by Brian Lumley
And along the way, every now and then, Hero or Eldin would toss a bottle overboard, happy to hear it smashing as its exotique contents soaked the starlit path; and Niss groaning with each bottle smashed, knowing now he was done for and doomed to spend a spell (of the mundane sort, and if his legs held out that long) in Leewas Nith’s Celephasian cells …
MIDMORNING SAW THEM BACK IN NIR, where finally Niss collapsed and fell into a sleep of total exhaustion. He was a lot thinner now, and his clogs worn through to his puffy, pulsating feet. They transferred him to Quester and sailed for Celephais, where in Leewas Nith’s afternoon sessions he was found guilty and sent down for a twelve-month’s rest.
Later, aloft aboard Quester (but tethered just twenty feet over the harbor, and safe from prying eyes), the king’s agents found the false bottom in Niss’ trunk and the little sacks of tonds he’d hoarded therein; which discovery was followed by a deal of hilarity, giggling, and thigh-slapping, as the questers counted their considerable profits and congratulated themselves that all had turned out so well.
But after a while Hero licked his lips and said: “D’you know, I’m dry? A splash of wine would go down well.”
“Let’s get ashore,” said Eldin at once, “and find ourselves an eatery till the Yellow Yak’s doors spring open!”
“No,” said Hero, “I mean right now.”
“What? Here, now, aboard Quester? But … there’s not a drop aboard, lad, you know that!”
“I know you take me for a great fool!” cried Hero, reaching out and snatching the bottle of red from Eldin’s huge jacket pocket. “As if you could resist saving just one of them—you, of all people!” He pulled the cork and took a massive swig, said: “Ahhh!” appreciatively and passed the bottle back.
“Actually,” said Eldin, “I was going to tell you.”
“Huh!” said Hero.
“No, seriously. See, it’s no fun being color-blind on your own. But to tell the truth, you do look sort of cute in blue!”
“Cute?” said Hero. “Cute?” He chuckled and took back the neverempty bottle, tilting more of its contents into his throat. And smacking his lips as he once more passed the bottle, he said: “Well, that’s more than I can say for you—in puce!”
“Puce!” The Wanderer almost choked on the biggest swig of all. “Puce!” he sputtered and coughed. “The hell with that!” And he hurled the bottle far out over the water.
For three days and nights the Southern Sea was green and gold and sky blue pink, and as for the fish which the fishermen brought in … why, rainbow trout had nothing on them at all!
THE STEALER OF DREAMS
Up there on the ocean-facing slope of Mount Aran, above the tree line but not yet into the snow (for the snowy peak of Aran had been forbidden to men immemorially, and especially to waking-worlders, and more especially to men such as Eldin the Wanderer and David Hero, called Hero of Dreams), up there, then, the atmosphere was thin but heady, the air cool and crisp, and the timelessness of Celephais amply apparent in the vista spread below: that same vista viewed by dreamers five hundred years ago, and one which others as yet unborn, or even undreamed, would view five hundred years hence.
Hero, on his own for once, or at least accompanied only by his hangover, which seemed to him far more noisy than any actual physical companion might ever be (with the single exception of Eldin, of course), appreciated the air of these higher regions and wished he could open doors in his ears, let the coolness waft through and blow out all the cobwebs, dead rats, indistinct memories and too-slowly evaporating muth fumes, and so leave an uncluttered brain to start functioning again as brains should, instead of stumbling blindly around in his skull and tripping itself up on all the junk in there.
Hero had a telescope with him, which he used periodically to enhance the gazing of his slightly bloodshot right eye down on Celephais. Each time he did so the pain was a little less penetrating than the last time—which told him that his head was clearing, however slowly—but still he couldn’t look for more than a second or two, sufficient only for the glitter of a spire or minaret to stab through his pupil, or for bright flashes of Naraxa water tumbling oceanward to set his senses spinning; and then, groaning, he’d turn his spyglass on the sea instead.
Now, normally that would be even worse, for the blue of the Southern Sea may fairly be described as a visual toothache; and Hero, who liked to do things with words (he wrote the occasional poem, and sometimes sang his own songs, too) had often wondered why no one had come up with a more descriptive color for it than simply blue. If a dark yellow stone could be described as ocher, then surely the Southern Sea’s searing, indeed piercing color might better be titled acher? And by the same token shouldn’t muth, so sweet on the tongue in the drinking, yet turning that same inoffensive organ to a vile, decomposing blanket during sleep, more rightly be called moth? For certainly he now felt that he had a mouthful of them!
As is seen, and for all the on-this-occasion-involuntary humor of his thinking, Hero was not in a good mood. But he was at least able to gaze down on the Southern Sea without doing his brain permanent damage, for last night’s storm had left the ocean scored with ranks of marching waves, disrupting its “acher” to a bearable gray-green. And now we get to the other reason why Hero was here: for as well as the beneficial, purging effect of booze being burned out of his system by the climb, and the sweet, clear air of these heights to freshen his brain and lungs, there was also a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that all was not well with the Wanderer.
Except to disguise this anxiety as Hero’s “other reason” for being here is quite inaccurate; Eldin the Wanderer’s welfare was indeed uppermost in Hero’s mind, and all that nonsense about fresh air and beneficial climbing (?) quite spurious, or would be if he were willing to admit that he was ever at any time given to worrying about his fellow adventurer. They never did admit to such things, these two, and probably never would, but in fact they couldn’t be closer or love each other more if they were twins. What’s more, Hero half blamed himself for Eldin’s absence on this occasion, and knew that he would blame himself forever if aught had gone seriously amiss.
But … last night there’d been drinking, and boasting, and wagering as well; as the muth had gone down faster, so the boasting and wagering had grown wilder; finally Eldin had declared that “alone, single-handed, on (his) own, without assistance and entirely unaided,” (sic) he could sail their boat Quester to Serannian the sky-floating city, and there drink three bars dry; and when Hero had called his bluff, wagering his half of Quester that he couldn’t, then the dippy old duffer had gone staggering off to do just that! Since when he hadn’t been seen, and there’d been this sudden, vicious storm. So Hero’s real reason for being here was that these heights were an ideal vantage point from which to scan the still-troubled waters beating on the strands for sign of Eldin’s return. Except his return might well be in doubt. The trouble was this:
Without question Eldin could handle Quester on his own—when he was sober, and when the boat was in good repair. But a sail had needed mending, and a flotation bag had been lost in Baharna on Oriab at the end of a recent mission for King Kuranes, and a second bag had been losing essence for a long time now, so that the tiny engine had difficulty keeping it filled. And of course, worst of all, Eldin had been mindless on muth. Add to these objections the sudden storm … anything could have happened.
This morning Hero had come awake in their garret room to find his companion’s bed empty; remembering the other’s boast and his own wager, which had been nothing short of a dare, and rushing down to the wharf (or more properly staggering), he’d discovered Quester gone. Seeing the state of the sea, and already fearing the worst, he’d sought out Tatter Nees, a wandering balladeer from Nir who’d been their drinking companion last night. Tatter, none too steady on his own pins, had tottered off to make inquiry, and Hero had borrowed a spyglass and headed for Aran. And he’d counted a hundred and more boats coming and going this morning, so
me from the sky and some from the sea, but never a sign of Quester.
Which brings us to the present.
“Hero!” came a distant cry, echoing out of the trees and up the slope of scree and outcropped stone. Hero focused his glass, found Tatter down there in the ginkgos, hands cupped to his mouth, ready to fire another salvo.
Oh, God! thought Hero, knowing he’d have to respond. “What is it?” he finally bellowed—and immediately clapped both hands to his temples, fully believing that his head had cracked right down the middle.
“Two things,” Tatter shouted back, staggering, repelled by his own voice like a cannon recoiling from a shot. And Hero could almost hear his low-muttered curses.
“Hold it, hold it.” Hero waved a ceasefire. “I’ll come down.”
He stood up, slid on his heels through the scree, kept his balance remarkably well and used half-buried boulders to slow himself down when his plunging might get out of hand. And at last he was into the trees, and finally down to where the troubadour waited. Tatter, a long, thin specimen of Homo ephemerens, gloomed on Hero, saying: “Never again, never again,” in time-honored fashion, without shaking his head.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” Hero replied, remembering not to nod. And: “What’s up?”
“First,” said Tatter, “the king wants to see you.” He half turned his face away, stared into the trees.
Hero could feel himself going white. “And second?” he said.
“Second … Hero, I—”
“Second?” Hero repeated.
Tatter took a deep breath, looked straight at him. “It’s Ephar Phoog,” he said. Phoog was an avaricious Celephasian auctioneer with the instincts of a ghoul. “He’s dispatched a couple of his lads to Fang Rocks,” Tatter continued. “There’s a boat wrecked there, but not just any boat. There’s a buzz in town that it’s Quester …”
“And Eldin?” Hero’s head was suddenly clear.
Tatter shrugged, bobbed about a bit, looked away again. “No sign of him. But that’s not to say—”
“I know what it’s not to say,” Hero cut him short again. “Tatter, thanks. I know that wasn’t easy.”
“You’ll go see the king?”
“Bugger the king!” said Hero, but softly. “I’ll look for Eldin first.” And he did. But when, in Ephar Phoog’s auction house, they silently showed him a piece of shattered gunwale on which was painted Ques, the ter being lost; and when he recognized his own brush strokes …
SOME HOURS LATER Hero saw the king.
Kuranes was busy with the renovation of a wing of his Cornish manor house, and artisans were running about all over the place with buckets of paint and whitewash, platters of mortar and various mixes, while masons trundled wheelbarrows of carved stone blocks to and fro. Generally, all was in a turmoil. Hero scratched his head and wondered: Is this how they achieve timelessness in Celephais? By refusing to let it fall into decay? He was disappointed, for it would seem to take something of the magic out of things.
Hero was taken to the king in the great hall of the wing under repair, where Kuranes personally supervised the work; but when the king spied Hero he at once left off, took his arm, and guided him to private chambers. There he commiserated with the numb adventurer, and finished by completing Tatter Nees’ previously unspoken:
“—But that’s not to say that Eldin is, or has … come to harm.”
Hero had bathed and smartened himself up a little. Not only for his audience with the king but also as a means of distancing himself from last night’s idiocy, which had not only caused his current unease but might yet prove to have been entirely calamitous. For if Eldin were in fact dead and gone … then Hero knew he’d never drink muth again, nor carouse, nor do any of the myriad other things they’d so often done together. It would mean an end to all that, and to a great deal more. Possibly an end to Hero himself. But for now Kuranes had summoned him, and so he must do his best to pay attention.
Seated opposite the king, looking at him across his great desk through eyes grown a little less bloodshot in a face grown a lot more gaunt, what Hero saw was this:
Under a paint-splashed smock, the Lord of Ooth-Nargai and the Skies Around Serannian was slightly built but regally robed, gray-bearded but bright-eyed. The slant of his eyes and tilt of their brows might on occasion be thought sarcastic, even caustic, but the wisdom and compassion in the lines of his face, and the warmth and steadiness of his gaze, spoke of a love for and a loyalty to his fellow men—especially those domiciled in Earth’s dreamlands—which was quite beyond mundane measure. And yet there was this realness about him which set him apart from Homo ephemerens; rightly so, for he too was once a waking-worlder, long departed from the conscious world to become a power and permanent resident now in the lands of Earth’s dreams. But his origins were stamped on him like the face on a fresh-minted coin; nor were they absent from his voice, which contained in its accents thrilling, often tantalizing reminders of days long forgotten and lives spent in worlds outside or on a higher plane than the so-called subconscious.
Kuranes returned Hero’s gaze, and what he saw was this:
Hero was tall and well muscled, yet lithe as a hound and agile as a Kledan monkey, and blond in the lands of dream as he’d been in the waking world. His eyes were of a light blue, but they could darken very quickly to steel, or turn a dangerous, glinty yellow in a tight spot, In fact he was usually easygoing, quick to grin, much given to jesting; but while he loved songs a fair bit and girls even more, still he was a wizard-master of fists, feet, knives, and any sword in a fight, of which there’d been no lack, as the crusty knobs of rock which he called knuckles avowed. A rough diamond, Hero, but one which nevertheless glinted exceeding bright.
Except now his shoulders were slumped and his face pale, where even the laughter lines seemed somehow faded. And Kuranes knew no less than Hero himself that if the Wanderer had indeed died last night, then that he’d lost the services of not only one good agent but probably both of them. And that was a loss he couldn’t contemplate, for men such as these were hard to come by.
“Why did you send for me?” Hero eventually spoke up.
“Because I’ve a job for you,” said the king, and he told him a little of what it was.
“Baharna, on the Isle of Oriab?” Hero’s voice was dull. “But how can I leave Celephais now, not knowing? I couldn’t.” He shook his head.
“You can and must,” Kuranes answered. “Indeed, it’s the best thing in all the dreamlands that you can do! By the time you return we’ll have found him. Or at least by then we’ll know what’s happened to him. It has to be better than moping around in Celephais, drinking every night and doubtless getting into trouble, and no earthly use to man or beast. You’ll go and discover this monstrous Oriabian vampire and put him or it down—or I’ll wash my hands of you.”
This last was meant to shock Hero and stir him up, but it hardly touched him. Instead he merely looked at the king, and said: “We once sought out a vampire for you in Inquanok.” And he shuddered. “On that occasion, without Eldin … I was a goner for sure.”
“I know how you feel,” said Kuranes.
“No, you don’t.”
“Very well, I don’t. But listen: do this for me and strengthen our alliance with Oriab, and this is what I’ll do for you. I’ll have every boat in the harbor out searching for Eldin; I’ll have men on every beach and cliff for twenty miles east and west of the city; each day you’re away, I’ll send you bulletins by carrier pigeon, so keeping you up to date. And when you return, I’ll furnish you with a new sky-yacht to replace Quester. Who could say fairer than that? But you in your turn must promise to discover, or do your level best to discover, the terror stalking Oriab and eliminate it. And you set sail today, without delay, just as soon as we are finished.”
“But as you’ve just as good as pointed out,” said Hero without animation, “I’ve no boat.”
“Chim Nedlar is the master of a sloop; he’s waiting for you even now, tied
up in the harbor but ready to sail as soon as you’re aboard. Now, what’s it to be?”
Hero stood up and headed for the door. He hadn’t been dismissed but Kuranes said nothing. He merely waited, holding his breath. At the door Hero paused, looked back. “Oriab? Baharna? Me and Eldin, we’ve mutual interests there. We’ve had some good times there, too. And a few bad ones. There’ll be a lot of memories sunk deep, just waiting to be disturbed so they can rise up again. My heart won’t be in it.”
“But your head will know it’s for the best,” Kuranes countered. “And stop talking as if he’s dead! We don’t know that, and only the future will tell.”
Hero nodded, however slightly. “Baharna,” he said again, but thoughtfully. And: “Only the future will tell …” He straightened up a little, and the king thought that perhaps some of the helplessness had gone out of him. “Very well,” said Hero, going out and closing the door softly behind him …
HERO BOARDED the Shark’s Fin an hour later. He chuckled inside a little (sadly, perhaps—or nostalgically, so soon?) thinking: Now, what would Eldin make of this, I wonder?
“What, the Shark’s Fin sloop?” the absent quester would doubtless have commented. “A boat, you say? Sounds more like some weird Oriental delicacy to me!” And then both of them would have wondered what “Oriental” meant, for memories of the waking world came and went in exceedingly brief and usually inexplicable flashes. And now, as Chim Nedlar showed his passenger to his bunk, indeed Hero did wonder what “Oriental” meant. Which was strange because he’d known just a moment ago. But that was the way of it.
