The Dreamthief's Daughter

by Michael Moorcock

  Oona smiled grimly. “We cannot anticipate the rate at which time passes for him.”

  “But we know we can defeat him.”

  “That depends,” said Lord Renyard, apologetic for interrupting.

  “On what?”

  “On the quality of help we can summon. I would remind you, dear Count von Bek, that in our world all that remains unconquered is Tanelorn herself. Gaynor has mighty help. The help of at least one goddess.”

  “How has Tanelorn resisted up to now?” I asked.

  “She is Tanelorn. She is the city of eternal sanctuary. Usually neither Chaos nor Law dare attack here. She is the embodiment of the Grey Fees.”

  Oona came to my rescue. “The Grey Fees are the lifestuff of the multiverse—you could call them the sinews, muscles, bones and sap of the multiverse—the original matter from which all else derives. The original home of the Holy Grail. Although creatures can meet in the Grey Fees, even dwell there if they choose, any attack on them, any fight that takes place within the Fees, is an affront to the very basis of existence. Some would call it an affront to God. Some believe the Grey Fees to be God, if the multiverse itself is not God. I prefer to take a more prosaic view. If the multiverse is a great tree, forever growing, shedding limbs, extending roots and branches in all directions, each root and branch a new reality, a new story being told, then the Fees are something like the soul of the entity. However crucial the struggle, we never attack the Grey Fees.”

  “Is attacking Tanelorn the same as attacking the Grey Fees?” I asked.

  “Simply call it an alarming precedent,” said Lord Bray, showing more irony than I first suspected in him.

  “So Gaynor threatens the fundamental fabric of existence. And if he succeeds?”

  “Oblivion. The end of sentience.”

  “How might he succeed?” My habits of logic and strategy were returning. Old von Asch had taught me how to reason.

  “By recruiting the help of a powerful Duke of Law or Chaos. There are elements in either camp who believe that if they control everything, the multiverse will accord better with their own vision and temperament. The lives of the gods have cycles when senility and bigotry replace sense and responsibility. Such is the case with Gaynor’s ally in our realm.”

  “A god, you said?”

  “A goddess, as it happens.” Lord Blare uttered an unruly laugh. “The famous Duchess Miggea of Dolwic. One of the most ancient of Law’s aristocrats.”

  “Law? Surely Law resists such injustice?”

  “Aggressive senility isn’t only a characteristic of Chaos in its decline. Both forces obey the laws of the multiverse. They grow strong and virile, then decline and die. And, in their dying, they are often desperate for life. At any price. All past loyalties and understanding disappear, and they become little more than appetites, preying upon the living in order to sustain their own corrupted souls. Even the noblest Lords and Ladies of Law can suffer this corruption, often when Chaos is at her most vigorous and dynamic.”

  “Don’t make my mistake,” murmured Fromental to me, “and confuse Law and Chaos with Good and Evil. Both have their virtues and vices, their heroes and villains. They represent the warring temperaments of mankind as well as the best we might become, when the virtues of both camps are combined in a single individual.”

  “Are there such individuals?”

  “A few,” said Lord Bray. “They tend to arise as the occasion demands.”

  “Gaynor’s not one of those?”

  “He’s the opposite!” Lord Renyard yapped indignantly. “He combines the vices of both sides. He damns himself to eternal despair and hatred. But it’s in his nature to believe he acts from practical necessity.”

  “And he has supernatural help?”

  “In our world, yes.” Lord Bragg’s long face became briefly animated. “At his side rides Lady Miggea. The Duchess of Law has all the powers of her great constituency at her command. She could destroy whole planets if she wished. The hand of Law is deadly when it serves unthinking destruction rather than justice and creativity. We had hoped Lord Elric . . .”

  Lord Blare had begun to pace about the room. He was all urgent blue eyes, rattling spurs and jingling harness. “Much as I enjoy a good chin-wag, gents, I’d remind ye that we’re all in immediate danger and our journey here was to seek the help of the Grey Lords, whom we understood these Off-Moo fellers to be.”

  “But they can’t offer much in the way of practical help, I gather. Gaynor threatens your world, too.” Lord Bragg fingered his muttonchops. “So we must look elsewhere for salvation.”

  “Where would you go?” asked Fromental.

  “Wherever the moonbeam roads lead us. They are the only way we know to travel between the realms.” Lord Bray seemed almost apologetic. “With Elric duped and charmed . . .”

  “Would you teach me to walk those roads if I came with you?” Fromental asked quietly.

  “Of course, my friend!” Lord Renyard responded with a generous yap. A clap of his paw upon Fromental’s vast arm. “I for one would be proud to have the company of a fellow citizen of France!”

  “Then I’m your man, monsieur!” The legionnaire straightened his cap and saluted. He turned to me. “I hope, my friend, that you don’t feel I desert you. My quest was always for Tanelorn. Perhaps in my search I will learn something that will help us all fight Gaynor. Be assured, my friend, if you are ever in danger, I will help you if I can.”

  I told him much the same. We shook hands. “I’d go with you,” I said, “only I have sworn to return home as soon as possible. So much is threatened at this moment.”

  “We have our separate destinies,” said Lord Renyard, as if to console us. “All are threads in the same tapestry. I suspect we shall all meet again. Perhaps in happier circumstances.”

  “The Off-Moo are populous and resourceful, even when supernatural forces are brought against them.” Oona stepped amongst the huge, beastlike military dandies to make her own farewells. “We each serve the Balance best by serving our own realms.” She, too, shook Fromental’s hand.

  “Do you think Gaynor will attack the city?” asked the big legionnaire.

  “This is his story,” she said a little mysteriously, “his dream. I would not be entirely surprised if his great campaign has already begun. This is the adventure which will earn him his best-known sobriquet.”

  “And what is that?” asked Fromental, trying to smile.

  “The Damned,” she said.

  When we had parted from the Tanelornians (of whom I could not help thinking in my own mind as “the Three Hussars”), I asked Oona how she understood so much.

  She smiled and again settled her small body comfortably against mine as we walked through the twilight canyons in which so many commonplace activities were no doubt taking place.

  “I am a dreamthief’s daughter,” she said. “My mother was a famous one. She stole some mighty dreams.”

  “And how are dreams stolen?”

  “Only a dreamthief knows how. And only a dreamthief can safely carry one dream into another. Use one dream against another. But that is how she earned her riches.”

  “You could steal a dream in which I was emperor and place me in another where I was a pauper?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that, I understand. But I did not receive my mother’s training. The great school in Cairo was closed during my time in the city. Besides, I lacked the patience.”

  She paused in her step, bringing me to a halt. She said nothing, merely stared up into my face. Ruby eyes met my own. I smiled at her and she smiled back. But she seemed a little disappointed.

  “So you are not the thief your mother was?”

  “I didn’t say I was a thief at all. I inherited some of her gifts, not her vocation.”

  “And your father?”

  “Ah,” she said, and began to laugh to herself, looking down at the jade-green street which reflected our shadowy figures. “Ah, my father.”

&nb
sp; She’d not be drawn further on that matter, so instead I asked her about her journeyings in other worlds.

  “I’ve traveled very little compared to Mother,” she said. “I spent some while in England and Germany, though not in your history. I must say I have something of a fascination with the worlds that would be most familiar to you, perhaps because my mother had such affection for them. And you, Count von Bek, do you miss your own family?”

  “My mother died giving birth to me. I was her last child. Her hardest to bear.”

  “And your father?”

  “A scholar. A student of Kierkegaard. I think he blamed me for my mother’s death. Spent most of his time in the old tower of our house. He had a huge library. He died in the fire which destroyed it. Dark hints of madness and worse. I was away at school, but there were some strange tales told of that night and what the people of Bek believed they witnessed. There was a grotesque and sensational story spread about my father’s refusing to honor some family ‘pact with the devil’ and losing an heirloom that was his trust.”

  I laughed, but not with my companion’s spontaneity. I found it difficult to grieve for a man so remote from me, who would not, I suspect, have grieved if I had died in that fire. He found my albinism repulsive. Disturbing, at least. Yet my attempts to distance myself from my parents and their problems had never been wholly successful. He expected me to carry the family duty but could not love me as he loved my brothers. Oona did not press me further. I was always surprised by the levels of emotion such memories revealed.

  “We share a complicated family life,” she murmured sympathetically.

  “For all that,” I insisted, “I still intend to return to Bek. Is there no way you can get me home soon?”

  She was regretful. “I journey between dreams. I inhabit the stories, they say, which ensure the growth and regeneration of the multiverse. Some believe we dream ourselves into reality. That we are yearnings, desires, ideals and appetites made concrete. Another theory suggests the multiverse dreams us. Another that we dream it. Do you have a theory, Count von Bek?”

  “I fear I’m too new to these ideas. I’m having some trouble believing the basic notions behind them.” I put my arm around her because I sensed a kind of desperation in her. “If I have a faith, it’s in humankind. In our ultimate capacity to pull ourselves from the mud of unchecked appetite and careless cruelty. In a positive will to good which will create a harmony not easily destroyed by the brutes.”

  Oona shrugged. “Anxious dogs overeat,” she said. “And then they usually vomit.”

  “You are a cynic?”

  “No. But we have a long battle, we Knights of the Balance, to achieve that harmony.”

  I’d heard that phrase earlier. I asked her what it meant.

  “A term some use to describe those of us who work for justice and equity in the world,” she explained.

  “And am I one of those knights?” I asked.

  “I believe you know,” she said. Then she changed the subject, pointing out the flowing cascades of what she called moonflowers, pouring down the slender terraces of Mu Ooria’s spires.

  In spite of all the dangers and mysteries I had known, it was a privilege to witness such beauty. It defied anything I had ever anticipated. It had an intensity, a tactile and ambient reality, that even an opium-eater could not understand. I knew that, whatever I experienced, I was not dreaming. There was no denying the absolute reality of this gloomy, rocky world.

  Oona clearly wished to answer no further questions, so we spent the next while in silence, admiring the skills of the Off-Moo architects who blended their own creations with the natural, giving the city an organic wholeness I had never seen in a place of that size before.

  As we turned from admiring a fluted curtain of transparent rock appearing to undulate in the light from the lake, I saw a man standing not four feet from me. I felt sick and silenced by the shock. Again this was my doppelgänger, still clad in the baroque black armor, his face an exaggerated likeness of my own, with high cheekbones, slightly slanting brows and glaring red eyes, his skin the color of fresh ivory. Screaming at me. Screaming at me and understanding that I could not hear a word.

  Oona saw him, too, and recognized him. She began to approach him, but he moved away down an alley, signaling me to follow. His pace increased and we were forced to run to keep up with him. Twisting, turning, dipping down into narrow tunnels, ascending steps, crossing bridges, we followed the armored man to the outskirts of the city, until we were some distance inland. He remained ahead of us, moving steadily up the bank of the river, in and out of the constantly changing shadows, the flickering, silvery light. Every so often he glanced back and the black metal helmet framed a face filled with urgency. I was certain that he wished us to follow him.

  Momentarily blinded, I lost track of him. Oona began to run ahead of me. I think she could still see him. I hurried in her wake.

  Then, from ahead, I heard a sudden, agonized scream, a wail of grief and terror combined. Rushing forward I found the young woman kneeling on the ground beside what I took at first for the corpse of the black-armored stranger.

  The stranger had vanished. The carcass was that of the great saber-toothed panther who had kept pace with our raft as we sailed towards the city.

  Oona raised her weeping eyes to mine.

  “This can only be Gaynor,” she said. “Murdering for pleasure.”

  I looked up, hoping to see the stranger, wondering if he had killed the cat. I thought I caught a glimpse of coppery silver, heard a mocking note in the current of the river, but there was no sign of my doppelgänger.

  “Did you know the animal?” I asked Oona, kneeling beside her as she wrapped her arms around its huge body.

  “Know her?” Oona’s slender frame shivered with unbearable emotion. “Oh, yes, Count von Bek, I know her.” She paused, trying to take control of her grief. “We are more than sisters.” The tears began to come now, streaming silver against her bone-white skin.

  I thought I’d misheard her.

  “Only Gaynor,” she whispered, rising and looking about her. “Only he would have the cruel courage and cleverness to attack our cats first. They are crucial to Mu Ooria’s defense.”

  “You say she’s your sister?” I looked wonderingly down at the massive black cat, her curved, white tusks the length of swords. “This beast?”

  “Well,” she said abstractedly, still trying to recover herself. “I am, after all, a dreamthief’s daughter. I have some choice in the matter.”

  Then Gaynor, still in his SS uniform, stepped from behind a pillar. Incongruously he had a short, bone bow in one hand. With the other, he was drawing back a string. Nocked to it was a slender silver arrow aimed directly at Oona’s heart.

  She reached for her own weapon but then froze, realizing that Gaynor had the complete advantage.

  “I’ve been having some interesting adventures and encounters, cousin,” he said. “Learning some good lessons. Time’s simply zipped by. How has it been for you?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rippling Time

  M y Raven Blade was where I had left it in my new lodgings. Oona could not use her bow and was otherwise without arms. Gaynor was choosing which one of us to shoot. His aim wavered, but he was too far distant for me to be able to attack him.

  Then reason reminded me that he could not afford to kill us. He wanted my sword. He also seemed to have forgotten the still, slow-time Off-Moo sentinels.

  “You’ll recall, cousin, that not all who guard this place are immediately detectable,” I said.

  His smile was dismissive. “They’re no danger to me. I’ve had many ordeals, many adventures and encounters since we last met. I have more powerful help now, cousin. Supernatural help. We already lay siege to Tanelorn. The Off-Moo’s defenses are unsophisticated in comparison. This is a wonderful realm, once you find your way around in it. I have learned much that will be useful when I have the Grail.”

  “You think that it wi
ll be easy for you to return?”

  “For me, cousin, yes. You see, I’ve made some fine new friends since we parted on such bad terms. Once you meet them, you’ll soon be enthusiastically apologizing to me. And only too pleased to run home to fetch the Raven Sword while I entertain your pretty young friend, eh?”

  I recognized an element of bravado in him, an unsteadiness about his eyes. I replied contemptuously. “If I had the sword with me, cousin, I suspect you’d be a little more civil. Lower your bow. Was it you who killed the panther?”

  “I’ll keep the bow strung and maintain our equilibrium for the moment, cousin. Is the big cat dead? An epidemic, no doubt? One of those dreadful plagues which sometimes attacks the feline world . . .” His arrow was still level with my heart, but the verbal barb was intended for Oona.

  Oona did not respond. What was meant to goad her, only drove her to take further charge of herself. “Your claims are illegitimate, Prince Gaynor. Your own cynicism will defeat you. All the future holds for you is an eternity of despair.”

  His amusement increased. Then he frowned, as if he brought himself back to business. “True, I’d hoped to find you here with your sword, Ulric. So I’ll strike that bargain—bring me the blade and I’ll spare the girl’s life in exchange.”

  “The sword is my charge,” I said. “I can’t give it up. My honor depends upon my stewardship . . .”

  “Bah Your father’s honor also depended upon a stewardship—and we know how thoroughly he defended his trust!” Now he was contemptuous.

  “Stewardship?”

  “Fool! The von Beks had the most powerful combination of supernatural artifacts in the multiverse. Your weakling father, degenerated to mumbling voodoo spells and other witcheries, let one fall from your possession. Because he feared it would be stolen! Your family doesn’t deserve its destiny. From now on, I and mine will keep those objects of power together. Forever.”