, with no higher goal than to serve your will humbly and faithfully. But inside his mind was churning. Had his answers been good enough to satisfy the Shadowlord? Did the Guildmaster really think he’d been involved in the Gate’s destruction, or was he hinting at that just to keep Isaac off balance, so that maybe he would slip up and reveal other secrets?

  If the Shadowlord wanted answers badly enough he had ways to get them, Isaac knew that. The binding ritual that he’d witnessed was a nearly perfect interrogation tool; any man the Guild was willing to kill could be forced to reveal all his secrets . . . at least the secrets that survived the mental trauma of the ritual.

  My father would never let that happen to me, he thought. No matter how much I frustrated him—or even angered him—He would never let Virilian do that to a member of his family.

  But the thought was cold comfort as he walked back to his quarters, and it was a long time before his heartbeat settled down to its accustomed pace.

  16

  BLACKWATER MOUNTAINS

  VIRGINIA PRIME

  JESSE

  THE MOON WAS LOW IN THE SKY, half-hidden by the trees, so lighting was minimal, making it hard to see obstacles. More than once we had to work ourselves loose from a particularly aggressive vine or thorn bush, making way too much noise in the process. No one inside the compound seemed to notice—probably they just assumed that local wildlife was making a lot of noise—but it wreaked hell on my nerves.

  We had observed three types of people in the compound—Weavers, guards, and experimental subjects—and had decided that it would be best if we looked like members of the first group, in case someone spotted us. Most of the Weavers were dressed casually, so hopefully anyone who saw us from a distance would assume we were members of the staff. Of course that illusion would fall to pieces if someone looked at us too closely—in a facility this small everyone probably knew each other. The three guards were big men whose uniforms wouldn’t fit us even if we could get hold of some, and if we dressed like the kids we’d set off alarm bells just being outdoors at night. There really was no other choice. So we brushed the leaves out of our hair, smoothed out the worst of our camping wrinkles and hid our bulkier supplies in deep brush not too far from the compound. None of the Weavers were wearing backpacks.

  We knew that whichever guard was on duty could be counted on to make a slow and leisurely round of the compound every couple of hours. Moth had told us that all three guards followed the same routine, and we’d timed the circuit a few times, so we knew when we would have the best window of opportunity to cross the compound. Once we got to the lab building we would climb in through the rear window—Rita assured me she could get us in without breaking any glass—and then search the place for any sign of Morgana’s mandala pattern. When that was done, we would set the place on fi
re. Which—according to the Weaver’s dream—would bring everyone running to fight the flames. Hopefully that would clear a path to the kids’ dorm, which we would unlock, and then they could flee during the ruckus.

  Was it a risky plan? Hell yeah, on at least a dozen counts. But there weren’t any guard dogs in the compound, and no one seemed to be carrying firearms, so as long as we kept our exit path open we should be okay. We strung some ropes between trees just outside the fence, to trip up anyone who tried to follow us. I was praying that wouldn’t be necessary. Dodging pursuit in the depths of the forest in the middle of the night was a sure recipe for disaster.

  As for Moth and the other children . . . maybe it was a questionable mercy to release them into the forest, when we had no way to get them to safety. But Moth had made it clear that she would rather risk death in the woods than spend one more day as a test animal, and she said the others felt the same way. At least they could follow the carriage trail to the main road, which would lead them to nearby towns. And the weather was good, there was water nearby, and Moth was going to organize the children to sneak food out of the mess hall, so they would have supplies to take with them. A few days’ hike would bring them to more populated cities, the kind of setting a girl from the Warrens was used to. They would all make it, I told myself. Moth was a plucky kid. She would lead the others to safety.

  “You ready?” Rita whispered.

  “No.”

  She grinned. “Good to go, then.”

  How loyal and brave she looked, as she prepared to follow a friend into danger! I wondered how much hazard pay she was getting for this trip.

  From our hiding place we watched as the guard shifted his weight from leg to leg, trying to keep his mind occupied in the absence of emergencies. He looked like he was humming to himself. Every few minutes he checked his watch, and when 3 A.M finally rolled around he looked pleased to have something to do. Slowly he strolled toward the dining hall and checked its front door. Then he walked around the back of the building to check things there. We knew his next stop would be the area behind a row of small cabins, which meant we would be out of his line of sight for several minutes.

  “Now,” Rita whispered.

  We moved through the brush quickly and were soon at the gate. Rita already had a small leather case in her hand, and as soon as we stopped she pulled out two small tools. The handles were mother of pearl, far more ornate lock picks than I would have expected Rita to possess. Probably gifts from Morgana.

  She placed an L-shaped tool in the keyhole and pressed it to the side with one finger, then inserted a tool with a curved zigzag shape at the end. She moved the second one around a bit, mostly in a sawing motion, angling the end up or down in response to things she was feeling inside the lock. I heard a few soft clicks, and then the L-shaped lever turned slightly, and the lock snapped open. Just like that. Maybe five seconds from start to finish.

  She saw my expression and grinned. “Hey, it’s not that hard. I’ll teach you sometime.”

  Jeez. Lessons in breaking and entering from Rita. No comment on that.

  She released the bolt, and I took out the wad of glue we had painstakingly scraped from the back of our duct tape and pushed it into the space around it with my fingernail. Then I pushed the bolt back in, released it . . . and it held. No one was going to be locking this gate any time soon.

  We slipped inside the compound and Rita quietly shut the gate behind us. The main area was empty right now, but we knew that any minute the guard would come back into view, so we sprinted toward the lab building as fast as we could and managed to slip behind it before he appeared again.

  I plastered myself against the wall beside Rita as we took a moment to catch our breath. My heart was pounding wildly, but it was more from exhilaration than fear.

  Rita looked at me. “Calm is good,” she whispered. “Calm is your friend.”

  The back of the lab overlooked a drainage ditch, and once we skirted the building and slid down into that, we would no longer be visible from the center of the compound. I looked up at the one window high on the wall overhead and suddenly had my doubts about this phase of our endeavor. The window hadn’t looked quite that high when we’d reconned it.

  Rita’s hand on my shoulder startled me. “It’s all good,” she whispered.

  I nodded and braced myself on the only piece of solid ground, a slab of concrete half-buried in the wall of the ditch. Then I offered Rita my cupped hands and helped vault her up toward the window. It took three tries for her to grab the edge of the frame, and then a few awkward seconds for her to settle her feet on my shoulders. Then I held tightly onto her ankles as she cut through the caulking around a pane of glass. Once the pane was removed she was able to reach in and unlock the window, slide it open, and climb inside. A few seconds later a rope with knotted loops fell down to me, and I was able to climb up to the window and crawl inside.

  We’d landed in a washroom, and for a few seconds we both crouched silently, listening for any other activity in the building. But it sounded as empty as it had looked. Rita eased the door open, and we moved into the main area of the building. We didn’t want to use our flashlights for fear the light would be seen from outside, but I took out the small glow lamp, which had lost so much power by now that it was hardly brighter than a night light. I cupped it in my hand to direct the beam, and we could see by its light that we were in the lab Moth had told us about.

  We were there. We had made it. The sensation of triumph that I felt was so powerful it made me giddy.

  Easy, girl, I warned myself. That was only the first step. Lots to do yet.

  The lab was bigger than I’d expected. A few steel tables with leather straps on them dominated the center of the room, and metal trolleys filled with tools were arranged along the walls. I remembered Moth’s gruesome description of the Weavers’ experiments, and I shuddered. There were also some filing cabinets, a small desk, shelves filled with tools and boxes, all neatly arranged, and a large industrial sink in the corner. A faint oily smell hung in the air; not unpleasant, but odd.

  “Over there,” Rita whispered, pointing to an alcove across from us with a small shadowy shape in it. I knew where the safe was located, thanks to the Weaver’s dream, but I couldn’t reveal that to Rita, so I let her take credit for its discovery. Carefully we moved through the room, trying to avoid all the tables and trays that would make noise if we bumped into them, until we got to the alcove, and yes, that shadowy shape was the safe. Rita grinned and looked at me expectantly.

  Suddenly I felt my confidence waver. What if I hadn’t really contacted the Weaver, but only dreamed that I had? In that case the combination I had seen her use would be useless. Or what if the dream had been true, but I’d gotten the numbers wrong? By the time the woman had opened the safe in her dream I’d been so exhausted I could barely see straight.

  The world won’t end even if you screw this up, I told myself sternly. We’ll just sneak back to camp and come up with a new plan. Nothing’s happened yet that would keep us from trying again.

  The thought that my input might not matter as much as I’d thought was oddly comforting. Steadier now, I crouched down by the safe door and began to turn the dial, setting the numbers that I’d been repeating to myself ever since I’d woke up. Fourteen right. A whole circuit to the left, then twenty-three. Four right. Drawing in a deep breath, I took hold of the handle and pulled it back.

  The door didn’t budge.

  Shit.

  Rita muttered, “It would really suck if you got the combination wrong.”

  I cursed her silently and shut my eyes, struggling to concentrate. I needed to replay the Weaver’s dream in my head, exactly the way I’d seen it, so that I could make sure I had all the numbers right. It turned out to be harder than I expected. The exhaustion I’d experienced while crafting that dream came back to me, as strong as when I’d first felt it; i
t was as if I was trying to affect the Weaver’s mind again, rather than just remember a few details. And the dream itself was hazier this time, like viewing it through a veil of static. I could see the Weaver kneel down by the safe and start turning the dial, but I couldn’t get the numbers into clear focus.

  Come on, girl. You can do this.

  Squinting into the static, I finally managed to bring the dial into focus, and I watched her open the safe again. Fourteen right. Twenty-three left. Four right.

  So I had remembered the numbers correctly. That was comforting, but not at all helpful. I stared at the safe again, frustrated beyond words. My exhaustion had faded when the dream did, but in its place now was the sharp bite of despair. What if we had come all this way for nothing? Over and over, I replayed the opening of the safe in my mind, over and over. Finally I realized that the Weaver had spun the dial a few times before starting the combination and maybe that mattered.

  I turned the dial clockwise a few times, then counterclockwise, then clockwise again—just to make sure—and then I tried the combination. I dialed each number with meticulous care, making sure it was perfectly positioned before moving on to the next. When the whole sequence had been set I took a deep breath, reached for the handle, and tried the safe door.

  It opened.

  We were in.

  “Well, damn.” Rita muttered. I could hear awe in her voice.

  Inside the safe were three shelves with several wooden boxes on each one. They looked like recipe files, only, instead of printed cards being inside them, there were thin metal plates. Experimental fetters? I pulled one out to inspect and I saw that the surface was inscribed with data, mostly in alpha-numeric codes I didn’t recognize.

  “Shit,” Rita said, looking over my shoulder. “How are we supposed to find the one we need?”

  I took Morgana’s paper out of my pocket and set it down beside the safe so that I could refer to it easily. “Maybe one of them is marked with this sign.”